Chapter 16

The buildings rear immense, horizons fade

And thought forgets old gages in the ecstasy of view.

The standards go by which the steps were made.

On which we trod from former levels to the new.

No time for backward glance, no pause for breath,

Since impulse like a bowstring loosed us in full flight

And in delirium of speed none aim considereth

Nor in the blaze of burning codes can think of night.

The whirring of sped wheels and horn remind

That speed, more speed is best and peace is waste!

They rank unfortunate who tag behind

And only they seem wise who urge, and haste and haste.

New comforts multiply (for there is need!)

Each ballot adds assent to law that crowds the days.

None pause. None clamor but for speed—more speed!

And yet—there was a sweetness in the olden ways.

 

"And since, my Lords, in olden days—"

Trotters, fed on chopped raw meat by advice of Tess, and brushed
by Bimbu for an hour to get the stiffness out of him, was sent off in the
noon heat with a double message for his master, one addressed to
Samson, one to Dick Blaine, and both wrapped in the same chewed
leather cover, that the dog might understand. The mongrel in him made
him more immune to heat than a thoroughbred would have been. In
any case, he showed nothing but eagerness to get back to Tom Tripe,
and, settling the package comfortably in his jaws, was off without ceremony
at a steady canter.

"If all my friends were like that one," said Yasmini, "I would be empress
of the earth, not queen of a little part of Rajputana! However, one thing
at a time!"

It was hardly more than a village that Tess could see through the jalousies
of her bedroom windows. The room was at a corner, so that she had
a wide view in two directions from either deep window-seat. There
were all the signs of Indian village life about her—low, thatched houses
in compounds fenced with thorn and prickly pear,—temples in between
them,—trades and handicrafts plied in the shade of ancient trees,—squalor
and beauty, leisure, wealth, poverty and lordliness all hand in hand.
She could see the backs of elephants standing in a compound under
trees, and there were peacocks swaggering everywhere, eating the
same offal, though, as the unpretentious chickens in the streets. Over
in the distance, beyond the elephants, was the tiled roof of a great
house glinting in strong sunlight between the green of enormous pipal
trees; and there were other houses, strong to look at but not so great,
jumbled together in one quarter where a stream passed through the village.

Yasmini came and sat beside her in the window-seat, as simply dressed
in white as on the night before, with her gold hair braided up loosely
and an air of reveling in the luxury of peace and rest.

"That great house," she said, peering through the jalousies, "is where
the ceremony is to be tonight. My father’s father built it. This is not
our state, but he owned the land."

"Doesn’t it belong to Gungadhura now?" Tess asked.

"No. It was part of my legacy. This house, too, that we are in. Look,
some of them have come on elephants to do me honor. Many of the
nobles of the land are poor in these days; one, they tell me, came on
foot, walking by night lest the ill-bred laugh at him. He has a horse now.
He shall have ten when I am maharanee!"

"Won’t the English get to hear of this?" Tess asked.

Yasmini laughed.

"Their spies are everywhere. But there has been great talk of a polo
tournament to be held on the English side of the river at Sialpore. The
English encourage games, thinking they keep us Rajputs out of mischief—
as indeed is true. This, then, is a conference to decide which of our
young bloods shall take part in the tournament, and who shall contribute
ponies. The English lend one another ponies; why not we? The spies
will report great interest in the polo tournament, and the English will
smile complacently."

"But suppose a spy gets in to see the ceremony?" Tess suggested.

Yasmini’s blue eyes looked into hers and there was a Viking glare
behind them, suggestive of the wintry fjords whence one of her royal
ancestresses came.

"Let him!" she said. "It would be the last of him!"

Tess considered a while in silence.

"When is the tournament to be?" she asked presently. "Won’t the English
think it strange that the conference about men and ponies should be
put off until so late?"

"They might have," Yasmini answered. "They are suspicious of all
gatherings. But a month ago we worked up a dispute entirely for their
benefit. This is supposed to be a last-hour effort to bring cohesion
out of jealousy. The English like to see Rajputs quarrel among themselves,
because of their ancient saw that says ’Divide and govern!’ I do not
understand the English altogether—yet; but in some ways they are like
an open book. They will let us quarrel over polo to our heart’s content."

There is something very close to luxury in following the thread of an
intrigue, sitting on soft cushions with the sunlight sending layers of
golden shafts through jalousies into a cool room; so little of the strain
and danger of it; so much of its engagement. Tess was enjoying herself
to the top of her bent.

