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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Syrup of the Bees
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Title: A Syrup of the Bees

Author: F. W. Bain

Release date: April 21, 2011 [eBook #35928]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SYRUP OF THE

BEES ***
 A SYRUP OF THE BEES
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT
 BY F. W. BAIN
Love was the wine, and
Jealousy the lees,
Bitter of brine, and syrup of
the bees.

WITH A FRONTISPIECE

METHUEN & CO. LTD.

36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.

LONDON

TO
MRS. THEODORE BECK

And I rove on the breeze with the world of bees

like the shadow of a bee:
For a dead moonflower which the worms devour
is the tomb of the soul of me.

O the hum of the bees in the mango trees

it murmurs taboo! taboo!
Should a dead moonflower which the worms devour
smell sweet as the mangoes do?
What! shall I deem my flower a dream
when I do find, each morn,
Wet honey sips left on my lips,
and in my heart, a thorn?
 CONTENTS
PREFACE
I. A Twilight Epiphany
II. An Incomplete Oblivion
III. A Disjunctive Conjunction
 PREFACE
The Young Barbarians, when Rome's ecclesiastical polity got hold of
them, were persuaded by their anxious foster-mother to sell their
Scandinavian birthright of imagination for an unintelligible,
theopathic mess of mystic Græco-Syrian pottage. But the "demons,"
though driven generally from the field, lurked about in holes and
corners, watching their opportunity. They took refuge in bypaths,
leaving the high road: they lay in ambush in a thicket, whence
nothing ever could dislodge them: that of fairy tales and fables.
In India, the "demons," i.e. the fairy tales and fables, have never
had to hide. But the fairy tales of India differ from the fairy tales of
England, much as their fairies do themselves. The fairies of Europe
are children, little people: and it is to children that fairy stories are
addressed. The child is the agent, as well as the appeal. In India it is
otherwise: the fairy stories are addressed to the grown-up, and the
fairies resemble their audience: they are grown up too. They form
an intermediate, and so to say, irresponsible class of beings, half-
way between the mortals and the gods. These last two are very
serious things: they have their work to do: not so the fairies, who
exist as it were for the sake of existence—"art for art's sake"—and
have nothing to do but what people who have nothing to do always
do do—to get themselves and other people into mischief. They are
distinguished by three noteworthy characteristics. In the first place,
they are possessors of the sciences, i.e. magic, and this it is which
gives them their proper name (Widyádhara),[1] which is almost
equivalent to our wizard. Secondly, every Widyádhara can change his
shape at will into anything he pleases: they are all shape-changers
(Kámarupa). And finally, their element is air: they live in the air, and
are thus denominated sky-goers, sky-roamers, air-wanderers, in
innumerable synonyms. These are the peculiar attributes of the
fairies of Ind.
Like many other persons in India (and out of it) who are far from
being either fairies or wizards, they are extraordinarily touchy, and
violently resentful of scorn or slight: things not nice to anybody, but
the Wizards are not Christians, and generally take dire revenge. A
very trifling provocation will set them in a flame. The Widyádharí
lady is jealousy incarnate. Jealousy, be it noted, is a thing that many
people much misunderstand. Ask anyone the question, where in
literature is jealousy best illustrated, and ninety-nine people in a
hundred will reply, Othello. But, as Pushkin excellently says, Othello
is not naturally a jealous man at all: he is his exact antipodes, a
confiding, unsuspicious nature.[2] Jealousy not only distrusts on
evidence; it distrusts before evidence and without it; it anticipates
evidence and condemns without a trial: it does not wait even for
"trifles light as air," but constructs them for itself out of nonentity. Its
essence is causeless and irrational suspicion. Your true jealous
nature never trusts anything or anybody for an instant. Othello is of
noble soul: no jealous man ever was or could be. With women, it is
not quite the same; but even here, real nobility of character
excludes the possibility of jealousy, because it trusts, until it is
deceived, and then its glass is shattered, and its love gone beyond
recall: sympathy is annihilated. Compare Mary Queen of Scots and
Elizabeth: the one, the noblest, the other, the meanest creature that
ever sat upon a throne. Mary trusted even Darnley till she discovered
that he was beneath every sentiment but one: Good Queen Bess
never trusted anyone at all. Mauvaise espèce de femme!
And so, they are not much to be depended on, these Wizards;
anybody taking up with one of them, male or female, had better be
careful. You can never tell where you are with them; their affection
is unstable; they are fickle, as might be expected from creatures of
the air: their feelings are as variable as their shapes. They can be
just as hideously ugly as unimaginably beautiful. The stories that
deal with them contain a moral entirely in harmony with all Indian
ideas: it is a mistake not to stick to your own caste. When two of
different castes are thrown together, the trouble inevitably begins.
The gipsies, who came apparently from Sind, brought this notion
into Europe, in a form not previously familiar to it. That difference of
kind is insurmountable, is the fundamental axiom of Indian theory
and practice. The owl to the owl, the crow to the crow: otherwise,
Nemesis and catastrophe. A Syrup of the Bees[3] is another instance.

