“Possibly! but don’t tell me you can detect motives in people’s eyes.”
“I can; she is a woman, you are not.”
“I give it up,” said Paul. “You have the advantage of me in feminine
insight; what is her motive?”
“To pray for us,” said Adele seriously. “I feel sure of it; the good
old soul, she looks it and acts it; she’s going to pray.”
“By machinery?”
“It is for us, I tell you, Paul; I don’t care if she doesn’t say a
word; she’s doing it for us!--don’t you see her?”
“Oh!”
“Watch, and pray yourself, and you will see.”
Paul watched, but he couldn’t pray, not just then, so he whispered:
“Taoists and Buddhists don’t pray, anyhow--they only mutter.”
“Well, no matter, nor mutter either,” said Adele. “It’s the way they
get at it. She is not beautiful, but she has something better--she
can----”
“Use machinery,” muttered Paul, the incorrigible. “No, Adele, she is
not handsome----”
“No, but she is good and true, poor old woman. If I had to make the
choice, I would rather have her prayerful spirit than even beauty.”
Paul looked at the lovely girl to whom he was betrothed, and thought
her an enthusiast quite equal to the old woman; then upon second
thought:
“Adele!”
“Well?”
“I suppose you are right, but I’m glad you don’t look like her.”
While they watched, the poor priestess was still tugging at her
wheel; she had but little strength and it was so heavy. None of her
people offered to help.
Adele’s interest increased, until a glow came into her eyes also;
seizing Paul by the arm, she whispered:
“It’s--it’s too much for her, Paul; see! she cannot move it. You must
help--no, I;” and the next instant Adele was beside the Taoist on the
floor; each helping the other to turn the wheel, each trying to pray
according to her own previous experience. Adele said afterwards it
took about all the strength she had.
Between them, the wheel began to turn slowly, very slowly; the dead
weight, the inertia, the figurative indifference to be overcome was
typical of mundane matters generally, forming a heavy impediment to
be overcome in spiritual relationship. But the wheel did move, the
momentum increased, it gained force, and was soon revolving at a
good rate of speed by the sole effort of the poor, weak, but sincere
Taoist.
Adele slipped aside, and stood listening to the low musical hum of
the large machine instead of the sharp buzzing of the smaller wheels
she had heard before. Her musical ear at once noticed the profound
difference in the tone; it sounded solemn--aye, sweet and peaceful;
if continued it would be a veritable lullaby dominated by spiritual
significance; it would be truly musical, spiritual music; all the
greater harmonies condensed in one solemn tone; a single spiritual
tone. The greatest orchestra of man could do no more.
Could it be possible that this wild priestess was also affected by
the sacred solemn sound? Do even the crude forms of religion have
such subtle distinctions of feeling? Do they not, as well as we,
hear the solemn sounds in nature? Why not? Nature’s tones are full
of significance. And who would “know” this better than those who
worship in the forest where the trees bow their heads and the leaves
rustle; or by the stream where zephyrs blow and the birds warble; or
before the majestic mountains when the rushing mighty wind blows its
diapason, and the avalanche gives the basal note at the end? Such
are the nocturnes, the largos, aye, the symphonic sounds in nature.
Does not a “nature-worshiper” hear them? They have been from the
beginning, are now, and ever shall be.
Strange, oh, passing strange, the low tone of this mighty wheel now
sounded much like nature’s tones in harmony with one at her devotions.
“I have heard the Taoist organ,” thought Adele, “its sacred solemn
sound.”
But for this solemn music, there was silence in the Temple while the
Taoist muttered.
So long as the strangers remained in that Cathedral chapel the huge
wheel continued to revolve--emblem of perpetual prayer--praying
without ceasing. The priestess who thus prayed had much to say--to
repeat--being old, and with little time left in which to say her
prayers. She kept on, oblivious to all surroundings, absorbed in
contemplation of the unseen; for with all humanity there is nothing
so real as the unseen. She kept on oblivious to all the outer world
who might be gazing with curiosity; she remained crouched on the
floor of the Temple, simply muttering, over and over again, some
mystic phrase or the name of Buddha, which none of the strangers
could understand.
