THE 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 true feelings 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 unbreakable tranquillity.
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 Narmáda stream. 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 ashore
close 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, and officials, 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
symmetrical finish 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 the centre 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 peculiar shape,
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, if they 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 and consternation 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.