THE ANCIENT FLAME
So Oman took up his abode in the palace; nor were the circumstances
of his settling there very surprising to himself. From the first it
had seemed as if, in the natural course of things, this should become
his home; and the new duties and new habits of life were acquired
mechanically. His intuition of the link that bound him to the past,
however, though at times it was strong on him, proved evanescent; so
that there were weeks when he lived wholly in the passing hour, without
any memories of bygone days. But he knew that Fate had been kind to
him. He was wrapped in impenetrable serenity: the outcome, the reward,
of his years of solitude; and he felt that no mischance could disturb
this again.
On the first morning after his arrival, the Rajah himself introduced
him to the palace school, held in that room which, in the old Rajah’s
day, had been a theatre:—the place where the slave Fidá had first
looked upon poppy-crowned Ahalya. Whatever its former glories, this
room, on the morning that Oman first beheld it, presented a pleasanter
picture. Save for a great rug upon the floor, and the teacher’s cushion
on a daïs at one end of the room, the place was quite unfurnished. On
the floor sat an orderly company of young men, between the ages of
fifteen and twenty: all of them clad in white, with scarlet sashes
around their waists, and red shoes on their otherwise bare feet. These
youths were engaged in a variety of occupations: some of them studying
manuscripts of various kinds, many simply sitting in meditation,
still others indulging, rather surreptitiously, in games. Among them,
without any distinction as to dress or position, was Bhavani’s son,
Viradha, the heir of Mandu: a pleasant-faced youth, but not remarkable
for any special wit or wisdom; for he had inherited the disposition
of his grandfather, and was fonder of the chase and the table than of
reflection on the doctrine of atoms[9] or the working of the primordial
soul.
[9] The foundation of the Nyaya system, originated by Kanada.
Up to to-day, the palace school had been conducted on a very irregular
plan, Bhavani bringing various men of wisdom or holiness to lecture
one or two days a week, the rest of the time being occupied with
indiscriminate reading from philosophic or poetical manuscripts.
On this day, as soon as the youths had assembled, Bhavani and Oman
made their appearance together. The Rajah offered a few words of
introduction and explanation: setting forth the fact that at last they
were to have a permanent master, who would reduce their hours of study
to some sort of system and order. During his speech, every eye in the
room was fixed upon Oman’s tall, gaunt figure, clad in white garments,
his serene face, with its deep-set eyes, and his broad, lined brow, on
each side of which fell masses of thick, black hair. At the end of the
introduction Oman came forward a little and the young men advanced to
him, and, one by one, kissed his hand. Then they returned, expectantly,
to their places; and Bhavani, able to spare no more time from matters
of state, hurried away, leaving Oman to his new task.
It was the most difficult morning that Oman had ever spent. He had had
no preparation for his situation, no time to arrange a course of work.
Hitherto he had preached in small towns, to mere handfuls of uneducated
men and women. Now he stood before a critical assembly of young
noblemen, all of whom had had considerable instruction in abstract
thinking and reasoning: far more, no doubt, than he himself had ever
known. That he impressed them all, immediately, as a man of dignity and
wisdom, of wide knowledge of men and high purity of mind, was again
probably due to his years of miracle-working solitude.
To his own keen satisfaction, Oman felt that he had begun well with
his school; and he determined, in his heart, that the end should be
better still. For a month or more, then, he was invisible to every one
save his pupils. He found that a full and detailed exposition of his
creed to thinking and sometimes sceptical men, demanded a new labor of
thought, a new working out of little things that had hitherto been mere
suggestions in his own mind; the rejection of some ideas that proved
themselves impossible; and the admission of others that he had not
hitherto acknowledged. This work, while difficult, gave him the keenest
delight; for the breadth and fulness of his logic was coming home to
him; and he perceived that this creation of his brain was no puny
shadow, but a thing finely formed, capable of proper development. He,
the seeker after Truth, had found it; and from the heights was bringing
it to men. It was its own greatest reward.
At the end of six weeks, his labors began to be less exacting. He had
reduced his own thinking to a system; and he now began to introduce
other studies than philosophy into this school, where arithmetic of
the simplest kind, and writing in any living language, were considered
not as necessaries but as arts. Oman found time now to see something
of the palace and of its Rajah, who eagerly sought his society. A few
days wrought great changes in his quiet existence; and presently an
incident, entirely unexpected, brought him a revelation which, for some
time to come, eclipsed every other interest in his mind.