Everywhere to-day we hear people singing a very different song:

from all sides is dinned into our ears the cant of humanity, "our
common humanity." In the meantime, men differ in many ways more
than they agree, and the differences of humanity are practically far
more vital than the common base. Just as, though all men have
weight, yet gravitation simply by reason of its universality does not
constitute an element of politics, and is altogether a negligible
quantity, fact though it be, so is it with humanity: the generic
identity is nothing, the peculiar distinctions all. The world is not like
a plain, but an irregular region such as that of the Alps or Himalaya,
consisting of inaccessible peaks that separate deep valleys, at the
bottom of which live parcels of humanity drowned in thick fogs or
mists of totally different colours and intensities, that distort and
transmogrify everything they see: so that if here and there any
single individual succeeds in climbing, by dint of toil or special
circumstances, to the tops, where in the clear ether all the situation
lies spread out in its truth before his eye, he will find that he has
thereby only cut himself absolutely off from communion and
sympathy, not only with the denizens of his own valley, but that of
all the others too. From that moment he ceases to be intelligible to
the rest. No reasoning of his can ever touch them, or succeed in
opening their eyes, because their error is not one of reason, but of
perception: they cannot, because they do not, see things as he sees
them: the mists,[4] with all their refraction and delusive
transformation, are always there. Say what he will, he will not awake
them: he will gain nothing in return for all his efforts but ridicule,
abuse, or neglect. So Disraeli, in his generation, seemed to himself
to be like one pouring, from a golden goblet, water upon sand. To be
above the level of humanity is to be counted, till after you are dead,
as one who is below.
And this is the exact condition in the India of to-day. The irony of
fate has thrown together, as though by some vast geological
convulsion, the dwellers in two valleys, one of whom sees everything
through, so to say, a red mist, and the other through a blue: they
move about and mix in a way together, totally unable to see things
in the same light: and all the while this melancholy cuckoo-cry of
common humanity fills the air with its reiteration, and people persist
in handling the situation with a wilful and almost criminal
determination to ignore what stares them in the face, and by so
doing, still further accentuate the very thing they will not see. If you
take two men who are infinitely far from being brothers, and forcibly
unite them, on the pretext that they are, you will produce by
irritation an enmity between them that would never have existed,
had they been let alone.

I stood, a little while since, on the very edge of a plateau, that fell
down sheer four thousand feet or more, into the valley of Mysore.
Far in the distance to the north, the dense dark green forest jungle
stretched away like a carpet, intersected here and there by Moyar's
silver streams, with here and there a velvet boss, where a rounded
hill stood up out of the plain. That carpet, as it seemed from the
height, so uniform and close in its texture, is made of great trees,
under which wander wild elephants in herds. To right and left, the
valley ran both ways out of sight, like a monster chasm with one
side removed. And in the air below, above, around, light wreaths
and ragged fragments of cloud and mist floated and streamed and
drifted, casting the most beautifully deep blue shifting shadows not
only on the earth, but on the air, like waterfalls of colour, half hiding
and half framing the distant view, and cutting the sunlight into
intermittent fountains of a golden semi-purple rain that fell and
changed, now here, now there, now, as you looked upon them,
gone, now suddenly shooting out elsewhere to transform every
colour that they touched into something other than it was, like a
magic show suddenly thrown out by the Creator in the silent and
unfrequented solitude of his hills, for sheer delight and as it were
simply for his own amusement, not caring in the least whether there
might be any eye open to catch and worship such a beautiful
profusion of his power, or not. For, strange! the spell and mysterious
appeal of all such momentary glimpses lies, not in what you see, but
in what you do not hear: it is the dead silence, the stillness, that by
a paradox seems to be the undertone, or background, of moving
mist and lonely mountain peaks.
So as I stood, gazing, there came suddenly from the east, a whisper,
a mutter; a low sound, that suggested a distant mixture of wind and
sea. And I turned round, and looked, and I saw a sight that I never
shall see again; such a sight as a man can hardly expect to see
twice, in the time of a single life. Rain—but was it rain?—rain in a
terrific wall, a dark precipice of appalling gloom, rain that rose like a
colossal curtain from earth to heaven and north to south, was
coming up the valley straight towards me, and it struck me, as I saw
it, with a thrill that was almost dread. That was what the people
saw, long ago, when the Deluge suddenly came upon them. It came
on, steadily, swiftly, like a thing with orders to carry out, and a
purpose to fulfil, cutting the valley athwart with the edge of its solid
front, sharp as that of a knife laid on a slice of bread: a black
ominous mass of elemental obliteration, out of which there came a
voice like the rushing of a flood and the beating of wings, mixed
with a kind of wail, like the noise of the cordage of a ship, in a gale
at sea. It blotted out creation, and in the phrase of old Herodotus,
day suddenly became night. A moment later, I stood in whirling rain
and fog that made sight useless a yard away, as wet as one just
risen from the sea, with a soul on the very verge of cursing the
Creator, for so abruptly dropping the curtain on his show: forgetting,
in my ingratitude, first, the favour he had done me; secondly, how
many were those who had not seen; lastly, and above all, that it was
the very dropping of that stupendous curtain that gave its finishing
touch and climax to the show. For he knows best, after all. Introduce
into Nature were it but a single atom of stint, of parsimony, of
preservation, of regret for loss; and the power, and with it, the
sublimity of the infinite is gone. Were Nature to pose, to attitudinise
for contemplation, even for the fraction of a second, she would
annihilate the condition on which reposes all her charm. Ruthless
destruction, even of her own choicest works, is the badge of her
inexhaustible omnipotence: add but a touch of pity, and you fall back
to the littleness and feebleness of man.
And I mused, as I departed: how can that be communicated to
others, which cannot even be described at all? And if so, in the
things of the body, how much more with the things of the soul? Who
shall convey to the souls that stumble and jostle in the foggy valleys,
any glimpse of the visions, denied to them, above; any spark of
comprehension of the things that they might discern, on the tops of
the pure and silent hills, that stand uncomprehended, kissing heaven
above the fog?
Poona, 1914
 I
A TWILIGHT EPIPHANY

