Henry Van Dyke - The Story of the Other Wise Man
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Henry Van Dyke >> The Story of the Other Wise Man
[Illustration - The Other Wise Man Had Found the King]
_THE STORY
OF THE
OTHER WISE MAN_
By
_Henry Van Dyke_
_NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS_
Copyright 1895, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS
---
_All rights reserved_
_Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,
May keep the path, but will not reach the goal;
While he who walks in love may wander far,
Yet God will bring him where the blessed are._
Contents
PREFACE
THE SIGN IN THE SKY
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON
FOR THE SAKE OF A LITTLE CHILD
IN THE HIDDEN WAY OF SORROW
A PEARL OF GREAT PRICE
PREFACE
It is now some years since this little story was set afloat on the sea
of books. It is not a man-of-war, nor even a high-sided merchantman;
only a small, peaceful sailing-vessel. Yet it has had rather an
adventurous voyage. Twice it has fallen into the hands of pirates. The
tides have carried it to far countries. It has been passed through the
translator's port of entry into German, French, Armenian, Turkish, and
perhaps some other foreign regions. Once I caught sight of it flying
the outlandish flag of a brand-new phonetic language along the coasts
of France; and once it was claimed by a dealer in antiquities as a
long-lost legend of the Orient. Best of all, it has slipped quietly
into many a far-away harbor that I have never seen, and found a kindly
welcome, and brought back messages of good cheer from unknown friends.
Now it has turned home to be new-rigged and fitted for further
voyaging. Before it is sent out again I have been asked to tell where
the story came from and what it means.
I do not know where it came from--out of the air, perhaps. One thing is
certain, it is not written in any other book, nor is it to be found
among the ancient lore of the East. And yet I have never felt as if it
were my own. It was a gift. It was sent to me; and it seemed as if I
knew the Giver, though His name was not spoken.
The year had been full of sickness and sorrow. Every day brought
trouble. Every night was tormented with pain. They are very long--those
nights when one lies awake, and hears the laboring heart pumping
wearily at its task, and watches for the morning, not knowing whether
it will ever dawn. They are not nights of fear; for the thought of
death grows strangely familiar when you have lived with it for a year.
Besides, after a time you come to feel like a soldier who has been long
standing still under fire; any change would be a relief. But they are
lonely nights; they are very heavy nights. And their heaviest burden is
this:
You must face the thought that your work in the world may be almost
ended, but you know that it is not nearly finished.
You have not solved the problems that perplexed you. You have not
reached the goal that you aimed at. You have not accomplished the great
task that you set for yourself. You are still on the way; and perhaps
your journey must end now,--nowhere,--in the dark.
Well, it was in one of these long, lonely nights that this story came
to me. I had studied and loved the curious tales of the Three Wise Men
of the East as they are told in the "Golden Legend" of Jacobus de
Voragine and other mediaeval books. But of the Fourth Wise Man I had
never heard until that night. Then I saw him distinctly, moving through
the shadows in a little circle of light. His countenance was as clear
as the memory of my father's face as I saw it for the last time a few
months before. The narrative of his journeyings and trials and
disappointments ran without a break. Even certain sentences came to me
complete and unforgettable, clear-cut like a cameo. All that I had to
do was to follow Artaban, step by step, as the tale went on, from the
beginning to the end of his pilgrimage.
Perhaps this may explain some things in the story. I have been asked
many times why I made the Fourth Wise Man tell a lie, in the cottage at
Bethlehem, to save the little child's life.
I did not make him tell a lie.
What Artaban said to the soldiers he said for himself, because he could
not help it.
Is a lie ever justifiable? Perhaps not. But may it not sometimes seem
inevitable?
And if it were a sin, might not a man confess it, and be pardoned for
it more easily than for the greater sin of spiritual selfishness, or
indifference, or the betrayal of innocent blood? That is what I saw
Artaban do. That is what I heard him say. All through his life he was
trying to do the best that he could. It was not perfect. But there are
some kinds of failure that are better than success.