During the six weeks of close work, the circumstances attendant on his
first meeting with Bhavani had slipped from Oman’s mind. He no longer
thought of the scene by the parapet behind the water-palace, or of
Zenaide, the woman with wonderful hair. But now, in mid-May, she was
recalled to him. One noon, as he sat in his room meditating through the
hot hours, a slave-boy broke in upon him and delivered to him a message
to the effect that the lady Zenaide desired the presence of Oman the
sage, that she might hear the creed he taught.
Oman, taken by surprise, had an impulse to refuse the request. A
moment’s reflection, however, changed his mind. She had asked for
his creed. Believing as he did, he had no right to refuse her the
knowledge. Besides, was she not under the special protection of
Bhavani? Bhavani was his patron, nay, his friend. Whom Bhavani loved,
Oman would not deny. So he sent an answer by the little slave that he
would come that day; and the child departed, leaving him in chaos.
Oman spent the next two hours in the greatest confusion of mind. Never
in his life had he been brought into contact with such a woman as he
knew this one to be:—such a woman as the great Indian romances love to
concern themselves with. He thought of the incident of the Buddha’s
entertainment by the woman of Vesali, the beloved of Ajuta-Satra, and
of her conversion to the faith. Had the Sakyamuni found danger in her
presence? Was her hair of golden red? And then, suddenly, Oman started
up, resolutely turning his mind to other things. Hurriedly he bathed
and clothed himself in a fresh gown of white linen, girt himself with
a broad, yellow sash, and wound a white turban around his head. Then,
without pause, he set out for the water-palace.
The afternoon was late, and the shadows lay long and golden across the
road. Full summer was already on the land, and Mandu was a riot of
verdure. Oman’s mood responded easily to the scene. Under the spell of
the surrounding beauty, his thoughts grew lighter, till, when he paused
before the open doors of the waterpalace, he no longer looked like an
ascetic. The sombre fires in his eyes had brightened, and his face was
softened with a smile.
In the curtained doorway stood a tall slave, clad in rich livery, who
addressed Oman with an air of profound respect, and at once made way
for him to pass within. Oman found himself following the slave across
a broad, square hall, in the centre of which was a marble tank filled
with clear water; and thence they proceeded to the end of a short
corridor, where, before another curtained doorway, Oman was left alone.
After a moment’s hesitation he lifted the curtain, and crossed the
threshold. He was facing a long, narrow room, stone-paved, lighted
from the top, the walls hung with embroidered silks of delicate hues.
There was an air of unusual lightness and airiness about the whole
place; and Oman’s eyes wandered for some seconds before he perceived
that, at the far end of the room, in front of a long, amber-colored
divan, half hidden by a screen, stood Zenaide. Oman uttered a short
exclamation, and started forward, observing, as he approached her,
that there was no smile on her lips. His eyes estimated her again; and
they found much that was new. She was clad to-day in a long garment of
silvery green, that showed her more slender than he had thought. She
was also paler. Her hair was woven into a crown upon her head, but was
without ornament; and in her dark eyes there was no expression of the
voluptuary. Oman found himself newly puzzled as he seated himself, at
her bidding, on the divan, while she sank upon a low pile of cushions
on the floor. They had not yet spoken when a slave entered, with a
tray of sherbets and sweetmeats which Oman refused, and Zenaide, not
pressing him, herself waved away. When they were alone again, she rose,
impulsively, ran down the room, and lowered a double hanging before
the door. Then she turned, slowly, facing Oman, who was watching her.
For some moments she neither advanced nor spoke. Oman perceived that
she was in a state of repressed agitation, for her fingers twined and
intertwined, and her clinging garments betrayed a nervous quivering of
her body. It seemed as if it were impossible for her to speak; yet, as
Oman did not help her, she had, perforce, to make a beginning. She had
examined him minutely, face and figure, before she exclaimed, abruptly:
“Art thou indeed as learned as they tell me, O sage?”
Oman’s expression changed. “Not in thy lore,” he answered.
“My lore? And what is that?”
“Art thou not a woman? Thy lore is love.”
“Ah!” The expression escaped involuntarily. It was a betrayal.
