CHAPTER XVTHE RIVER TEMPLE
The events of that afternoon, which formed the unpremeditated climax of two years of restraint on the part of both man and woman, threatened consequences that did not actually come. For some time after Oman’s bitter reproach, Bhavani did not go at all to the water-palace. And Mandu wondered and rejoiced. But to Zenaide, these weeks were the most terrible she had ever known. It was probably Oman who kept her from suicide; for, little as Oman could understand her or her passion, she seemed to cling to him, and to him only, in her stress. He felt himself both cowardly and hypocritical when she moaned to him of Bhavani’s sudden hatred of her; but he nevertheless held to his tenets as her one possible safeguard. At times, indeed, when he could see clearly, he felt that these two creatures had been given into his hands; that it was for him to keep them both from a relationship which would, in the end, shatter them morally and mentally. With Zenaide he dealt tenderly, for she showed herself to him in lights of unselfishness unsuspected by any one else. But he never concealed from her the fact that he would himself exert all his power to keep her truefeelings from becoming known to the Rajah. And the woman after a time accepted, miserably, his view, and acquiesced in all that he told her about the necessity of constant struggle, constant watchfulness, constant self-restraint.
After some weeks it came about that Bhavani recovered his strength and went again to the water-palace, where, by degrees, the old relations were resumed. For this was possible, in that neither of the two entertained any suspicion of the other’s feeling. In these new days Oman was, by common desire, much with them. And nothing, probably, could have made the lonely creature happier than this. With these two people he found entire satisfaction. The two sides of his nature got sustenance; and he experienced for the first time the delights of true companionship:—a full and complete companionship, such as few normal people have the happiness to find. From the first it was plain that there was little danger of betrayal between the man and the woman. Oman watched their self-possession, wondering. Zenaide was no less steady, no less impenetrable, than the Rajah. Not a look, not a gesture, not a tone, ever conveyed to Bhavani her feeling for him. And Oman began to believe that she was really conquering her nature. The three spent many hours in the discussion of problems political, judicial, or philosophical; and, their minds being in harmony each with the others, these periods became the fullest in their lives.
To Oman, especially, had come the deep joy of unbreakabletranquillity. His life was flowing smoothly, in chosen ways. He had the assurance that his living was not in vain; and he knew also that he had succeeded in conquering himself. Bhavani, loving and honoring him, would have loaded him with gorgeousness. But Oman’s sense of fitness did not desert him. He had no desire to go unkempt; but he accepted only the state that a lower official of the royal house was entitled to hold. Gifts of precious metals or gems he refused. But, early in his coming to Mandu, he took the Asra ruby from its concealing box, and caused it to be set in a thin, golden chain which, henceforth, he wore about his neck; till it became known to all the plateau as his badge. The story of how it had come to him—from a mendicant who had died in his cave—he told, readily enough, to Bhavani. But anything further, the mendicant’s name, or the strange powers possessed by the stone, he kept to himself. The matter of reawakened memory, indeed, had come, little by little, to be a constant part of the secret understanding that was always with him. He knew that it had been decreed that he should learn something of the vast scheme of life and progress; but he knew also that this inner knowledge must not be taught to men.
Months passed quietly away. Summer came, with furious rains; and then the hot autumn, when the nights were cooled by winds from the hills. The late monsoon followed, and the fields were green as with spring. Mountain torrents plunged from the heights and over the plain to join the turbulent Narmádastream. And winter was there again:—the mild, sunny winter of the upper Dekkhan, the winter of flowers, the winter of Eden. Great riches brought these seasons to the man who had come, a year before, out of the hills to Mandu. He was known now to every soul in the plateau; and he viewed his adopted land with enchanted eyes. He knew places and parts of Mandu that were not known to men born on its soil. Often he walked alone through the still palace, living amid scenes of the long past, seeing in silent rooms faces of those long since consigned to crematory flames. There were days when memory was on him overpoweringly: when Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth walked abroad through the corridors and assembly halls; when the Ranee Ahalya, attended by Neila, sat at her embroidery in the tiny room, dreaming of him who was to come to her by night; when Fidá, the slave, watched near the zenana door, waiting, with trembling limbs, for the hour when he might seek his love. These times of vision laid hold of Oman like dreams that are not to be shaken off. But he pursued his way quietly, in the face of the double life decreed for him by his distorted Fates.
The winter passed. Spring stole upon the land, and grew, and proclaimed herself again, and got joyous welcome from all the earth. And it was only now, when he had been a year in Mandu, that Oman learned of a strange custom of the new rule. Down upon the shore of the Narmáda, five miles west of Mandu, at the spot where, thirty-three years before, the bodies of the Ranee Ahalya and Fidá had been washed ashoreclose locked in each other’s arms, there had been raised a little stone temple, whither, once in two years, on the anniversary of the death, the Rajah of Mandu, his officers, and the Brahmans repaired to serve the high gods for the souls of the sinful twain. This custom, inaugurated during the regency of Manava, had been continued through his reign by Bhavani, in whom the act was the one sign of countenance granted toward any one guilty of the degrading sin. The alternating anniversaries of the quadruple death were given to mourning services at the magnificent tomb of Rai-Khizar in the palace temple. And the incongruity of the two acts was much whispered about, but never mentioned before the Rajah.
It was the year of the river pageant, for which preparations were begun a week or more before the fourth of April. On the morning of that day, the whole palace was astir by dawn; and, in the early light, a large company set out on foot to descend from the plateau; for horses could only await them in the plain, below. Oman found that the descent was easy enough, for, directly behind the palace, where the slope was less steep than anywhere else, a long flight of steps had been cut in the rock, and the plain could be reached thereby in less than half an hour. Oman and Bhavani started first and were on level ground in advance of the rest of the party. There, at the base of the plateau, they found horses and donkeys assembled, all yellow-caparisoned, and wearing high funeral plumes in their crests. Presently there was a general mounting: priests, lords, andofficials, according to their rank, ranged two and two on their steeds; and after them, on foot, a number of villagers and country-folk, for whom the day was a holiday. In the first hour of sunrise the cavalcade was set in motion and began to wind across the plain to the river bank:—a long, slow-moving line of pinkish yellow, that saddest of Indian colors.
To Oman, the sensation of riding was novel enough, and far from unpleasant. Everything—the sweet, early morning air, the silvery mist on the plain, the rushing river-song, the rolling hills in the distance, and the grave-eyed, silent man beside him, all worked themselves into his mood, deepening the impression of the hour. By nine o’clock the little temple was in sight. When it first appeared, a dim, bluish blot in the flat distance, the heart of Oman rose within him. His face grew very white. On his breast the Asra ruby burned, and the light of it, shining blood-red in the sunlight, or the fact that he had gazed too long at the temple, or perhaps some still more natural cause, made him suddenly dizzy and faint. In the whirl of his feeling, he looked toward Bhavani beside him. The Rajah sat stiffly in his saddle, his yellow turban throwing into pale relief his stern, set face and deeply glowing eyes. He gazed unwinkingly forward, and Oman’s look followed his.
Directly in front of them it lay now,—a small, square building of grayish white stone cut in heavy blocks. The top of the structure was flat and square, but from the middle of it rose a conical, pagoda-like dome, also of stone:—to the Indian eye a sufficiently symmetricalfinish to the whole. The entire building was ornamented with innumerable bas-reliefs, flutings, and carvings, crude enough in themselves, but, taken in the mass, giving an effect of considerable richness. Neither wing, veranda, nor jut marred the straight lines of the side walls; and for this, the temple was probably unique in the jumbling architecture of its period. As it stood here, silent, deserted, on the edge of the wild-rushing stream, surrounded by shadowy plain and backed by high-reaching hills, it gave an impression of loneliness that no momentary spectacle of trooping horses and men could shake off.
It was some time before ten o’clock when the procession halted and dismounted at its destination. There was a pause, while the priests opened the long-locked doors and kindled a fire inside, before the small, stone image of the god. Then, Bhavani leading the way, with Oman close behind him, the throng passed into the stone-lined chamber. Oman entered with closed eyes. There was an oppression on him that would not be shaken off. He shook and shivered in the chill of the little place. When he finally looked about him, the chant of prayers had begun, and he was surrounded by silent, motionless men. There were no windows, and little light entered through the doorway, which was occupied by villagers who strove to hear something of the service. The audience, therefore, could see only by means of the flickering firelight. Everything—roof, walls, floor, and the image of the god, were of the same grayish-white stone, polished, but not carved. In thecentre of the floor, however, close to where Oman stood, was the marble tomb that had been built over the ashes of the two whom they came to mourn. The whole of this sarcophagus was covered with inscriptions and carvings gracefully arranged. And this was all that the temple held. A single glance was enough to take it in. Oman saw it so; and then he stood listening dully to the meaningless words of the chant, while the ruby burned upon his breast, and his brain throbbed with the pain of memory.
When the prayers were finished, every one left the temple and went out into the open, where a meal was to be served. But, while priests and people ate, in separate groups, Oman and Bhavani, who were of one mind, returned to the building, and silently reëntered it. Advancing to the sarcophagus, they paused, one on either side of it, Oman resting both hands on the chilly marble. The eyes of the two met, and each found in the other’s look what lay in his own:—bitterness and sadness. When they had stood there for a long time, each wrapped in his own thoughts, Bhavani murmured, quietly, as if to himself:
“I loved them—both. Ahalya, thou beautiful one,—lying here,—what hath been thy Fate in death?”
The last words were barely audible; for it required courage to break the silence of that room. The stillness of it seemed almost supernatural. It was scarcely broken by the faint fluttering of a winged creature that skimmed in through the half-open doorway. Oman looked up and perceived a slender, gray bird, of peculiarshape, hovering under the roof above his head. It was his companion, he knew at once. Bhavani seemed not to have noticed the intrusion; and Oman did not mention it. But the scene was suddenly complete for him. He felt comforted. And he realized also that here, some day, he should himself yield up his imprisoned souls, and in this silent place enter upon his well-earned rest. Looking into Bhavani’s eyes, he said, quietly:
“Lord Rajah, let thy father’s ashes be some day laid within this room. Many years have passed since these two committed their sin against him. To their troubled souls it would be forgiveness should he, whom they so wronged in life, come to them in death, and lie beside them, peacefully.”
So gently did Oman say this, and with such conviction, that Bhavani could not be shocked by the idea. After a long, thoughtful silence, he only observed: “Thinkest thou so, indeed?” And then he relapsed again into thought. Shortly afterward, without further speech between them, they passed out of the tomb, closing the door behind them.
A little later the company rode away from the lonely place, their faces turned toward Mandu. It was a quieter journey than that of the morning; for the service in the temple-tomb had not failed to make its impression on the most careless. Oman and Bhavani were again side by side, still silent and thoughtful, gazing into the cloudy east. When at last they left the river and struck across the plain, Bhavani, leaning toward his companion, said, in a muffled voice:
“Thou hast spoken of peace to the twain were my father laid beside them there by the river. Why, rather, should not their ashes be carried up into Mandu, and placed in the palace temple, where their Rajah lies?”
Oman hesitated for a moment, stroking his horse’s mane. Then he answered, dreamily: “That is their place there, by the river. It is a peaceful sleep. They would not rest well near the palace of their treachery.”
Bhavani bowed his head, and seemed as if about to reply; but he closed his lips again without having uttered any word.
Thus ended Oman’s first visit to the tomb: an incident that brought much into his life. It proved the beginning of intangible things that carried changes in their train. There was at first a new relaxation of mind; for it seemed as if some final touch had been put upon his own existence. Less than ten miles away was his own resting-place, waiting his coming. He knew this intuitively; and it seemed to him that, however long he should still live, there could be no further pilgrimage for him. His life at Mandu was not for a mere Vassa season. He had attained his Arahatship; and need not any longer dread the privation months each year.
During the following summer Oman went twice, alone, to the tomb; each time spending the night there and returning, next day, on foot. What he did in those times, or why he went, no one knew. But he had been given a key to the temple doors, and men might see, ifthey wished, that he carried it always in his girdle. Zenaide once ventured to ask him of the purpose of his journeys, and he smiled, and answered her:
“I go there to pray to the great Brahma for two erring souls.”
“The souls of the Ranee and the slave who were drowned together?”
Oman bent his head.
“And dost thou not think, O Oman, that for such sinful ones there must be hundreds of reincarnations to expiate their crimes?”
“Was there happiness enough in their sin to repay a thousand years of suffering?” he asked, bitterly. “Nay, woman, I tell thee that thirty years of sorrow and struggle hath more than paid—more than paid! There is a strict justice over all things. The Divine Soul alone knows the real measure of happiness and misery meted out to each of us. He also knows in how much the crime carries with it its punishment.”
“Thou art a strange man, Oman,” she answered, looking at him curiously. “Sometimes I could think thee mad if thou wast not so—so assured. Whence come these thoughts of thine? Art thou inspired?”
“Nay, Zenaide. Knowledge must come to all who, by bitterness and tears, have drawn near the infinite. Suffering brings much beauty to the soul. I begin to think that men shun it too much.” And then Oman smiled, and went away, fearing lest he had spoken too plainly to one who, through her nature, might understand.
Much to Oman’s surprise, and to the amazement andconsternation of the whole plateau, Bhavani, after six months of deliberation, acted upon the impulsive suggestion made by Oman, in the river temple on the anniversary of the death of Ahalya and Fidá. In the autumn of that year the ashes of Rai-Khizar-Pál were removed from their tomb in the palace, and borne down the river to a new grave. The act came very near to causing a general uprising. Bhavani’s own son pleaded with his father on his knees not to dishonor the great warrior, his grandfather, and thus bring infamy upon himself and the whole line. It was in vain. Oman’s secret idea had taken root in Bhavani’s heart; and a revolution would not have turned him from his object. In the month of October, just before the rains, Rai-Khizar’s ashes were laid beside those of his dead wife, in a new marble tomb, the magnificence of which a little consoled the people for the disrespect to their warrior king.
It was Oman who was charged with the matter of the reinterment; and, when the priests had finished their service after the burial, he went down to the river bank, and at the risk of his life began to talk to the angry mob that waited there. It was a dramatic scene. In the beginning his voice was completely drowned by the roars and cries that rose from the usually passive and obedient people. Probably only the presence of Bhavani saved the hermit, as he was called, from personal violence. But Oman held doggedly to his place; and, after a time his very appearance, as he stood upon a block of stone twenty yards from the temple,silenced the noise, and brought the people, against their will, to listen to him. As he began to speak, his voice was like the melodious ripple of a summer stream. He talked of wrong-doing and the forgiveness of sin; and the doctrine that he preached had never been heard in the east at all. One long before, in the west, had spoken such words; but they had not lived truly in the hearts of men. Before Oman paused, however, he had brought all the throng literally to his feet, because of the things he said and the way he said them. And, in that hour, Oman won his place with the low castes of Mandu, among whom, henceforth, he was privileged to much that their priests could not obtain of them.
By this unpremeditated act, Oman made possible for himself something that he had desired long and earnestly. It opened the way for him to go down among the humbler people, and cause them to reveal their souls to him, that he might give them his truths. In the next months he studied, ardently, the nature of mankind, in the hope of finding means of escape from temptation for those too weak to resist it, and of giving proper strength to those who could still struggle against themselves. But, even while he labored, a new discouragement came upon him. He succeeded only too well in probing the natures of those who sought his help. To him, whose severe and troubled life had been exempt from the complicated wrong of living, the constant discoveries made to him of selfishness, pettiness, deceit, of warped and perverted notions of right and wrong, thrown before him in all the chaotic tangle of actual existence,brought revelations that overpowered him with their barefacedness. All alone he wrestled with problems that have neither beginning nor end; where, from the first, all has been so wrong that there is no hope of setting it right. He saw almost as the Almighty must see:—the terrible falsity of each individual; and, the reason for it, the reason for the fact of existence, being withheld from him, he fainted under the burden of seemingly irreparable wrong. It was no joy to him to reflect that, compared with most men, he had lived the life of a saint. Oblivious of himself since his victory was won, he tried to take up the battle for others too ill-equipped for resistance. And thus, after all, Oman showed himself not very wise; for he had not learned that, by the first law of creation, man works out his destiny alone. But this new problem proved to be also his last turning-point. He had ceased to live for himself. Henceforth all his desire was for others. It is the last lesson:—one that men are not often trusted here to learn.