Waltey

Prevod

When Prince Durvati was born, the firstborn of the great Ramasinda, renowned among the monarchs of India, conqueror of divs, monsters, and genies; when, I say, this prince was born, thought was given to educating him suitably, so that he might not disgrace his lineage, composed entirely of heroes and conquerors. Instead of entrusting the tender infant to affectionate women, they placed him in the care of certain Hyrcanian amazons, no less warlike than those of Libya, who formed part of the royal guard; and these masculine women undertook to wean and rear Durvati, hardening his body and soul for the practice of war. These amazons followed the custom of drying up and flattening their breasts with ointments and plasters; and when the child instinctively sought the warmth of a woman's bosom, he found only the smoothness and metallic chill of a breastplate. The sole comfort his nurses allowed him was to nestle against the flank of a tame tigress, who sometimes, as though in play, would swipe at the little prince with her claws; and the amazons said this was good, for Durvati was thus becoming familiar with blood and pain, the inseparable companions of glory.

At eighteen, sturdy, splendid, and spirited, the prince first went into battle beside the king, who was invading the region of Sogdiana and Bactriana to bring it under his rule. Durvati stood erect upon an elephant bearing on its back a formidable tower manned by archers; a covering of double-thick leather protected the beast's body, and sharp golden lances gleamed upon its tusks. A picked force of black warriors armed with clubs surrounded the prince, and when battle was joined, Durvati shuddered as he felt the enormous feet of the warlike elephant, trumpeting with fury, sink into human bodies, burst ribs, crush bellies, and trample skulls, reducing them to a shapeless, bloody, quivering mass. At the end of one particularly fierce battle, Durvati ventured to ask his father, the great king, whether those crushed people suffered greatly, and whether it pleased Brahma that people should suffer. And Ramasinda, angered by the question, which seemed to him a sign of weakness in the novice warrior, answered only with the words of a sacred hymn: “Behold before you the fate of those who have been; behold before you the fate of those who shall be. The mortal ripens like grain, and like grain is born again.” Ramasinda had scarcely uttered these words when an arrow cleaved the air and lodged, quivering, in the king's back. Durvati rushed toward his father, only to catch him dying in his arms. After tearing the king's killer to pieces, the troops proclaimed Durvati king, shouting that the country must be put to fire and sword, and that the new king would know how to accomplish so lofty an undertaking.—That night, the orphan fell into a leaden sleep and dreamed strange things. His father's sorrowful end appeared before him once more; he felt the wetness of the blood flowing from the wound and the wetness of the tears that he himself, Durvati, had not dared shed before the army, but which now flowed freely, soaking his clothes. And as he thus gave vent to his grief, he seemed to feel a gentle, pleasing warmth upon his breast, like a delicious weight, while something as fine as silk brushed his face. It seemed to him to be a snow-white dove, with a rosy beak, a neck of blue-green Byzantine enamels, and kind, loving black eyes, which, softly cooing, murmured a mysterious phrase into his ear. Its cooing soothed the prince's anguish and plunged him into an utter, restorative oblivion.—On waking, he cried out in surprise. Lying beside him, her forehead resting upon his breast, was a very young woman, heavenly in her beauty, with a white bosom, a rosy mouth, dark hair loose as a bird's plumage, and black eyes; and when the astonished Durvati asked who this wondrous creature was, he was told that she was a captive, a slave whose beauty had singled her out as royal booty, and that had King Ramasinda not been killed, she would now be in his tent rather than Durvati's.

He was young, and never had the fire that transforms and perpetuates living beings burned in his heart. At that very moment he felt it with such force that everything but the captive was blotted from his mind. Forgetting plans of conquest and dominion, he established his court in the nearest city and spent his days entranced by delightful conversation. Let no one suppose, however, that Durvati surrendered himself to indolence and debauchery. On the contrary: almost always possessed of an exquisite delicacy, he loved the captive with chaste rapture, in the manner taught by the kandas, or Vedic hymns—with the atman, which means breath or spirit—repeating those sacred words: “Truly, what we love in a woman is not the woman, but the spirit; and whoever seeks in a woman more than the spirit shall be forsaken by Brahma.”—Remembering that on the first night she had been near him he had dreamed of a dove nestling against him and cooing, Durvati called her Paloma—Dove—and Paloma everyone called her.

What most enchanted Durvati in Paloma, and what justified that name, was her tenderness, her gentleness, her compassion, her sweet nature, so different from that of those fierce warriors, devoid of womanly attributes, in whose hands the young king had been raised; and as he grew more intimate with Paloma, spent more time with her, and became more attached to her, as they passed the long summer afternoons together beside crystalline lakes and beneath broad-canopied trees, the thought of cruelty and slaughter became ever more repugnant to him, and he found it ever harder to send his hosts into battle again. Having won his confidence, and using the freedom affection grants, Paloma painted the devastation of war for him in all its dreadful colors, and assured him that everyone had a right to live and a duty to love one another, so as to lessen the evils that beset mortals on earth.

Unfortunately, not every soldier of Durvati's had his own Paloma; furious at their inactivity, they harassed and oppressed the inhabitants, and the country rose in indignation, crying for independence or death. The commanders, companions of the victorious Ramasinda and lovers of battle, cursed and reviled the enchantress who held the king in thrall, and longed for the moment when they could arm their war elephants and fling themselves upon plunder and glory.—The secret conspiracy against the favorite took shape when grave news spread: in defiance of all rites, customs, and laws, of the honor of his name and the heroic traditions of his race, Durvati intended to raise that woman to the throne and then return to the banks of the Ganges, abandoning the land won by the might of his arms, restoring its inhabitants to freedom, and taking neither an inch of territory nor a sheep from another man's flock. The news spread through the troops, and curses and imprecations were heard against the effeminate king who dishonored and debased them. His reason must have been deranged, and that witch, a follower of the magi, must have given the young hero some potion or baleful herb to make him forget his royal dignity and the duties of his exalted office, which chiefly consisted in war. Now convinced that they had discovered the cause of Durvati's decline and derangement, the amazons and the commanders joined forces, and one night, moving stealthily, they surprised Paloma and carried her off from the royal chamber itself.—History has never succeeded in establishing her fate; neither Durvati's heartrending laments, nor his entreaties, nor his threats could persuade her abductors to restore her to him. Only, in the face of the young king's insistence, and perhaps wishing to mock him, they devised the notion of placing a tame dove in his bed while he slept, with the captive's ring about its neck: a dove with snowy plumage, an iridescent blue-green neck, a rosy beak, and black eyes, loving and innocent...

It is not known whether Durvati understood the mockery, or whether he truly supposed that the sweet, cooing bird was the atman, or spirit, of his beloved.—What is certain is that, pretending to attribute the event to a miracle, he summoned his hosts and informed them that this transmigration of his beloved, transformed into a dove, meant that Brahma desired perpetual peace, peace shining like a white dawn over the world; and that he was resolved to uphold this decree, beheading without delay anyone who opposed it or raised difficulties of any kind.—And indeed, throughout Durvati's reign, not a drop of human blood was shed.

Izvirnik

Á NUESTRO PADRE EL ZAR

Cuando nació el príncipe Durvati, primogénito del gran Ramasinda, famoso entre los monarcas indianos, vencedor de los divos, de los monstruos y de los genios; cuando nació, digo, este príncipe, se pensó en educarle convenientemente para que no desdijese de su prosapia, toda de héroes y conquistadores. En vez de confiar al tierno infante á mujeres cariñosas, confiáronle á ciertas amazonas hircanas, no menos aguerridas que las de Libia, que formaban parte de la guardia real; y estas hembras varoniles se encargaron de destetar y zagalear á Durvati, endureciendo su cuerpo y su alma para el ejercicio de la guerra. Practicaban las tales amazonas la costumbre de secarse y allanarse el pecho por medio de ungüentos y emplastos; y al buscar el niño instintivamente el calor del seno femenil, sólo encontraba la lisura y la frialdad metálica de la coraza. El único agasajo que le permitieron sus niñeras fue reclinarse sobre el costado de una tigre domesticada, que á veces, como en fiesta, daba al principito un zarpazo; y decían las amazonas que así era bueno, pues se familiarizaba Durvati con la sangre y el dolor, inseparables de la gloria.

A los diez y ocho años, recio, brillante y animoso, entró el príncipe en acción por primera vez, al lado del rey, que invadía la comarca de Sogdiana y Bactriana, para someterla. Erguíase Durvati sobre un elefante que llevaba á lomos formidable torre guarnecida de flecheros; cubría el cuerpo de la bestia un caparazón de cuero doble, y en sus defensas relucían agudas lanzas de oro. Escogida hueste de negros armados de clavas cercaba al príncipe, y cuando se trababa la lid, Durvati se estremecía sintiendo que los pies enormes del belicoso elefante, que barritaba de furor, se hundían en cuerpos humanos, reventaban costillas, despachurraban vientres y hollaban cráneos, haciendo informe masa sanguinolenta y palpitante. Al acabarse una batalla más reñida, Durvati osó preguntar á su padre, el gran rey, si aquella gente aplastada sufría mucho y si placía á Brama que la gente sufriese. Y Ramasinda, colérico de la pregunta, que le pareció rasgo de flaqueza en el novel guerrero, sólo contestó con palabras de un cántico sagrado: «Mira delante de ti la suerte de los que fueron; mira delante de ti la suerte de los que serán. El mortal madura como el grano, y como el grano renace.» Acababa de pronunciar estas palabras Ramasinda, cuando cortó el aire una flecha, y vino á fijarse temblando en la espalda del rey. Durvati, precipitándose hacia su padre, sólo alcanzó á recibirle en brazos moribundo. La tropa, después de hacer pedazos al matador del rey, proclamó á Durvati, gritando que era preciso llevar á sangre y fuego aquel país, y que el nuevo rey sabría cumplir tan alta empresa.--Aquella noche, el huérfano se durmió con sueño de plomo y soñó cosas raras. Representósele otra vez el triste fin de su padre; sintió la humedad de la sangre que manaba la herida y la humedad del llanto que él mismo, Durvati, no se había atrevido á derramar en presencia del ejército, pero que ahora fluía copioso, empapando sus ropas. Y cuando desahogaba así el dolor, parecióle que sobre su pecho notaba un calor grato y suave, como un peso delicioso, y rozaba su cara algo fino cual seda. Era, á su parecer, una blanquísima paloma, de rosado pico, de cuello de bizantinos esmaltes verdiazules, de benignos y amorosos ojos negros, que arrullando mansamente murmuraba á su oído una frase misteriosa. El arrullo calmó las angustias del príncipe, y le sepultó en un anonadamiento absoluto, reparador.--Al despertar gritó de sorpresa. Echada á su lado, recostando la frente en su pecho, había una mujer muy joven, celestialmente bella, de blanco seno, de rosada boca, de cabellera sombría y suelta como plumaje de ave, de negras pupilas; y al preguntar atónito Durvati quién era la admirable criatura, fuéle respondido que una cautiva, una esclava, por hermosa señalada para botín real, y que á no haber sido muerto el rey Ramasinda, estaría ahora en su tienda y no en la de Durvati.

Mozo era, y nunca había ardido en su corazón el incendio que transforma y perpetúa los seres. En aquel punto y hora lo sintió con tal fuerza, que se borró de su mente cuanto no fuese la cautiva. Olvidando planes de conquista y dominación, fijó sus reales en la ciudad más próxima, y embelesado en coloquios deleitosos se pasaba la existencia. No por eso se crea que Durvati se entregó á la molicie y al desenfreno. Al contrario; poseído casi siempre de exquisita delicadeza, con casto arrobamiento, amaba á la cautiva á la manera que enseñan los kandas, ó himnos védicos,--con el atmán, que quiere decir aliento ó espíritu;--repitiendo aquellas palabras consagradas:--«En verdad lo que amamos en la mujer no es la mujer, sino el espíritu; y quien busque en la mujer más que el espíritu, será abandonado por Brama.»--Recordando que la primer noche en que tuvo cerca á su amiga soñó Durvati que una paloma se le arrimaba arrullando, Paloma la llamó, y Paloma la nombraron todos.

Lo que más encantaba á Durvati en Paloma, y lo que justificaba tal apodo, era la ternura, la mansedumbre, la piedad, la blanda condición, tan diferente de la de aquellas feroces guerreras sin atributos femeniles, entre cuyas manos se había criado el joven rey; y según éste intimaba con Paloma, y la frecuentaba, y se apegaba á ella, y pasaban juntos las largas siestas del estío á orillas de los lagos cristalinos y bajo los copudos árboles, le repugnaba más y más la idea de la crueldad y de la matanza, se le hacía más cuesta arriba lanzar al combate otra vez sus huestes. Ya dueña de su confianza, y usando de la libertad que da el afecto, Paloma le pintaba con sus colores horribles el estrago de la guerra, y le aseguraba que todos tienen derecho á vivir y deber de amarse, para disminuir los males que cercan en la tierra al mortal.

Por desgracia, no poseía cada soldado de Durvati su Paloma; furiosos con la inacción, vejaban y oprimían á los naturales, y el país se alzaba indignado, clamando independencia ó muerte. Los jefes, compañeros del victorioso Ramasinda, aficionados al combate, maldecían y renegaban de la hechicera que tenía embaucado al rey, y suspiraban por el momento de armar á sus elefantes de combate y arrojarse al botín y á la gloria.--La sorda conjuración contra la favorita tomó cuerpo al difundirse una noticia grave: contra todos los ritos, costumbres y leyes, contra el decoro de su nombre y las tradiciones heroicas de su raza, Durvati iba á elevar al trono á aquella mujer, y regresar después á los bordes del Ganges, abandonando la tierra ganada por el empuje de sus armas, devolviendo la libertad á sus moradores, sin apropiarse ni una pulgada de territorio ni una oveja de ajeno rebaño. Cundió la nueva entre las tropas, y oyéronse maldiciones é imprecaciones contra el afeminado rey que los deshonraba y envilecía. Era preciso que su razón estuviese perturbada, y que aquella bruja, secuaz de los magos, hubiese dado algún bebedizo ó hierba mala al joven héroe, para que olvidase la dignidad real y los deberes de su cargo altísimo, que principalmente en la guerra se resumen. Persuadidos ya de haber adivinado la causa de la decadencia y trastorno de Durvati, concertáronse las amazonas y los jefes, y una noche, sigilosamente, sorprendieron y robaron á Paloma de la misma cámara real.--No ha logrado la historia exclarecer su paradero; las desgarradoras quejas de Durvati, sus ruegos, sus amenazas, no consiguieron que los raptores se la restituyesen; únicamente, ante la insistencia del joven rey, quizá deseosos de hacerle irónica burla, idearon colocar en su lecho, mientras dormía, una paloma mansa, que llevaba por collar el anillo de la cautiva: paloma de níveo plumaje, de tornasolado cuello verdiazul, de rosado pico, de ojos negros, amantes y candorosos...

No se sabe si Durvati entendió la sátira, ó si, en efecto, supuso que aquella ave arrulladora y dulce era el atmán ó espíritu de su amada.--Lo cierto es que, fingiendo atribuir el caso á un prodigio, convocó á sus huestes y les hizo saber que aquella metempsícosis de la amiga, vuelta paloma, significaba que Brama quería la paz perpetua, la paz luciendo como blanca aurora sobre el mundo; y que esta resolución estaba decidido á mantenerla, cortando la cabeza sin demora á quien se opusiese ó suscitase dificultades de cualquier género.--Y en efecto, en todo el reinado de Durvati no se derramó gota de sangre humana.

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