“Ah!” echoed Oman. “It was for that you sent for me! Know, then, that I
am not a faquir, not a mag—”
“No, no!” Reading the scorn in his tone, she came forward swiftly
and sank down in the cushions at his feet. “Think not that of me. I
know something of thy creed. Bhavani has expounded it to me. I have
considered it, carefully. But it is very pitiless. Thinkest thou not it
is pitiless to the weak? Wouldst thou leave no sweetness in life?” Her
eyes lifted themselves to him searchingly, and he felt the spell of her
magnetism.
Shaking himself free from the impression, he looked down upon her with
a quizzical calmness that disconcerted her. “What wouldst thou of me,
Zenaide?” he asked.
Again, overcome by her nervousness, she rose and began to pace up and
down before him. “Nothing.—Nothing,” she answered; but her words did
not indicate a pause. For a moment or two she walked, but finally faced
him, frankly. “Is love—true love—so ignoble, then?”
Oman, taken aback, did not immediately answer. Then, many memories
overcoming him, he cried out painfully: “Unless it be lawful, yes.
Surely yes!”
“Lawful! Love hath no law save itself.”
Oman’s lip curled. “Doubtless thou knowest more of it than I. Wherein
am I to help thee? Hast thou left this love of thine? Return, then, to
the land where he dwells.”
Zenaide listened, and a far-away look came into her eyes. She was
standing now with her back against a stone pillar, and, as she began to
speak, Oman felt himself gradually fascinated by the perfection of her
beauty and by the abandon of her manner, which, in the beginning, had
been held in restraint, but grew more and more impassioned as, carried
out of herself by her own emotion, she forgot everything but her theme.
“The land of my love—lies here, Oman. I came out of the east,
seeking love, journeying through broad countries. To many I brought
happiness, but I found it never for myself. Then came I to Mandu. And
here, in a breath, I knew that it awaited me. My soul was lighted
as by a torch; and I am still consumed by its increasing flame.
I love. And him I love rejects me. I, the priestess of love, am
unloved! Am I so ugly?—so old?—so young?—so ignorant? Am I surpassed
by another? I, Zenaide, consumed with fire and tears, pour out all
my wealth on him, and he knows it not. Daily he looks on my face,
hears my voice, reads mine eyes, and still I am not known. Oh, my
beloved—adorable—transcendent—Bhavani—”
She stopped short. Her passion had carried her beyond herself. She had
more than betrayed, she had proclaimed, her secret. But now, suddenly
brought back to consequences, all her force died, and she stood
trembling, fearful, before Oman, whose face was stern and angry. There
was silence for a long, pulsating moment, while Zenaide realized that
the teacher of men had become her judge. Oman, indeed, felt his anger
growing within him, and presently gave it voice:
“Hast thou dared to defile the purest of men with thy love? Hast
thou known him, lived near him for more than two years, seen all the
strength of his white soul, and still dreamed he could so dishonor
himself and thee? Shame to thee! Thou hast, moreover, sullied him in
the eyes of his people; for many say what is false, that he yielded
long ago to thine eyes and thy red-dyed hair. He has housed thee like a
queen. He has paid thee greater honor than if, indeed, he loved thee.
Shame, then, woman, for thy thoughts! Shame to thee!—What—thou weepest!”
For Zenaide, sinking slowly to her knees, bent her head upon her hands,
and Oman saw two or three bright tears run through her fingers and fall
to the floor. Her frame was shaken and convulsed with ill-restrained
sobs. After gazing at her for a moment, Oman, unable to judge of the
sincerity of her pose, went on more quietly:
“Thou hast confessed to love the ruler of his people, a man standing in
the eyes of men for all that is upright—more than upright. And now thou
callest upon me, his servant, a lover of truth, to condone thy sin. How
couldst thou think thus of me?”
“No—no! Listen! Not to condone—” she lifted her head, and he perceived
that her face was stained and distorted with real grief. “Not to
condone. I sent for thee because, despairing—” she gave a little
convulsive sob—“despairing of bringing his love to me, I long to cure
myself of the malady. Thou art wise. I wish to learn wisdom of thee.
Thou art good. So I also would be. Bha—Bhavani has sought to teach me
wisdom, to teach me strength. But I—could never learn but love from
him. O stern—O wise one—cast me not away! Help me, and I will honor
thee all my days!”