Though the story of the Fourth Wise Man came to me suddenly and without
labor, there was a great deal of study and toil to be done before it
could be written down. An idea arrives without effort; a form can only
be wrought out by patient labor. If your story is worth telling, you
ought to love it enough to be willing to work over it until it is
true,--true not only to the ideal, but true also to the real. The light
is a gift; but the local color can only be seen by one who looks for it
long and steadily. Artaban went with me while I toiled through a score
of volumes of ancient history and travel. I saw his figure while I
journeyed on the motionless sea of the desert and in the strange cities
of the East.
And now that his story is told, what does it mean?
How can I tell? What does life mean? If the meaning could be put into a
sentence there would be no need of telling the story.
HENRY VAN DYKE.
You know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how they
traveled from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle in
Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the Other Wise Man, who
also saw the star in its rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not
arrive with his brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of
the great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet
accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probations
of his soul; of the long way of his seeking, and the strange way of his
finding, the One whom he sought--I would tell the tale as I have heard
fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of
Man.
THE SIGN IN THE SKY
In the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and Herod
reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among the
mountains of Persia, a certain man named Artaban, the Median. His house
stood close to the outermost of the seven walls which encircled the
royal treasury. From his roof he could look over the rising battlements
of black and white and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to
the hill where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered
like a jewel in a sevenfold crown.
Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of
flowers and fruit trees, watered by a score of streams descending from
the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But
all color was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late
September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its
silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and
half laughing under the shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of
light shone through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where
the master of the house was holding council with his friends.
He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark man of about
forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad
brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a
dreamer and the mouth of soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but
inflexible will--one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are
born for inward conflict and a life of quest.
His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a
white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his
flowing black hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the
Magi, called the fire-worshippers.
"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another
entered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and
Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome, and
this house grows bright with the joy of your presence."
There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the
richness of their dress of many-colored silks, and in the massive
golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and
in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of
the followers of Zoroaster.
They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the
room, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban, standing beside it, and
waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with
dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant
of the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the beautiful
hymn to Ahura-Mazda:
We worship the Spirit Divine,
all wisdom and goodness possessing,
Surrounded by Holy Immortals,
the givers of bounty and blessing,
We joy in the works of His hands,
His truth and His power confessing.
We praise all the things that are pure,
for these are His only Creation;
The thoughts that are true,
and the words and deeds that have won approbation;
These are supported by Him
and for these we make adoration.
Hear us, O Mazda! Thou livest
in truth and in heavenly gladness;
Cleanse us from falsehood, and keep us
from evil and bondage to badness;
Pour out the light and the joy of Thy life
on our darkness and sadness.
Shine on our gardens and fields,
Shine on our working and weaving;
Shine on the whole race of man,
Believing and unbelieving;
Shine on us now through the night,
Shine on us now in Thy might,
The flame of our holy love
and the song of our worship receiving.
The fire rose with the chant, throbbing as if it were made of musical
flame, until it cast a bright illumination through the whole apartment,
revealing its simplicity and splendor.
The floor was laid with tiles of dark blue veined with white; pilasters
of twisted silver stood out against the blue walls; the clearstory of
round-arched windows above them was hung with azure silk; the vaulted
ceiling was a pavement of sapphires, like the body of heaven in its
clearness, sown with silver stars. From the four corners of the roof
hung four golden magic-wheels, called the tongues of the gods. At the
eastern end, behind the altar, there were two dark-red pillars of
porphyry; above them a lintel of the same stone, on which was carved
the figure of a winged archer, with his arrow set to the string and his
bow drawn.
The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace of the
roof, was covered with a heavy curtain of the color of a ripe
pomegranate, embroidered with innumerable golden rays shooting upward
from the floor. In effect the room was like a quiet, starry night, all
azure and silver, flushed in the east with rosy promise of the dawn. It
was, as the house of a man should be, an expression of the character
and spirit of the master.
He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and invited them to
be seated on the divan at the western end of the room.