When the party left she was still praying after her fashion. As they
mounted their ponies and journeyed out into the great world, she
was still meditating on the best she knew, as the Good Spirit had
taught her. As they descended the ravine, Adele could still hear the
hum of the wheels; and above all the low solemn tone was profoundly
significant. It now came to her from above, through the tree-tops; it
blended with the rustling of the leaves, and was lost in the sough of
the forest.
XLI
PROCESSIONAL BEFORE THE VEIL
Atmospheric changes were varied and rapid in the vicinity of the
Himalaya “Five Peaks of Eternal Snow.” Clear days were by no means
constant around Darjeeling. There were periods when “the view
towards the chancel,” as Adele called it, was obstructed; days when
the clouds hung low, even resting upon the forests in the ravines
beneath. Yet the forms of the trees were not always hid, they
appeared as darker lines of delicate tracery against the lighter
background.
At such times Adele idealized with much refinement of vision. “Those
trees are the rood-screen; I can see through into the chancel when
it is clear; but to-day the chancel is misty, the clouds hang like a
veil. It is astonishing how much is hidden by fog and mist in nature;
that veil hides a great deal.”
The Doctor also was very appreciative of such atmospheric changes,
since they often resulted in superb effects, cloud scenery, sunbursts
never to be forgotten for their magnificence.
It thus happened while they were all assembled on a Saturday evening
discussing projects for the morrow, that Adele and the Doctor each
felt the impulse to rise early on the same morning to watch some of
the atmospheric changes which made beautiful the dawn.
The Doctor remembered having seen remarkable effects at Banff in the
Rockies; and Adele recalled having met Tartarin de Tarascon on the
Righi pretty early in the morning; no doubt there might be some
greater things than these to be found among the Himalayas. Why it
was, that only these two of the party should have been so moved,
and upon the same particular morning, and without saying anything
about it previously, the Doctor could never quite understand; unless
on the general principle that if people will follow their natural
inclinations to see the best in life they need not be surprised
to find others doing the same thing at the same time. When they
discussed it subsequently, Adele accounted for it in her own way.
“I so often dislike to make the necessary effort. That sort of effort
is very trying, when to see something extra which I know can be seen
I must force myself. Getting up early, for instance; I don’t like
getting up early as a general thing, but I just forced myself to do
so on that morning.”
Thus it happened to be the first day of the week very early in the
morning that she and the Doctor found themselves abroad when it was
yet somewhat dark. Adele was the first to appear upon the scene; she
was standing in the road opposite Peek-o’-Tip when the Doctor came
out of the bungalow. Neither one was in the mood for conversation,
and the morning air was fresh. After the first agreeable surprise
Adele put her arm in his and they moved off together briskly. She
was in sympathy with him also, as with Paul, but the mutual feeling
manifested itself very differently. The cloud hung low.
“The sun will drink up the mist,” remarked the Doctor in peasant
parlance.
“I hope so, but I never can tell. Let us go to Observatory Hill;
that’s the best place.” She seemed to take it as a matter of course
that they each had the same object in view.
“Your Cathedral is gloomy,” said the Doctor, looking around.
“One can’t see the chancel.”
“No.”
“It’s the veil,” said Adele, thoughtful.
“What did you say?”
“The cloud-curtains, the veil of the Temple is down.”
After walking some distance they entered a grove; of course it became
still darker because they entered the grove. What they did not notice
was that the clouds, instead of dispersing, were becoming more dense.
They only remembered that the path led upwards towards higher ground
in the open.
At one point on the way Adele stopped, and looked into a dark glen
where she said she heard running water. The Doctor pushed aside
bushes that stood in the way, and they were sprinkled by the moisture
that had condensed on the bushes. If there had been more light they
would have seen the diamond drops upon the scarlet blossoms; but
these were hidden in the shadows at the mouth of the glen.
Before them was an exquisite cascade falling over rocks; coming down
the mountain it was tossed upon either side of a heavy stone which
had been rolled there in past ages by natural forces, and now stood
with white foam enveloping its rugged sides.
This unexpected gem of natural scenery compelled them to halt and
admire.
“What a surprise, how beautiful!” exclaimed Adele.
“Yes, even in this dull light.”
“The water looks like delicate cambric.”
“Why, so it does--draped round the stone; the rocks are sombre and
solemn. You know it is said that some animals, wild and savage, like
to find such places as this to nestle down and take their last long
sleep.”