Her pleading was eloquent because it was sincere. Her voice was not
smooth. The words were forced out like sobs; and in them Oman read
the struggle she had endured before she sent for him. Her abandon
showed this, indeed; for, had he not been her final hope, she would
never have laid her soul bare before him in her stress. And seeing all
these things, his anger was softened, and he was moved to some sort
of feeling, less pity than sympathy. Kneeling beside her as she still
crouched upon the floor, he soothed her a little, and raised her up,
and led her, unresisting, to the divan, where he caused her to sit
down. Then, himself taking her former place upon the cushions, he began
to talk. His voice was low and smooth, and flowed along monotonously.
At first he cared not so much what he said, as that his manner should
quiet her. In this he succeeded. And when he saw her, forgetful of
her tears, sit up and lean forward, listening to him, he took up a
text on which he had never spoken before—on which he had scarcely
permitted himself to meditate, yet concerning which all knowledge
seemed to be stored away in his heart and brain. It was the ceaseless,
rebellious yearning of woman for man, of man for woman: that insistent,
unreasoning desire that has caused chaos in the world. Of himself and
his own abnormal struggles, he did not speak. But it was from them that
he drew his words:—the words that Zenaide knew to be expressive of
universal truth. For some time Oman talked broadly on this theme; and
then, waiving generalities, he continued:
“And it is thus that you have suffered in your soul, desiring for a
companion the noblest of men. But, because you would match your heart
with such as him, so you must become his equal, worthy of him. Let
his own nobility illumine you. It is unlawful, in the light of the
higher law, that you two should love. Show yourself his peer, then, in
quenching this desire, and, dwelling near his brain, seek not to unlock
the chamber of his heart. Let it not be said that, through you, his
high nature has been weakened and defiled.
“Nay—speak not yet. I see it in your eyes—how cold my words are to you;
how hard. It is true that I feel within me no fire burning. I know
little of that restless pain. But, hearing many speak of it, I believe
in it; and yet, above, see plainly the great Dharma shining. Receive,
then, the truth. Be not defeated in your struggle. Go your way knowing
that the blessing of Brahma is upon you for your keeping of the law.”
“But, in the end, what reward shall there be for this, my sacrifice?
What in the wide world could repay me for the delight of one hour—of
one moment, in the strength of his arms?”
“The reward is great:—greater, indeed, than any that receive it not can
fathom. It comes in the earthly Nirvâna, the high, conscious strength,
the calm, the tranquillity, that permeates the soul as water permeates
and renews a parched and dying plant. With this peace comes the death
of yearning and desire. The pursuits of man and the objects of his
struggles—love, power, wealth, fame—these are little to those that
feel their futility. And I assert this not as the Dharma, nor as what
has been told me; but I speak of what I know. For, Zenaide, that same
reward is mine. Many years I labored for it, fighting such battles
as you could scarcely understand. But in the end it came;—the great
Relief; and, knowing that at last I should be safe to dwell among men,
I returned to them, and shall remain among them till my death. The
reward is always with me. It cannot leave me now.”
“But—” Zenaide sat studying him, his seamed face, his deep-set eyes,
his black hair, shaded here and there with a thread of white; and when
she spoke, there was a pathetic childishness in her tone: “But thou art
old. Thou hast seen life. Desire dies out of the hearts of the aged.”
Oman shook his head. “I am not an old man. I was not twenty years old
when I went up into the mountains. I dwelt there for many years; but
still I am not more than five and thirty. I am younger than Bhavani,”
he added, thoughtfully.
To this the woman made no reply. Oman had expended all his comfort; and
now he sat waiting for her to speak again. She remained quiet, however,
her chin resting on her clasped hands, her elbows on her knees, her
face thrust a little forward. Her brow was contracted, and she seemed
to be thinking, deeply. Her cheeks bore the marks of tears. Her hair
and dress were disarranged. But she was oblivious of her appearance.
Oman sat studying her, and did not realize how long the silence had
lasted when, without changing her attitude, she said slowly:
“It is a creed for men, only for men, that you preach, O sage. It is
cold. It is hard. It is relentless. What need have I of tranquillity
and calm? I am a woman of red blood. Preach you to me resistance of
the emotions? Think you that bloodlessness, quietude, loneliness seem
beautiful to me?—Ah, yes—it is true! It is true! He is like that, and
I wish to be like him. I will be like him, Oman Ramasarman! I will, I
will—dost hear? I will!”
“What is it that thou wilt, Zenaide?”
Oman and the woman sprang to their feet, as Bhavani walked quietly into
the room.
“My lord!” cried Zenaide, faintly; and Oman went hastily forward, with
an irrelevant remark which Bhavani answered, wondering. While this was
in progress, Zenaide’s hands were busy with her hair, with her face,
with her dress; and presently she approached, mistress of herself
again, so quiet, so self-contained, that Oman could only marvel at her
power.
Bhavani did not stay long, nor would he permit Oman to depart before
him, however much Zenaide wished it. He seated himself beside the
woman, and talked with her about one or two personal matters; while
Oman, standing apart, covertly watched the two. He tried hard to
discover in Zenaide some sign of the feeling she had so lately
displayed. But, search as he would, he could find nothing in her
bearing that remotely suggested her true state. If she was always thus
with Bhavani, there was surely little to fear. From her the hermit’s
eyes moved to the Rajah. He was talking as he would have talked to a
man whose friendship he valued. Seeing them both thus, Oman took heart.
Surely an unlawful emotion could not be very strong in either heart.
It was after sunset when Bhavani rose to go; and he and Oman took leave
together, Zenaide begging Oman, in an undertone, to come again to
her that she might talk with him further. Oman promised readily; and
then, arm in arm, he and the Rajah set out into the starry half-light.
As they left the water-palace behind them, there fell on both an
unexpected silence:—such a silence as, coming from the mind and will
of one, is not to be broken by his companion. It settled over Oman
oppressively; for where Bhavani was concerned, he was quick to feel the
slightest change in mood. Encompassed by uneasiness, they moved on in
the evening light, and Oman perceived that Bhavani’s steps lagged. It
was as if he loitered to get courage to speak. Oman had a sense that
some revelation was pending; but instinct told him that he might not
question, might not make the slightest advance toward confidence. They
proceeded till they were within a few yards of the palace, and Oman
began to think his feeling a mistake, when suddenly Bhavani halted,
and, turning to his companion till, even in the dim light, Oman could
see how drawn and pale was his face, he said, in a muffled voice:
“Zenaide sent for thee to-day?”
“Yes.”
“And wherefore? Wherefore? What did she want of thee?”
For the shadow of an instant Oman hesitated. Then he answered, quietly:
“She had heard that I taught a new creed. She desired to hear it.”
“Is that all?” The words shot from Bhavani’s lips.
“That is all,” was the tranquil rejoinder.
Bhavani found no reply to this, yet he did not move on. Oman stood
waiting, with fear in his heart. He heard Bhavani say, in a voice that
was monotonous with repression: “She had been weeping. I could see it.
She had wept.” Then, all at once, he flung both arms over his head,
and cried out, in a voice deep with long-endured anguish: “How long,
O Brahma! How long? My strength fails me at last. I can endure it no
more. I shall fall—I shall fall!”
“Wherefore?” murmured Oman, at his shoulder.
“Can you not see? Do you not perceive?” whispered Bhavani, hoarsely. “I
love her. I love her, Oman. I love Zenaide.”
Then Oman began to laugh. He laughed till Bhavani, seizing him by the
shoulder, shook him like a rat, crying to him the while to speak. And
Oman obeyed him, saying, in a tone of bitter mockery: “Thou lovest her,
Bhavani, thou, Rajah of Mandu! Thou lovest her whose heart has been
given in turn to half a hundred; who loves thee to-day for thy gold,
who will love me to-morrow for my creed: _Thou_, son of Rajahs,
stoop to _such_?” And again he laughed.
Bhavani straightened up, and his face grew hard and set. “Ah, thou
speakest well. It is folly indeed to talk to thee of love. But have no
fear. I am Bhavani, a prince, the son of princes. I have not stooped,
nor shall I.”
With that speech his expression was not pleasant to look upon. But
Oman felt a sudden relief. He had won a battle in behalf of the law.
Yet, a few moments later, as he shut himself into his room, he felt a
new confusion and a new bitterness in his heart; and he repeated over
and over to himself these words: “And these—and these—the greatest
and the best, know still the struggle, still faint before it, still
call on high for the Reason that never comes. Was it so wonderful that
I—we—failed?”