"You have come to-night," said he, looking around the circle, "at my
call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster, to renew your worship and
rekindle your faith in the God of Purity, even as this fire has been
rekindled on the altar. We worship not the fire, but Him of whom it is
the chosen symbol, because it is the purest of all created things. It
speaks to us of one who is Light and Truth. Is it not so, my father?"
"It is well said, my son," answered the venerable Abgarus. "The
enlightened are never idolaters. They lift the veil of the form and go
in to the shrine of the reality, and new light and truth are coming to
them continually through the old symbols."
"Hear me, then, my father and my friends," said Artaban, very quietly,
"while I tell you of the new light and truth that have come to me
through the most ancient of all signs. We have searched the secrets of
nature together, and studied the healing virtues of water and fire and
the plants. We have read also the books of prophecy in which the future
is dimly foretold in words that are hard to understand. But the highest
of all learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their courses
is to untangle the threads of the mystery of life from the beginning to
the end. If we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden
from us. But is not our knowledge of them still incomplete? Are there
not many stars still beyond our horizon--lights that are known only to
the dwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and
the gold-mines of Ophir?"
There was a murmur of assent among the listeners.
"The stars," said Tigranes, "are the thoughts of the Eternal. They are
numberless. But the thoughts of man can be counted, like the years of
his life. The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all wisdoms on
earth, because it knows its own ignorance. And that is the secret of
power. We keep men always looking and waiting for a new sunrise. But we
ourselves know that the darkness is equal to the light, and that the
conflict between them will never be ended."
"That does not satisfy me," answered Artaban, "for, if the waiting must
be endless, if there could be no fulfilment of it, then it would not be
wisdom to look and wait. We should become like those new teachers of
the Greeks, who say that there is no truth, and that the only wise men
are those who spend their lives in discovering and exposing the lies
that have been believed in the world. But the new sunrise will
certainly dawn in the appointed time. Do not our own books tell us that
this will come to pass, and that men will see the brightness of a great
light?"
"That is true," said the voice of Abgarus; "every faithful disciple of
Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta and carries the word in his
heart. 'In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the
number of the prophets in the east country. Around him shall shine a
mighty brightness, and he shall make life everlasting, incorruptible,
and immortal, and the dead shall rise again.'"
"This is a dark saying," said Tigranes, "and it may be that we shall
never understand it. It is better to consider the things that are near
at hand, and to increase the influence of the Magi in their own
country, rather than to look for one who may be a stranger, and to whom
we must resign our power."
The others seemed to approve these words. There was a silent feeling of
agreement manifest among them; their looks responded with that
indefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has uttered
the thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners.
But Artaban turned to Abgarus with a glow on his face, and said:
"My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my soul.
Religion without a great hope would be like an altar without a living
fire. And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the light of
it I have read other words which also have come from the fountain of
Truth, and speak yet more clearly of the rising of the Victorious One
in his brightness."
He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine linen,
with writing upon them, and unfolded them carefully upon his knee.
"In the years that are lost in the past, long before our fathers came
into the land of Babylon, there were wise men in Chaldea, from whom the
first of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens. And of these
Balaam the son of Beor was one of the mightiest. Hear the words of his
prophecy: 'There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall
arise out of Israel.'"
The lips of Tigranes drew downward with contempt, as he said:
"Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the sons of Jacob
were in bondage to our kings. The tribes of Israel are scattered
through the mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that dwells
in Judea under the yoke of Rome neither star nor sceptre shall arise."
"And yet," answered Artaban, "it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mighty
searcher of dreams, the counsellor of kings, the wise Belteshazzar, who
was most honoured and beloved of our great King Cyrus. A prophet of
sure things and a reader of the thoughts of God, Daniel proved himself
to our people. And these are the words that he wrote." (Artaban read
from the second roll:) "'Know, therefore, and understand that from the
going forth of the commandment to restore Jerusalem, unto the Anointed
One, the Prince, the time shall be seven and threescore and two
weeks.'"