“I think I know why, too,” said Adele.
“Ah!”
“It is the music of the waterfall perhaps, and the movement too. The
water is so much alive, it’s living water.”
“All life seeks life,” said the Doctor. “Some sort of companionship;
even a hermit likes the life in his glen. It’s not uncheerful here,
after all, is it--even if it seems gloomy?”
“No, listen; the waterfall is singing. I could catch the rhythm, and
perhaps a cadence, in a short time if I were to try; it seems to say
something.”
“What does it say, to you?”
“Oh, ’tis ‘the water of life repeating,’” said Adele, quoting one of
her favorite lines. “I cannot tell you exactly what it says in words,
but the music in it is hopeful; I love to listen to it.”
“So do I,” said the Doctor. “Would you like a drink?”
“Indeed, I would; just for remembrance, to say we have been here
together. Let us take a drink in remembrance.”
They both drank from a cup made of leaves--both of the same cup--“the
water of life,” as Adele called it; and as they drank a bird flew
down from its nest, perched itself on a rock near the cascade above
them, and drank also; a little bird with a red breast. They did not
see the bird, emblem of suffering unto death for others, and only
took a drop or two themselves, for verily the realities of life made
the glen damp and cold, yet the thought symbolized by the bird was
ever with them and the moment precious.
“I should like to drink that water always,” said Adele.
“Always is a long time.”
“Well, I did not mean exactly that--until----”
The Doctor waited.
“Well, if I must tell you, until the resurrection.”
“I trust we may,” said he solemnly.
They understood each other perfectly, and after a pause, while the
robin sang a morning hymn, they continued their walk.
Drops of rain began to fall upon the tree-tops. Adele and the Doctor
caught the sound.
“Only a little condensation,” said he, “a draught of cooler air has
passed over. We will be out of it in a few minutes.”
Adele felt chilly, but would not say so. She drew her hooded-wrap
about her, and felt quite safe with the Doctor.
“A Lepcha shanty is just beyond here,” said he, “if it comes to the
worst we can find shelter.”
“And plenty of dirt,” thought Adele. “No doubt, lots of insects,
especially on a damp day.”
The patter of rain increased, a very wet drop fell upon her cheek,
several big drops struck the Doctor full in the face. Having no
umbrellas they hurried along instinctively, then broke into a
trot--then ran to escape as best they could. When crossing an open
space between the woods and the hut the rain fell in torrents.
“You will be drenched through and through,” said the Doctor.
“I don’t mind it at all. It’s only on the outside, anyhow, and I’m
warmly clad; still it’s a little chilly--let’s hurry,” and off
she started, the Doctor after her, on a bee-line for the shelter.
Panting, they rushed up to the shanty.
The hut was almost full--full of Lepchas--men, women and children,
unkempt specimens of humanity whose clothes when once on seemed
seldom to be taken off until they fell off. The Lepchas had also
taken refuge from the storm, and were all wet and bedraggled, like
themselves.
“A sweet party, truly!” thought the Doctor, and so it was. Poor
natives lying round like drowned rats--the Americans in exterior
appeared not much better; all but Adele’s cheeks which glowed after
the exercise of running.
She pulled back her hood, and a ripple of smiles played over her
countenance--the Lepchas laughed too. Then as if they were all
friends together, she asked: “Can you take us in--take us in?” and
began shaking the rain from her garments at the outer stone. It must
have been her cheerful manner that induced one of the women to make
room next herself on a seat; the Lepcha men were more stolid, but all
began to move when the strangers entered.
The Doctor soon detected a goat in the shanty--there was no doubt
about it--and concluded to escape as soon as possible. But there
they were--caught; caught as in a net of circumstances. Little did
he or Adele know to what the circumstances would lead, but he said
afterwards that it reminded him of St. Paul’s experience at Joppa
with a sheet-net full of common things, four-footed beasts and fowls,
unclean things in general; which later on proved not so unclean as he
had at first thought; only in this case Adele and he were inside the
net with the rest.
Some of the Lepchas knew a few words of English, but the more ancient
universal language of signs and grunts proved to be more useful.
