Poems (Jackson)/The Story of Boon

by Helen Hunt Jackson

THE STORY OF BOON.^[1]

T haunts my thoughts morn, night, and noon,The story of the woman, Boon,—Haunts me like restless ghost, untilI give myself to do its will;Cries voiceless, yet as voices cry,—"O singer, can this tale pass byUntold by thee? Thy heart is wrungIn vain, if dies the song unsung." I am unworthy: master handsShould strike the chords, and fill the landsFrom sea to sea with melodyAll reverent, yet with harmonyMajestic, jubilant, to tellHow love must love, if love loves well;How once incarnate love was foundOn earth, dishonored, martyr-crowned,Crowned by a heathen woman's name,—O blessed Boon, of peerless fame!In Siam's court the Buddhist KingHeld festival. Fair girls to sing,And dance, and play, were led betweenClose ranks of Amazons in greenAnd gold. In chariot milk-whiteOf ivory, and glittering brightWith flowers garlanded, rode Choy,The young, the beautiful; with joyAnd subtle pride no words could tell,Her virgin bosom rose and fell.No dream the Siam maiden knewMore high or blest than that which grewIn Choy's poor blinded heart,—to beThe favorite of the King, and seeThe other wives beneath her feet.From babyhood, that this was sweetThe child was taught. How should she knowThey told her false, and worked her woe!

The song, the dance, the play, were done,Choy's fatal triumph had been won.The old king's bleared and lustful eyes Had marked her for his next new prize.Asking her name, as low she bowedBefore the throne, he called aloud,—"Which of my nobles springs to leadHer chariot ponies? Do I needSpeak farther?"Speak farther?"On the instant, twoYoung nobles robed in white sprang throughThe crowd, and kneeling as to queen,With low-bent head and reverent mien,They walked the chariot beside.The bands burst forth in swelling tideOf music, and the curtain fell.One noble, smitten by the spellOf Choy's great beauty, whispered, "God,How beautiful thou art!"How beautiful thou art!""My Lord,Have care," the scornful Choy exclaimed:"'T were ill for thee, if thou wert blamedBy me."By me."The other noble silent gazed,With eyes whose glance strange tumuit raisedWithin Choy's breast. He did not speak:All spoken words had fallen weak,After his look. Yet Choy's heart burnedTo hear his voice. Sudden she turned,And leaning forward said, "How now,What seest thou in air that thouArt dumb?"Art dumb?"With trembling lips he spoke,—"O Lady, till thy sweet voice brokeUpon the air, I thought I saw An angel; now, with no less awe,But greater joy, I see thou artA woman,"A woman,"Ah, they know not heartOf man or woman, who declareThat love needs time to love and dare.His altars wait,—not day nor name,Only the touch of sacred flame.

The song, the dance, the play were done.Oh, fatal triumph Choy had won!Oh, hateful life she thought was sweet!She knelt before the old king's feet,A slave, a toy, a purchased thing,Which to his worn-out sense might bringPleasure again of touch, of sight.Doting, he named her "Chorm," "Delight,"Decked her with jewels, gave her power,And day and night, and hour by hour,With hideous caresses soughtJoy in the thing which he had bought.And hour by hour, and night and day,Wasted poor Choy's young life away.One thrilling voice, one glowing face,One thought of such a love's embrace,Haunted her thoughts, and racked her breast,Robbed her of peace, robbed her of rest,Made of her life such living lie,Such torture, she but prayed to die.

Months passed, and she knew not the nameOf him she loved. At last there came The fated day. A woman slave,New in the palace, quickly gave,Answering Choy's artful questioning,The noble's name.The noble's name."Ah, go and bringMe news of him," said Choy. "He boreHimself so loftily, I moreRecall him than all else that day.Seek out minutely in what wayHe lives; what may his harem hold.He seemed to me so silent, cold,No doubt some Houri keeps him chained,"With scornful laugh, but poorly feigned,Cried Choy.Cried Choy.At dusk of night returnedThe slave, with wondrous tale, which burnedItself on Choy's glad heart.Itself on Choy's glad heart.The Duke,Phaya Phi Chitt his name, forsookHis harem on the day he ledThe Favorite's chariot ponies. DeadHe seemed to all he once had loved:No fear, no joy, his spirit moved.His friends believed that he was mad,Or else some mortal illness had.A feverish joy filled all Choy's thought,She knew by what this change was wrought.Love's keenest pain, if shared like this,No longer seemed a pain, but bliss.Again the faithful slave she sent,With message of one word, which meantBut "I remember." But "I remember.""I love much,"The Duke sent back. Ah, madness suchAs this was never seen. The hallsOf tyrants' palaces have wallsHigher than Love's and Hope's last breath,Wider than Life, deeper than Death!