The three worlds worship the sound of the string that twanged of
old like the hum of bees[5] as it slipped from faint Love's faltering
hand and fell at his feet unstrung, the bow unbent and the shaft
unsped, as if to beg for mercy from that other shaft of scorching
flame that shot from the bow-despising brow of the moony-crested
god.
Far down in the southern quarter, at the very end of the Great
Forest, just where the roots of its outmost trees are washed by the
waves of the eastern sea, there was of old a city, which stood on the
edge of land and water, like as the evening moon hangs where light
and darkness meet. And just outside the city wall where the salt
sand drifts in the wind, there was a little old ruined empty temple of
the Lord of the Moony Tire, whose open door was as it were
guarded by two sin-destroying images of the Deity and his wife, one
on the right of the threshold and the other on the left, looking as if
they had suddenly started asunder, surprised by the crowd of
devotees, to make a way between. And on an evening long ago,
when the sun had finished setting, Maheshwara was returning from
Lanká to his own home on Kailás, with Umá in his arms. So as he
went, he looked down, and saw the temple away below. And he said
to his beloved: Come, now, let us go down, and revisit this little
temple, which has stood so long without us. And it looks white in the
moon's rays, as if it had turned pale, for fear that we have forgotten
it.
So when they had descended, Maheshwara said again: See how
these two rude and mutilated effigies that are meant for thee and
me stand, as it were, waiting, like bodies for their souls. Let us enter
in, and occupy, and sanctify these images,[6] and rest for a little
while, before proceeding to thy father's peaks. And if I am not
mistaken, our presence will be opportune, and this deserted temple
will presently be visited by somebody who stands in sore need of our
assistance, which as long as they remain untenanted these our
images cannot give him, since they have even lost their hands.[7]
And accordingly they entered, each into his own image, and
remained absolutely still, as though the stone was just the stone it
always was, and nothing more. And yet those stony deities glistened
in the full moon's light, as though the presence of deity had lent
them lustre of their own, that laughed as though to say: See, now
we are as white as the very foam at our feet.
So as they stood, silent, and listening to the sound of the sea, all at
once there came a man who ran towards them. And taking off his
turban, he cast it at the great god's feet, and fell on his face himself.
And after a while, he looked up, and joined his hands, and said: O
thou Enemy of Love, now there is absolutely no help for me but in
the sole of thy foot. For when the sun rose this morning, the Queen
was found lying drowned, and all broken to pieces, in the sea foam
under the palace wall. And when they ran to tell the King, they
found him also lying dead, where he sleeps on his palace roof that
hangs over the sea, with a dagger in his heart. And the city is all in
uproar, for loss to understand it, and Gangádhara the minister has
made of me a victim, by reason of an old grudge. And now my head
will be the forfeit, unless I can discover the guilty before the rising of
another sun. And thou who knowest all things, past, present, or to
come, art become my only refuge. Grant me, of thy favour, a boon,
and reveal to me the secret, for who but thyself can possibly
discover how the King and Queen have come to this extraordinary
end.
So as he spoke, gazing as if in desperation at Maheshwara, all at
once, as if moved to compassion, that image of the Deity turned
from the wall towards him, and nodded at him its stony head: so
that in his terror that unhappy mortal nearly left his own body, and
fell to the ground in a swoon. And Maheshwara gazed at him
intently, as he lay, and put him, by his yoga,[8] asleep. And the
Daughter of the Snow said softly: O Moony-crested, who is this
unlucky person, and what is the truth of this whole matter, for I am
curious to know? And Maheshwara said slowly: O Snowy One, this is
the chief of the night watch of the city; and be under no alarm. For
while he sleeps, I will reveal the truth to him, in a magic dream:
making him as it were a third person, to overhear our conversation.
And I will do the same to the prime minister, so that in the morning,
finding their two dreams tally, he will gain credit and save his life.
Thereupon Párwatí said again: O Lord of creation, save mine also.
For I am as it were dying of curiosity, to hear how all this came
about.
So then, after a while, that omniscient Deity said slowly: All this has
come about, by reason of a dream. And Gauri said: How could a
dream be the cause of death, both to the King and Queen? Then
said Maheshwara: Not only is there danger in dreaming, but the
greatest. Hast thou not seen thy father's woody sides reflected in
the still mirror of his own tarns? And the goddess said: What then?
And Maheshwara said: Hast thou not marked how the reflection
painted on the water contains beauty, drawn as it were from its
depths, greater by far than does the very thing it echoes, of which it
is nothing but an exact copy? And Párwatí said: Aye, so it does.
Then said Maheshwara: So it is with dreams. For their danger lies in
this very beauty, and like pictures upon quiet water, which contains
absolutely nothing at all, below, they show men, sleeping, visions of