Adele patted a chicken, and a Lepcha damsel patted the young goat,
a kid. Both chicken and kid seemed of special value to the natives.
Adele could not conjecture the reason. When the rain ceased and
they all stepped outside she was further enlightened. Neither the
wet Lepchas nor the bedraggled Christians desired to remain in that
stuffy hut, both hurried to seek the fresh air and to reach the open;
the whole crowd in fact, kid and chicken included. And out they
scrambled, pell-mell, with a unanimity of action as natural as it
was prompt. The natives formed a little group in the open, looking
around to satisfy themselves that the clouds were dispersing. Through
rifts in the mist near them came the clearer morning light, to all,
from whatever part of the earth they had come, a foretaste of the
brightest of days.
The natives gathered together, a little company, their leader
carrying the kid, a boy following with the fowl, others straggling by
twos and threes, yet now all of sober countenance.
Adele and the Doctor looked after them; there was evidently some
purpose in the manner of those natives as they proceeded up the hill
towards its crest, to the very place of observation they themselves
had selected for the best view, and where they were going when
they had been arrested by the shower. More than mere curiosity,
a fellow-feeling, now suggested that they all go together; so,
regardless of their wet and soiled garments, Adele and the Doctor
soon found themselves willingly tramping up that hill along with
the ragged natives. The leader looked askance at first, but when
he noticed Adele beside one of his women, and the Doctor with his
men, he made the best of it, accepted the situation, and kept ahead
carrying the kid.
The path wound upwards, the ascent growing more steep. None could see
far ahead when the processional commenced. Not until their march was
well under way, not until the very last stage of the climb, not until
near approach to the place they sought, not in fact until their own
forms arose above the near foreground, did they witness the Glory in
nature which was, and is, and is to be.
And as they surmounted the crest of the hill, so did the Celestial
scenery beyond become visible to their mortal eyes, rising before
them a sublime transformation scene--an ascension of truth beautiful
in nature.
To Adele and the Doctor, a veritable transfiguration of the earth as
they might imagine it glorified on the morning of a Resurrection.
The mighty summits, the eternal peaks, on this first day of the week,
shone forth in the purer atmosphere of greater altitude, magnificent
in proportions as a work in Creation, impressive in their glorious
grandeur, refulgent as with the sacred glow of a physical rebirth.
The clouds were moving aside, as a curtain is withdrawn; and from the
depths below, the valley and ravine, from forest and waterfall, rose
the mist. That which covers, screens, or conceals in nature, like
the fog, was passing away; that which is more permanent, ascending
heavenward to form clouds; ascending as incense ascends; incense
symbolic from ages past of the prayers of humanity.
The Holy of Holies of the Himalaya Cathedral was open before them.
The Veil of the Temple had been rent in twain.
[Illustration: As Incense Ascends--Symbolic, from Ages Past, of the
Prayers of Humanity.
The Kunchingunga Snowy Range. Elevation, 28,156 feet.
Scene from Observatory Hill, Darjeeling.]
XLII
ON HOLY GROUND
As the impressive scene unfolded, the Cathedral becoming more
sublimely beautiful each moment, Adele watched the wonderful play
of light--the refulgence. She was also profoundly impressed by the
magnificent proportions of the picture then being illuminated before
her very eyes by the Creator; and felt the breath of life come and go
with emotion.
“It is the Glorious Beauty of Holiness,” she murmured, and then, kept
silence before Him.
Now, next to Adele stood the native woman; and before them both
was unrolled the same scene. To this Himalaya worshiper, Lepcha,
Bhootanese, Nepaulese, Thibetan, or whatever tribe she might have
been born, the effect was not the same as upon Adele. Familiarity
with such sunrises in the mountains had dulled what little
appreciation she might ever have had; but her religion had told her
something which Adele did not know. From untold generations her
people had been taught to regard that place as sacred. She had been
brought there as a child, and now she was leading her own children
there; and told the little ones: “The place whereon thou standest is
holy ground.” She had also her own ideas as to why it was sacred; and
that very morning had come to the holy ground to show the children
why it was holy; but Adele knew nothing of all this.
Worldly wisdom might have judged this woman and Adele to be in no
way alike, yet, here in this presence, where the holiness of beauty
and the beauty of holiness were both in evidence, there was really a
fundamental similarity.