Embroidered with a thread of goldOn silk, and hidden fold on fold,As if an amulet she wore,Her lover's name the poor Choy boreBy night, by day, upon her heart.The new slave woman, with an artAs tender as a sister's, soughtTo comfort her. Each day she broughtNew message from the Duke, each nightLay at her mistress' feet till light.O Buddha! pitiful, divine,All-seeing, gav'st thou no signTo warn these faithful, loving three,Who were as faithful unto theeAs to each other! Didst thou teachThe cruel tyrant how to reachTheir life blood, that thy arm might saveThem by the surety of the grave?Might give to their expiring breathThe gift of life, in shape of death?Ah, Buddha! pitiful, divine,Thy gifts of death record no signOf life beyond. Our weak hearts craveSome voice of surety for the grave. The hours grew ripe: the hour was set,The night had come. Choy slumbered yet,While faithful Boon, with footsteps light,Made all things ready for their flight.Sudden a clash of arms,—a gleamOf fire of torches! From her dreamChoy waked, and on her threshold saw,Dread sight which chilled her blood with awe,Standing with panting voice and breath,Maï Taïe, Mother of Death,Cruelest of all the Amazons,Slayer of all convicted onesWho braved the tyrant's wrath and hate.Choy called on Boon. Too late! too late!Boon fettered lay with gag and chain;Most piteous eyes, faithful in pain,Unto her mistress lifting still.With blows and jeers wreaking their will,The soldier women, fierce and strong,Dragged weeping Choy and Boon alongThe by-ways of the silent town,And flung them, chained and helpless, downInto a dark and loathsome cell.Soon as their footsteps' echoes fellFaintly afar, Choy whispered low,—"O Boon, dear Boon! tell me hast thouConfessed?"Confessed?""Dear Lady, no!" she cried."No tortures tyrants ever triedShall wring from me one word of blameAgainst Phaya Phi Chitt's dear name."That instant, flashing through Choy's heart Strange instinct swept.Strange instinct swept."Tell me who artThou, Boon," she said: "why dost thou clingTo me through all this suffering?All other women I have knownHad left me now to die alone,O Boon, conceal from me no more!Tell me the truth in this dread hour!"Then, looking newly at her face,She saw it beauty had, and grace;Saw that the feet were lithe and fine,The hands were small and smooth: each signOf tender nurture and high bloodThis loving woman bore, who stoodTo her as slave. Unearthly sweetGrew Boon's pale face, as to the feetOf Choy, all crippled, chained, she crept,And, as she strove to speak, but weptAnd sobbed,—And sobbed,—"O Lady dear, forgiveThat I deceived thee! I but liveFor thy dear Duke. I am his wifeDumb wonder sealed Choy's lips. A strifeOf fierce mistrust warred in her breast.At last, stern-faced, "Tell me the rest,"She said.She said.Closer, more humbly stillBoon crept, and said,—Boon crept, and said,—"Lady, I will;And, by the heart of Buddha, thouCanst but forgive when thou dost knowThe whole. "The day my husband cameHome from the fête, he spoke thy nameAnd told thy beauty unto me,And said that from that moment he,His thought, his heart, his blood, were thine,—Thine utterly, and no more mineAgain. What could I do but weep?I saw him pine. No food, no sleep,He took. I thought that he must die.What could I do? O Lady, ISo loved him that I longed as heThat fate might give him joy and thee.I vowed to him that I would winThee for his wife. How to beginI knew not, when I found thou wertThe King's last favorite. It hurtMy pride to be a slave. The goldLies in the sea for which I soldMyself to thee, rather than breakMy vow. But easy for his sake,I loved him so, thy service came,Soon as I found that his dear nameWas dear to thee as thine to him;That, when I spoke it, it could dimThine eyes with passion's tears, like thoseWhich he had shed in passion's throes,For want of thee. O Lady, noneOf all thy sighs and tears, not one,But I have flown and faithful told,That he might know thou wert not cold.Each word of beauty, nobleness,Which thou didst speak, I bore to bless His heart with knowledge more completeOf thee. O Lady, the deceitWas only for his precious sakeAnd thine: no other way to takeI knew. My husband is so great,So good, I was but humble mateFor him. As shadow follows shape,My heart in life cannot escapeFrom following his; nor yet in deathShall it be changed: with dying breath,From Buddha I one joy will wrest,That he find rapture in thy breast."Boon ceased, and in her slender hands,Which scarce could lift her fetter bands,Buried her face. Choy did not speak.Her reverence knew not where to seekFor fitting words which she might dareTo use to Boon. The midnight airHeard only sobs, as close betweenHer arms she drew Boon's head to leanUpon her breast. The long night waned,And still in silence sat the chainedAnd helpless women. Strange thoughts filledThe heart of Choy. Her love seemed chilled,Poor, and untrue, beside this oneGreat deed she never could have done."Ah, me! his wife has loved him best,"In bitterness her heart confessed,Yet jealousy for shame was dead.Her tears fell loving on Boon's head:"Dear Boon," she whispered soft and low,"To Buddha pitiful we go." Next morning when the judges dreadCross-questioned Boon, she simply said,"My Lords, what can a poor slave know?'Weary at last, the fearful blowOf lashes on her naked feetThey ordered. Blood ran down the sweetSoft flesh: still came the answer low,"My Lords, what can a poor slave know?Be pitiful!" The swift blows fellAgain: no cry, no sound, to tellThat it was pain, Boon gave; no signOf faltering. They poured down wineTo stay her strength, and then again,—Oh, surely fiends they were, not men!—Again, from slender neck to waist,The cutting blows in angry hasteWith tenfold violence they laid.Each blow a line of red blood made;Yet, when they paused, the answer cameSteadfast, heroic, in the samePathetic words, more feeble, slow,"My Lords, what can a poor slave know?"Then in the torture of the screw,Whose pain has led strong men to doDishonor to their souls and God,They bound this woman's hands. Sweat stoodIn bloody drops along her brow,Yet from her lips not even nowWas heard one syllable.Was heard one syllable.In rage,The baffled tyrants to assuageHer sufferings tried every art Which could be tried by kindest heart,And snatched her back from death again,Again to tortures fresh; in vain!Night came, and from her lips no wordHad fallen. All night they faintly stirred,As if in sleep she dreamed and spoke.Choy watching, weeping by her, tookHer hand, and said,—Her hand, and said,—"Oh, tell thy Choy,Art thou in mortal pain?"Art thou in mortal pain?""My joyIs greater than my pain," she said,"That this poor flesh hath not betrayedMy love. Thanking great Buddha now,I pray unceasing, till we goAgain to torture." Then no moreBoon spoke. To Choy, but little lowerThan angel she appeared. Ah! trueIt was the wife loved best! Love knewHis own. His angels comfortedHer soul with joy through hours which bredBut anguish in Choy's breast.But anguish in Choy's breast.Too soonCame cruel day, and brought to BoonAgain the lash, the screw; againUnto the door of death in vainThey tortured her: no word escapedHer bloodless lips. Her face seemed shapedOf iron, so calm, so resolute;A superhuman light her muteAnd upward gaze transfigured, tillIn awe the torturers stood still. Then, binding up her wounds, they laidHer on a couch to rest. New shadeOf anguish now her face revealed,Waiting Choy's words. All unconcealed,No doubt, the weaker love lay bareBefore her instinct. It could dareFor self: now that for self remainedNo hope, no future to be gained,Could it for him be true, be great?Ah, this true torture was,—to waitAnother woman's courage! EyesOf fire Boon fixed on Choy. To riseShe helpless strove, in impulse vain,As if by touch she could sustainChoy's strength. Her gaze was like a cry."Oh, what is death, is suffering, byThe side of truth? If thou dost loveAnother, thought of self can moveThee not. If thou dost love, to bearThe worst is nothing. Dost thou dareBetray, thou art a coward, liar!"Entreated, warned Boon's eyes of fire.They held Choy's eyes as by a spell.Feeble the judges' stern tones fell,Idle the threats of torture seemed,Beside the scorching look which gleamedUpon that woman's face.Upon that woman's face.Thus stayedAnd stung, Choy bore the blows which laidHer quivering flesh in furrows. FeetAnd neck and shoulders, all the sweetFair skin was torn: her blood ran down As Boon's had run,—not of her ownResolve, but born of Boon's the strengthWhich silent sealed her lips. At lengthThe one sure pain which torturers knowThey tried. No rack, no fire, no blow,Is dreadful as the screw. At firstSharp turn it gave, a loud cry burstFrom Choy,—From Choy,—"O Boon, forgive, forgive!I cannot bear this pain, and live!And, shrieking out her lover's name,She cowered before Boon's eyes of flame.One cry of uttermost despairFrom Boon rang out upon the air,Her fettered arms above her headShe lifted, and fell back as dead.Ah! true it was, the wife loved best!How true, that cry of Choy's confessed.To love which she had so betrayed,No prayer she for forgiveness made:On him whom she had thought her lifeShe called not, but upon his wife.

