Steven Millhauser - Voices in the Night - Stories

The Tower

Residents are welcome to visit the old Observation Tower, located on the cliffs of the Northwest Gorge. This imposing structure, constructed over one hundred years ago of granite blocks mined from local quarries, rises to a height of 420 feet and contains a winding stone stairway of 659 steps. At the top is an external observation platform with a waist-high iron railing, badly damaged. The ledge beyond the railing extends a further twelve inches. The Tower has not been repaired for many years and should be entered with caution. On a bright day or moonlit night the old observation platform affords spectacular views of the Arcadian countryside in all its rich diversity. From the cliffside corner you can see down into one of our deepest gorges.

Goal-Oriented Discussion Groups

Although carefully protected privacy is a key component of our program, your facilitator may recommend attendance at one or more of our semiweekly goal-oriented discussion groups led by a Life Counselor in one of the Discussion Rooms located on the ground floor of the Estate. The purpose of group discussion is to increase motivation and focus by means of shared experience. Sometimes a resident who has spent days or weeks alone exploring the trails, lakes, gorges, caverns, and other features of our retreat will find that the group process can generate valuable insights. It may even lead to a moment of personal self-illumination that will prove to be a productive turning point on your developmental path. Participation in all group activities is voluntary. Refreshments will be served.

Testimonial #8

In what I suspect is not the middle of life’s journey I came to this bosky dell in search of what shall I say a setting for my soul’s plight, a decor for my desolation, hoping by such sleights to outwit destiny and calm the demons of the night, only to find myself enticed by ah! enchantments less triste : the seductive sinuosities of pineconed paths, the caress of caverns, an almost amorous beckoning of tranquil shores. And you, my best beloved, light of my life, lovely traitress and laughing fiend out of hell, who even now bends to whisper sweet somethings in my ear, I bid you a fond farewell, my darling demoness, my heart’s murderess, as I walk out into the Arcadian night that shines forth like a beacon in the blackness of my ravaged hopes.

Waiting

Sometimes it is best simply to wait. In time it will come to you. Row out into the middle of a silent lake, draw in your oars, and lean back against a cushion. Stand at the edge of a gorge with your hands behind your back and gaze down. Sit beneath the strong branches of a sheltering tree or lie back in your hammock beside the stone well. Pause for a while in the black passage of an underground cavern. Breathe quietly. Listen. The answer is there. It will come to you.

For More Information

For more information, or for additional copies of this brochure, please contact us online at arcadiaretreat.com. We are always here to serve you and to make your residency an unforgettable experience. Whether you come from Maine or Oregon, from small-town Ohio or the bustling streets of Manhattan, from Reykjavik or Mumbai, Arcadia awaits you. Although we exist on the map, in a particular and desirable location, we are really only a step away. Already you have seen us. You have caught glimpses of us in vacant lots, in city parks, in the spaces of blue sky in the stillness of summer afternoons. We are around that corner, across that road. In a very real sense, we are everywhere. Come to us. You will only be coming home.

A Father’s Worries. One midsummer night, at a time when only the palace guards are awake, King Suddhodana leaves his bedchamber and makes his way out into the Garden of Seven Noble Pleasures. As he walks along a path of rose-apple trees, moonlight sifts through the branches and ripples across his arms. The heavy scent of blossoms stirs his senses like the playing of many wooden flutes, but the King isn’t out for pleasure. Something is wrong with his son. How is it possible? The Prince has a life that all men envy. He’s handsome as a young god, skilled in disputation and wrestling, rich in the love of beautiful women. Wise men instruct him. Servants attend him. Friends adore him. Wild peacocks feed from his palm. If he expresses a desire for anything — an emerald carved to resemble a hand, an elephant caparisoned with scarlet cloths bearing images of gold swans, a dancing girl with bare breasts — his wish is instantly gratified. He is healthy, he is strong, he is young, he is rich. His wife is beautiful. His marriage is happy. Poets sing his praises. And yet this most fortunate of sons, this model and mirror of young manhood, sole heir to a mighty kingdom, seeks out solitary places, where he secludes himself for hours or days at a time. Messengers report to the King that on such occasions the Prince walks quietly in one of the Four Hundred Bowers, or sits motionless under a tree on the shore of one of the Two Hundred Lakes and Ponds. Lately the withdrawals have become more frequent. These aren’t love trysts, which would please the King, but something less innocent: a turning away, a drawing within. Is there some inner wound in his son, some secret affliction? The periods of despondency end suddenly, and then the young Prince returns to his friends and companions as if nothing has happened. Soon he is laughing in the sun, riding one of his elephants, shouting with joy, roaming among his concubines. It’s possible of course that the Prince chooses to isolate himself solely for the purpose of recovering his strength after long nights of enervating pleasure, but the King remains doubtful. There is something disquieting in these removals, something dangerous. He’ll get to the bottom of it. Suddenly King Suddhodana stops on the path of rose-apple trees. Before him, in a brilliant patch of moonlight, lies the dark feather of a bird. An irritation comes over him. He will speak to the Chief Gardener in the morning.

—

A Walk Among Women. In the sun and shade of a pillared portico, Prince Siddhartha Gautama walks among his concubines. Through open doorways the women watch him pass, inviting his attention in ritual poses of enticement and modesty. The concubines are famous for their beauty, their gaiety, their lute playing, and their skill in awakening and prolonging erotic pleasure. Through semitransparent colored silks wrapped around their hips and draped over their shoulders, they conceal and reveal the secrets of their bodies. The tips of their fingers and the soles of their feet are brilliant with crimson dye. On their ankles they wear bracelets decorated with tiny bells. It is said that there are eighty-four thousand concubines, one for each of the eighty-four thousand stars in the night sky. It is said that there are twenty thousand dancing girls. It is said that the Prince can satisfy twelve women in one night. Now he walks slowly along the portico, through shafts of sun that lie across his path like swords of light. Through the open doorways he can see his concubines lying on divans, or sitting on yellow and azure floor-cushions with tassels, bending their necks as handmaidens comb their hair. A girl steps forward to watch the Prince pass. Her silks are the color of yellow champaca blossoms, her hair is as glossy as the body of a black bee. She raises her eyes and lowers them in a sign of invitation. Gautama smiles at her and continues on his way. He can hear the sharp tinkle of anklet bells, the fainter tinkle of the little bells that adorn the cupolas and turrets of the palace roof. At the end of the portico he steps into the sun. The short grass is the shiny green of a peacock’s neck. It presses softly into his bare soles. From the women’s quarters he hears a ripple of laughter, the strings of a lute. Slowly he continues on his way.