unrealisable beauty, which, being nothing whatever but copies of
what they have seen, awake, possess notwithstanding an additional
fascination, not to be found in the originals, which fills them with
insatiable longing and an utter contempt of all that their waking life
contains, as in the present instance: so that they sacrifice all in
pursuit of a hollow phantom, trying to achieve impossibility, by
bringing mind-begotten dream into the sphere of reality, whither it
cannot enter but by ceasing to be dream. But the worst of all is, as
in this King's case, when dreaming is intermingled with the
reminiscences of a former birth: for then it becomes fatality. And
Párwatí said: How is that? Then said Maheshwara: Every soul that is
born anew lies buried in oblivion, having utterly forgotten all its
previous existence, which has become for it as a thing that has
never been. And yet, sometimes, when impressions are very vivid,
and memory very strong, here and there an individual soul, steeped
as it were in the vat of its own experience, and becoming
permanently dyed, as if with indigo, will laugh, so to say, at oblivion,
and carry over indelible impressions, from one birth to another, and
so live on, haunted by dim recollections that throng his memory like
ghosts, and resembling one striving vainly to recall the loveliness
and colour of a flower of which he can remember absolutely nothing
but the scent, whose lost fragrance hangs about him, goading
memory to ineffectual effort, and thus filling him with melancholy
which he can never either dispel or understand.
So as he spoke, there came past the temple door a young man of
the Shabara caste, resembling a tree for his height, carrying towards
the forest a young woman of slender limbs, who was struggling as
he held her, and begging to be released; to which he answered only
by laughing as he held her tighter, and giving her every now and
then a kiss as he went along, so that as they passed by, there fell
from her hair a champak flower, which lay on the ground unheeded
after they disappeared. And the Daughter of the Mountain
exclaimed: See, O Moony-crested, this flower laid as it were at thy
feet as a suppliant for her protection: for this is a case for thy
interference, to save innocence from evil-doing.
And Maheshwara looked at her with affection in his smile. And he
said: Not so, O mountain-born: thou art deceived: since this is a
case where interference would be bitterly resented, not only by the
robber, but his prey: for notwithstanding all her feigned reluctance,
this slender one is inwardly delighted, and desires nothing less than
to be taken at her word. For this also is a pair of lovers, who
resemble very closely those other lovers, whose story I am just
about to tell thee: as indeed all lovers are very much the same. For
Love is tyranny, and the essence of the sweetness of its nectar is a
despotic authority that is equally delicious to master and to slave.
For just as every male lover loves to play the tyrant, so does every
woman love to play the slave, so much, that unless her love contains
for her the consciousness of slavery, it is less than nothing in her
own eyes, and she does not love at all. And know, that as nothing in
the world is so hateful to a woman as force, exerted on her by a
man she does not love, so nothing fills her with such supreme
intoxication as to be masterfully made by her lover to go along the
road of her own inclination, since so she gets her way without
seeming to consent, and is extricated from the dilemma of deciding
between her scruples and her wish. For indecision is the very nature
of every woman, and it is a torture to her, to decide, no matter how.
And even when she does decide, she does so, generally as a victim,
driven by circumstances or desperation, and never as a judge, as in
the case of both those women who determined the destiny of this
dead King, the one deciding in his favour, precisely because he
would allow her no choice, and the other very much against him
indeed: and yet both, so to say, without any good reason at all. For
women resemble yonder waves of the sea, things compounded of
passion and emotion, with impulses for arguments, and agitation for
energy, for ever playing, fretting and moaning with laughter and
tears of brine and foam: and like feminine incarnations of the
instability of water, one and the same essence running through a
multitude of contradictory and beautiful qualities and forms: being
cold and hard as ice, and soft and white as snow, and still as pools,
and crooked as rivers, now floating in heaven like clouds and mists
and vapours, and now plunging, like cataracts and waterfalls, into
the abyss of hell. Is not the same water bitter as death to the
drowning man, and sweeter than a draught of nectar, saving the life
of the traveller dying of thirst in the desert sand.
So, now, listen, while I tell thee the story of this King.
And as he began to speak, the wind fell, and the sea slumbered, and
the moon crept silently further up and up the sky. And little by little,
the dark shadows stole out stealthily, moving as it were on tiptoe,
and hung in corners, here and there, like ghosts about the little
shrine, before which the sleeping man lay white in the moon's rays,
as still as if he were a corpse. And the deep tones of the Great God's
voice seemed like a muttered spell, to lull to sleep the living and
assemble the dead to hear, with demons for dwárapálas at the door
of an ashy tomb.