Swift sped the feet of them who soughtThe lover. Ere the noon, they broughtHim also. Boon, with anguished eyes,Beheld him there. She could not rise,But, creeping on her hands and feet,She cried, in tones unearthly sweet,—"O Lords! O Judges! look at me,And listen. It was I, not he. I am his wife. I laid the plot.Except for me, the thought had notBeen his. 'T was only I deceivedThe Lady Choy. He but believedWhat I desired.The guilt is mine,All mine. Tell them it was not thine,My husband,—I can bear the whole."And, as she turned to him, the soulOf love ineffable set smileUpon her face. Her piteous guile,Transparent, thrilled each heart and earThat heard her pleading voice. A tearFell from the sternest Amazon,Fierce Khoon Thow App, as in a toneNo mortal from her lips had heardBefore, she said, "O Boon, what stirredThy heart to this? Thy motive tell!"The question all unanswered fell.Boon lay again as if in death,With closed eyes and gasping breath.

All night, low on the dark cell's floor,Lay Boon and Choy; for Boon no moreRemained in life. When Choy crept near,And humbly spoke, she answered, "Dear,Farewell!"—no other word. Choy strove,—Poor Choy! her feebler, lesser love.Avenging on herself its sin,—Strove from the greater love to winSome healing stay. Too sweet to pain,Too loyal and too true to feign,Boon made but one reply, which fellFainter and fainter, "Dear, farewell!" That night, at midnight, sat the KingAnd Lords in council. For the thingPhaya Phi Chitt and Choy had planned,Scarcely in all that cruel landWas known a punishment which seemedSufficient. Fierce his red wrath gleamed,As cried the King,—As cried the King,—"At dawn shall flyThe vultures with their hungry cry.Rare feast for them ready by noonShall be three traitors' bodies hewnIn pieces, and with offal castAbroad, that to the very lastLow grade of life they may return,And grovel with the beasts to learn,Through countless ages, in what wayKings punish when their slaves betray.Long generations shall forgetTheir base-born names, ere souls are setAgain within their foul, false flesh,To murder love and trust afresh!"^[2]

Ah! true it was, the wife loved best!Love knew his own, gave her his rest;And, to the other woman, doomOf life-long woe and life-long gloom.O cruel friends who prayed the King,Who dreamed Choy to this world could cling!Reprieved from death, to life condemned,Sad prisoner forever hemmed Within the hated palace-wall;By all despised, and shunned by all,Lonely and broken-hearted, sheWeeps day and night in misery.And day and night one picture hauntsHer weary brain, her sorrow taunts,—Picture of Buddha's fairest fields,Where every hour new transport yields,And where the lover whom she slew,Loyal at last, and glad and true,In full Elysium's perfect rest,Walks with the one who loved him best!It haunts me morn, and night, and noon:This story of the woman, Boon,—Haunts me like restless ghost, that says,—"Oh, where is love in these sad days!Rise up, and in my might and namePlead for the altar and the flame."I am unworthy: master handsShould strike the chords, and fill the landsFrom sea to sea with melodyOf such transcendent harmonyThat it all jubilant might tellHow love must love, if love loves well.Yet, telling all, and flooding landsWith melody, the master handsCould strike no deeper chord than I,When from a woman's heart I cry,—"O martyred Boon, of peerless fame,Incarnate in thy life, Love came!"

THE STORY OF BOON.

"With trembling lips he spoke."

THE STORY OF BOON.

"Sudden a clash of arms,—a gleamOf fire of torches!"

1. This story of Boon is strictly true. It is told by Mrs. Leonowens, the English Governess at the Siamese court. She took it down from Choy's own lips.
2. The Siamese believe that, whenever a dead body is not burned, its soul is condemned to begin life again in the lowest animal form.