"But, my son," said Abgarus, doubtfully, "these are mystical numbers.
Who can interpret them, or who can find the key that shall unlock their
meaning?"
Artaban answered: "It has been shown to me and to my three companions
among the Magi--Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have searched the
ancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time. It falls in this
year. We have studied the sky, and in the spring of the year we saw two
of the greatest stars draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which
is the house of the Hebrews. We also saw a new star there, which shone
for one night and then vanished. Now again the two great planets are
meeting. This night is their conjunction. My three brothers are
watching at the ancient Temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in
Babylonia, and I am watching here. If the star shines again, they will
wait ten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out together
for Jerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who shall be born
King of Israel. I believe the sign will come. I have made ready for the
journey. I have sold my house and my possessions, and bought these
three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl--to carry them as tribute
to the King. And I ask you to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may
have joy together in finding the Prince who is worthy to be served."
While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his
girdle and drew out three great gems--one blue as a fragment of the
night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the
peak of a snow mountain at twilight--and laid them on the out-spread
linen scrolls before him.
But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A veil of doubt
and mistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up from the
marshes to hide the hills. They glanced at each other with looks of
wonder and pity, as those who have listened to incredible sayings, the
story of a wild vision, or the proposal of an impossible enterprise.
At last Tigranes said: "Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes from
too much looking upon the stars and the cherishing of lofty thoughts.
It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for the new
fire-temple at Chala. No king will ever rise from the broken race of
Israel, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of light and
darkness. He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows. Farewell."
And another said: "Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and my
office as guardian of the royal treasure binds me here. The quest is
not for me. But if thou must follow it, fare thee well."
And another said: "In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannot
leave her nor take her with me on this strange journey. This quest is
not for me. But may thy steps be prospered wherever thou goest. So,
farewell."
And another said: "I am ill and unfit for hardship, but there is a man
among my servants whom I will send with thee when thou goest, to bring
me word how thou farest."
But Abgarus, the oldest and the one who loved Artaban the best,
lingered after the others had gone, and said, gravely: "My son, it may
be that the light of truth is in this sign that has appeared in the
skies, and then it will surely lead to the Prince and the mighty
brightness. Or it may be that it is only a shadow of the light, as
Tigranes has said, and then he who follows it will have only a long
pilgrimage and an empty search. But it is better to follow even the
shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst. And those who
would see wonderful things must often be ready to travel alone. I am
too old for this journey, but my heart shall be a companion of the
pilgrimage day and night, and I shall know the end of thy quest. Go in
peace."
So one by one they went out of the azure chamber with its silver stars,
and Artaban was left in solitude.
He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle. For a long
time he stood and watched the flame that flickered and sank upon the
altar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain, and passed
out between the dull red pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the
roof.
The shiver that thrills through the earth ere she rouses from her night
sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that heralds the daybreak
was drawing downward from the lofty, snow-traced ravines of Mount
Orontes. Birds, half awakened, crept and chirped among the rustling
leaves, and the smell of ripened grapes came in brief wafts from the
arbors.
Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But
where the distant peak of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky
was clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent
flame about to blend in one.
As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the
darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendors to a crimson
sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a
point of white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in
every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in
the Magian's breast had mingled and been transformed into a living
heart of light.
He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.
"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet
him."
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON
All night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been
waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground
impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her
master's purpose, though she knew not its meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant
of morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from
the plain, the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along
the high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favorite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.
They drink at the same wayside springs, and sleep under the same
guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of
nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his
evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips
caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread.
In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a
warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes
of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the
day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name
he calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy,
this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing--God bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our
souls from death!
And then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their
spirited music along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two
hearts that are moved with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to
devour the distance, to attain the goal of the journey.
Artaban must, indeed, ride wisely and well if he would keep the
appointed hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and
fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a
day. But he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety,
making the fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into
the night, and in the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the
rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisasans, where the famous herds of
horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda's
approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks of
wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great
circles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries of
surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the
threshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the
huge temple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars.