FAIZI'S CURSE.
In a Buddhist monastery among the mountains, Siddha lay stretched on
his sick bed, while Iravati watched by his side. Her joy had been great
at finding him still alive when, after her long and dangerous journey,
she at length arrived; but this joy had been tempered by the doctor's
assurance that his state was a most critical one. When she was admitted
to his room, she found him still senseless; and who could say whether
he would ever regain consciousness, or recognise her before his death?
After a long time of anxious watching, a slight improvement gave
rise to hope, and Iravati was warned that if she would continue to
tend the wounded man, she must allow herself more rest. Kulluka and
the monks persuaded her to take short walks; and it was not without
pleasure that she at times visited the little temple belonging to the
monastery when the bell called the believers to prayer. With earnest
attention she listened to the words of the chief priest when he spoke
of the gradations of human life, and how sorrow fell on all, and how
rare were the visits of happiness, and how the greatest bliss for man
was to be freed from all human ties and to attain Nirvána. [106] In
these teachings Kulluka found much with which he could not agree, and,
in other circumstances, would perhaps have remarked to the priest that
to live for the good of others was a nobler aim of life than to remain
sunk in idle contemplation. But opposition was perhaps superfluous. The
practice of these Buddhists was better than their teaching; for though
they took no part in the turbulent life and sorrows of the world,
still they did not spend their time in idleness. Unwearily they
wandered amongst the mountains, visiting all the poor inhabitants,
scattering their good deeds and consolation wherever misery was to
be found, without respect of nationality, religion, or caste.
One evening Iravati was seated by Siddha's couch, while the doctor
watched him from the other side, when he slowly opened his eyes, and,
throwing a hasty glance around him, seemed to recognise Iravati. He
softly murmured her name, and again closed his eyes. The doctor made
a sign to Iravati to withdraw, which she unwillingly obeyed, and
hastened, with a heart full of joy, to seek Kulluka, and to impart
to him the glad news. The next day the improvement still continued,
and the patient could even speak. But Siddha made but little use of
this power even when Iravati was with him; and though he knew her
and his friend, he did not seem to remember any of the events that
had happened,--a mist seemed to hang over his mind. Almost without
consciousness he would sit, gazing before him, and only Iravati's
voice could arouse him from this stupefaction. This still continued,
even after his bodily strength returned and he was again able to
take exercise.
Once it happened, as he strolled with Iravati in the neighbourhood of
the monastery, that some word of hers, or some object on which his
eye fell--she herself could not tell which--seemed to awaken memory
in him. Suddenly he stood still, gazing with wonder around him, and
passed his hand over his face. Then shaking his head, he walked on,
and then again stood still, gazing inquiringly at the high mountain
tops, then at the blue sky, and at the valleys and woods that lay
around. A deadly pallor crept over his face, and with a wild look
he turned to Iravati. Memory had returned in its full strength,
but how? and, perchance, was not forgetfulness both better and happier?
"Go, go!" he cried, at last. "What are you doing here, unhappy one,
with me? How can you bear that I should approach you--I, the faithless
traitor, laden with the heaviest curse that was ever laid on man?"
Iravati listened in breathless terror. She did not understand all,
though more than enough. She attempted to speak, but her voice failed
her, and overcome with sorrow, she sank at his feet.
"The curse!" repeated Siddha, wildly; "the curse of Faizi--'Live with
the memory of what you have done; and though you may attain all your
heart desires, yet shall you always cast down your eyes before an
honourable man.' And should I dare to raise them to you, pure and
innocent, whom I betrayed as basely as I did my noble friend! Go,
I say, far from here. A figure stands between you and me. It is that
of Faizi. He stands there, threatening as when he spoke my doom."
As Iravati raised her head, she saw him cover his face with his hands,
as though he dared not look at her. "Come," she said, "let us go in;
you have done too much, and so false visions torment you. Come, then."
"Visions," answered Siddha, bitterly; "would that they were! But,
no. I am now again myself; my strength has returned, and with it
the recollection, the terrible recollection, more real than ever. I
never yet felt the full meaning of Faizi's words; but now that I again
see you, I comprehend them. Before the Emperor, and even before the
meanest of my soldiers, have I cast down my eyes with shame; but never
as now. Vainly I sought an honourable death. Iravati," he continued,
"you do not know with whom you speak; you do not know my last crimes."
"I do know," she answered, "though perhaps not exactly what happened
between Faizi and yourself; but I have gathered sufficient from the
words you have let fall."
"And yet you still speak to me," cried Siddha. "You do not turn from
me; you even come to tend my last days."
"Did I not give you my word, Siddha? and was I not bound to keep
it until you yourself gave it to me back? and that you have never
done. Did you not send me by Kulluka the token that told your last
thought was mine? and I felt that I had taken duties on me, although
no marriage ties bound us."
"Then I now release you from your promise," said Siddha. "It is true
that no sooner did I awaken from that miserable blindness than my love
for you returned with a strength that until then I did not know. You,
you can be true to me, and fulfil all your duties. But you can love
me no more."
"I love you now, as I always did," replied Iravati.
"You seek to convince yourself that you do, from an exaggerated
feeling of honour; but it is not possible that you should do so,
and the day would come when you would regret that you had not known
yourself better. There can be no love where there is no respect. The
woman must look up to the man, and unhappy is the union where he is the
weaker. Go, and forget me; I am not even worthy of your remembrance."
"Then you thrust me away?"
"I have no right to thrust you away, nor to release you from your
word. I only do so in order to give you rest, and to spare you any
self-reproach that you might feel at leaving me of your own free will."
"Listen to my prayer, Siddha," said she, entreatingly, and laying her
hand on his arm. "I will not dispute what you say, I will not wish
or require anything as my right. I only implore you to listen to the
wish that is dearest to my heart. I do not ask any promise for the
future. I give you the fullest liberty; but let me remain with you
for the present, even if it is for a short time. It is impossible
for me to part with you now."
"No, and never!" answered Siddha, sternly. "No hesitation, no weakness;
once for all, leave me and forget me." And pushing Iravati, who went
on before him, he prepared to hurry away, so that he might never
again see her whom until this moment he had never loved so tenderly.
"Let it be so," said Iravati, rising up, with an injured feeling of
self-respect, and speaking with a firm voice; "let it be so, you are
perhaps right. You make yourself unworthy of my love. Once, in spite of
your promises, you have been unfaithful to me, but that I had forgotten
and forgiven; for I knew you had been led away by temptation unknown
to me. But now you drive me from you, not because I have committed
any fault, but because you are too proud to confess to your wife that
you have once been weak and unable to withstand temptation. Leave me,
then. Without you my life is without value; but a forced love no woman
can seek, not even from the man she loves. And now, to the memory of
the crime you have been guilty of against a friend, add the memory
of a woman whom you loved, yet sacrificed to your selfish pride."
Siddha hesitated. Should he go, or stay? The latter he would gladly do,
but how could he reconcile it with honour? "Who shall decide?" he said,
striking his forehead with his hand. "There is truth in what you say,
though it is in conflict with what I consider right. Yet," continued
he, "another, who is wiser than either of us, shall decide between us."
"You mean Kulluka?"
"No, not him. Highly as I prize his opinion, I know beforehand that he
would only try to secure our happiness, and, to do so, would decide
that you are right. He would not be impartial in his judgment. There
is another; but do not ask me further. He alone can I trust to decide
between us; and he will advise me. Listen, then, Iravati; let me
depart hence as speedily as possible. Perhaps I shall return soon,
perhaps never. Should I return, then my life shall henceforth be
devoted to you. If not, then understand that you will never see me
more, and that you are freed from all ties that bind you to me. Do
not raise objections, but have patience with me, such as, till now,
you have always shown."
Before Iravati could reply to this new and unexpected proposal,
Siddha had disappeared to seek his servant, and to order his horse
to be saddled, so as to set out on their journey, his destination
being unknown to her.
Iravati hastened to Kulluka, and told him all that had passed, and
Siddha's extraordinary determination; but the guru, seeing that it
was better to let Siddha take his own way and not to oppose him,
tried to console Iravati with the hope that she would soon see him
again. In the meantime Siddha had taken leave of the Buddhist priest,
giving him a rich present for the benefit of the monastery, and then,
followed by Vatsa, had ridden away.
Again the last rays of the setting sun fell on the slopes of the
Himálayas, and again Siddha, accompanied by Vatsa, followed the
path that led to the valley where the habitation of Gurupada was
situated. He was received by the old servant, who quickly recognised
him, and without delay led him to his master.
The hermit welcomed his young friend with pleasure, but saw with
concern the change that had taken place in his appearance. His face,
once so full of joy and life, was now pale, and had assumed a sad
and dark expression; and his whole bearing had lost its former
elasticity. In but a short time the youth had become a man, and not
one full of life and strength, but one bowed down under the weight
of sorrow, which Gurupada's sharp sight told him was the heaviest
that falls to the lot of man, that of self-reproach.
"Most revered," said Siddha, after the first greetings; "or let me
rather say, most gracious prince----"
"No," interrupted the hermit; "continue to call me Gurupada, for I
am nothing more."
"I obey," said Siddha, "and I see with joy that you have not forgotten
me. Perhaps you still remember the last words you said to me, when,
after a short visit to your hospitable dwelling, we took our leave."
"I made you promise," replied Gurupada, "to seek me again if it should
ever chance in your life that you should need the counsel of a true
friend; and I understand that this is the reason which now brings
you here. If I may judge from your looks, the cause of your coming
is a very bitter one."
"You are right," said Siddha; "and when you have heard all, you will
wonder that my appearance does not more clearly proclaim my feelings."
"Come now," said Gurupada, "to the other side of the house; there we
will seat ourselves, and talk quietly of all that has happened."
Siddha gladly accepted the invitation, and after having, at the
earnest request of the hermit, partaken of some refreshment, he began
to recount all that had happened until the moment of his parting with
Iravati in the cloister.
Gurupada listened with the deepest attention and interest; and
when the tale was finished he remained for some moments silent,
sunk in thought; but at last, looking at Siddha, he said: "In truth
you have laden yourself with a heavy burthen, but not so heavy as
that a man cannot bear it. That you allowed yourself to be led away
by Gulbadan is not to be defended, although it may be excusable;
but that you did not part from her, after discovering who she was,
was an inexcusable offence against your friendship with Faizi. Your
original faithlessness towards the Emperor was partly the result of
an error; but to remain in his service and to conspire against him
was a crime. I do not judge your conduct more leniently than you do
yourself; on the contrary, I judge it still more harshly. You believe
that the tale of your faults was closed when you confessed your
crimes to the Emperor. But you deceive yourself, you began to commit
another, which may be just as unfortunate as those which preceded it,
although you were led into it by an error. The greater part of mankind
imagine with you that repentance is a virtue, and that by penance
and self-punishment alone can sin be washed away. But few errors
are so ruinous in their result as this, when penance consists in the
penitent's withdrawal from the circle in which he can labour usefully,
and when also he punishes others as well as himself. And this is what
you would do. First, you sought death on the field of battle, which
was the simplest place, as you would not lay violent hands on your
own life. But what good would your death have produced, or how could
it undo the ill you have done? Unable to find an honourable death,
you declare your intention of living a solitary life in the jungle,
devoted to prayer and penance; but for what? How could this serve
yourself or others? And then Iravati, your bride! you desert her, not
because she is faithless to you, but because you have cause to feel
shame in her presence. Thus you punish her more than yourself. Do
you call that duty and virtue? No, my friend, such a course would
end in being worse than an error. You look at me with astonishment;
but the course you propose would be one of pride and defiance,
because you know that you have lowered yourself. Iravati was right;
you were too proud to bind yourself to a woman who knew all your
weaknesses, and who had nothing to reproach herself with; and it is
indeed pride that prompts you to fly the world. You fear to meet some
one acquainted with your former evil deeds. You dare not look a man
in the face, for fear of what he may know of you. Is that, I ask,
virtue and courage? is it not, rather, a cowardly weakness?"
"But Faizi's last words," said Siddha.
"I foresaw that objection," continued Gurupada; "and I do not deny
that it has a certain weight. But let us beware of exaggeration. That
Faizi should have acted and spoken as he did is easily to be understood
in his place. You probably would have done the same; and he, were he
in my place, and had to decide impartially, would doubtless say as I
do. A man need not spend his life bowed down in humiliation because
in an evil hour he has been guilty of a shameful deed, when his after
life has been spent so as to gain the respect of his fellow-men. Now
listen to the counsel you ask of me, which I willingly give. You
have arrived at the full consciousness of the wickedness of your
conduct, and you have accused yourself before the Emperor, before
Iravati, and before me. That was well done; but the knowledge and
clear insight of your evil-doing must not be the last step, but the
first, in the right path. It should restrain you from all errors,
not only those of the same class that have already led you astray,
but also from others. It should teach you to keep better watch over
yourself, your impressions, your passions. You should have greater
dread of deeds which you could not confess to others without shame;
and in the end you should attain to a state of mind which will make it
impossible for you to act against duty or honour. But this cannot be
if you seek to avoid temptation by flying from it. Resist temptation,
and begin in the first place by conquering your own pride. Therefore
take Iravati for your wife, and render yourself worthy of her. Go to
the Emperor, and pray him to entrust you with some work by which you
may serve your country; I doubt not but that he will willingly grant
your request. I understand that you desire to avoid Faizi, and that
is well; you owe it to him to spare him any meeting, and Hindustan is
large enough to keep two men apart. In Kashmir, or in other places,
you may render as good service as in Agra itself. Think over this,
and, after reflection, let me know what your decision is.--No, no,
do not answer me at once," said Gurupada, seeing Siddha ready with his
reply; "take the repose of which I see you have need, and to-morrow,
when you have thoroughly weighed all I have said, tell me if you
still see difficulties in following the advice I have given." And
with a friendly greeting the hermit left Siddha to his own thoughts.
The next day Siddha was ready to take farewell of Gurupada, perhaps
for the last time. For a long while the two men stood in earnest
conversation, and as at last the traveller turned to mount his horse,
he warmly pressed his host's hand, saying, with a trembling voice, but
with a countenance cleared from all trouble, "I thank you, Gurupada,
for the manly advice you have given me; I owe you a new life, and I
hope to bear myself in it very differently from what I have done in
the past, which I shall never forget. You have taught me what true
repentance is; may I never give you reason to think that your good
counsel has been given to one who is unworthy of it."