Adele drew near the Doctor; he, too, had been keeping silent in the
Holy Place.
“The Veil has been taken away,” said she.
“H’m, yes.”
“It is the most impressive sight I ever beheld.”
“Why so?”
“It is as a chancel should be.”
“Of course, the most beautiful portion of a cathedral.”
“Beauty is not all, I feel more than I see; the beauty is sacred
here; the sacred feeling comes first, and then--oh, it is so
beautiful!”
“It must be a Holy Place if it affects you that way.”
“Yes, a place for prayer, it seems natural to pray here; here one
thinks upwards, and looks upwards.”
“Then the effect is spiritual as well as artistic.”
“Oh, don’t analyze! I don’t wish to reason at all,” said Adele. “For
me it’s perfect. I’m satisfied. Just let me rest here, let me go and
sit down, _and be a part of it_.”
She seated herself at the foot of a tree.
It would have been sacrilege to disturb her at that moment--a
violation of sacred things in her experience. So, on the instant,
thought the Doctor.
After a little reflection, the Doctor said to himself that this was
not the time for Adele to “loaf and invite her soul.” He feared lest
she was carrying her idealization entirely too far. Even the best in
the world, if carried to excess, leads one into danger; and spiritual
excesses are especially dangerous, either to youth or old age.
To sit at the feet of Nature, to admire and enjoy the Creator’s
work, was one thing; to be so absorbed in Nature’s moods, and to
become such a slave to emotion that all else is forgotten, would
be quite another thing. Adele seemed to have forgotten the Lepchas,
and himself, and even her own self; and to be totally absorbed in
adoration of the scenery.
The Doctor had many times seen pious worshipers in certain phases of
Hindooism, Buddhism, and Christianity, indulge in that sort of thing;
but never in Shintoism or any really old form of faith which brought
one close to nature, through nature’s activities and manifestations
unidealized; where nature spoke for herself and mankind was silent
before her. He suspected this excess of idealization, this becoming
“a part of it,” as Adele had wished for, might become really a
weakness in her character, and might lead her into danger. Such a
frame of mind would certainly be fascinating to Adele, she was so
made, she was constitutionally an idealist; but certainly it was not
mentally healthful in relation to her duty to others; not a thing
to be rooted out, but to be controlled lest the result should prove
injurious.
The Doctor determined to break in upon her mood in some way. He
recalled her last remark, that she was perfectly satisfied with her
Cathedral, and only wished to rest and be a part of it.
“Adele, you said this Cathedral was complete.”
“It is to me.”
“Not if it is a cathedral as usually understood.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have idealized what we now see as the chancel?”
“Certainly, the place where the service is conducted.”
“May I ask what is the central feature in the service to which you
and I are accustomed?”
“To administer; no doubt.”
“To administer; certainly--but what?”
She thought very seriously, trying to find suitable words. She was
not accustomed to this sort of stand-up-and-deliver catechism; but
finally she spoke:
“Some might say to administer the sacrifice; but I do not see how
this can be possible. It is not a fact in nature; I cannot consider
it true.”
“May I ask, why not?”
“You can never kill the truth; and Christ is not dead, but living;
they are the same no matter how you think about it--Christ and the
Truth.”
“But Truth was sacrificed in Him.”
“Never!” she cried. “That is an impossibility in nature. It only
seems sacrificed; it never really is.”
“But He was sacrificed.”
“His great sacrifice of Himself for Truth’s sake was really His whole
life work, and it was Perfection,” said Adele.
“His life, as well as His death,” acquiesced the Doctor, solemnly.
“Yes, a perfect work.”
“Well then, Adele, no other _idealized sacrifice_ in administering
could make the service more complete, nor the atonement more adequate
than it is.”
The atonement!
Yes. The at-one-ment--the Saving of the World--the Salvation of
Mankind by the Truth.
* * * * *
And as they conversed thus, upon the Lepcha Holy Ground, the Doctor
concluded that Adele’s meditations had not led her astray; but he
felt constrained to say something further which had been on his mind
from the first.
“Adele, with us the ministration is usually at the chancel rail.”
“Yes, or what corresponds to it.”
“Where from?”
“The altar; why do you ask?”
“Have you seen any altar in this Cathedral?”