"But when the ceremony is over," she said, "and you yourself have
proclaimed Prince Utirupa king of Sialpore, there will still remain the
problem of how to make the English recognize him. There is Gungadhura,
for instance, to get out of the way; and Gungadhura’s sons—how many
has he?"

"Five, all whole and well. But the dogs must suffer for their breeding.
Who takes a reverter’s colt to school into a charger? The English will
turn their eyes away from Gungadhura’s stock."

"But Gungadhura himself?"

"Is in the toils already! Say this for the English: they are slow to reach
conclusions—slower still to change their policy; but when their mind is
made up they are swift! Gungadhura has been sending messages to
the Northwest tribes. How do I know? You saw Ismail, my gateman?
His very brother took the letters back and forth!"

"But why should Gungadhura risk his throne by anything so foolish?"

"He thinks to save it. He thinks to prove that the tribes began the dickering,
and then to offer his army to the English—Tom Tripe and all! Patali
put him up to it. Perhaps she wants a necklace made of Hill-men’s teeth—
who knows? Gungadhura went deeply into debt with Mukhum Dass,
to send money to the Mahsudis, who think more of gold than promises.
The fool imagines that the English will let him levy, extra taxes afterward
to recoup himself. Besides, there would be the daily expenses of his
army, from which he could extract a lakh or two. Patali yearns for
diamonds in the fillings of her teeth!"

"Did you work out all this deep plot for yourself?" Tess asked.

"I and the gods! The gods of India love intrigue. My father left me
as a sort of ward of Jinendra, although my mother tried to make a Christian
of me, and I always mistrusted Jinendra’s priest. But Jinendra has been
good. He shall have two new temples when I am maharanee."

"And you have been looking for the treasure ever since your father died?"

"Ever since. My father prophesied on his death-bed that I should have
it in the end, but all he told to help me find it was a sort of conundrum.
’Whoever looks for flowers,’ be said, ’finds happiness. Who looks for
gold finds all the harness and the teeth of war! A hundred guard the
treasure day and night, changing with the full moon!’ So I have always
looked for flowers, and I am often happy. I have sent flowers every
day to the temple of Jinendra."

"Who or what can the hundred be, who guard the treasure day and night?"

Tess wondered.

 

"That is what puzzled me. At first, because I was very young, I thought
they must be snakes. So I made friends with the snakes, learning how
to handle even cobras without fear of them. Then, when I had learned
that snakes could tell me nothing, but are only Widyadharas—beautiful
lost fairies dreadfully afraid of men, and very, very wishful to be comforted,
I began to think the hundred must be priests. So I made friends with
the priests, and let them teach me all their knowledge. But they know
nothing! They are parasites! They teach only what will keep men in
their power, and women in subjection, themselves not understanding
what they teach! I soon learned that if the priests were treasure-guards
their charge would have been dissipated long ago! Then I looked for
a hundred trees, and found them! A hundred pipal trees all in a place
together! But that was only like the first goal in the very first chukker
of the game—as you shall learn soon!"

"Then surely I know!" said Tess excitedly. "In the grounds of the palace
across the river, that you escaped from the night before you came to
see me, there is quite a little forest of pipals."

"Nine and sixty and the roots of four," Yasmini answered, her eyes
glowing as if there were fire behind them. "The difficulty is, though,
that they don’t change with the full moon! Pipal trees grow on forever,
never changing, except to grow bigger and bigger. They outlive centuries
of men. Nevertheless, they gave me the clue, not only to the treasure
but to the winning of it!"

The afternoon wore on in drowsy quiet, both of the girls sleeping at
intervals—waited on at intervals by Hasamurti with fruit and cooling drinks—
Yasmini silent oftener than not as the sun went lower, as if the details
of what she had to do that night were rehearsing themselves in her mind.
No amount of questioning by Tess could make her speak of them again,
or tell any more about the secret of the treasure. At that age already
she knew too well the virtue and fun of unexpectedness.

They ate together very early, reclining at a low table heaped with more
varieties of food than Tess had dreamed that India could produce;
but ate sparingly because the weight of what was coming impressed
them both. Hasamurti sang during the meal, ballad after ballad of the
warring history of Rajasthan and its royal heroines, accompanying herself
on a stringed instrument, and the ballads seemed to strike the right
chord in Yasmini’s heart, for when the meal finished she was queenly
and alert, her blue eyes blazing.

Then came the business of dressing, and two maids took Tess into
her room to bathe and comb and scent and polish her, until she wondered
how the rest of the world got on without handmaidens, and laughed
to think that one short week ago she had never had a personal attendant
since her nurse. Swiftly the luxurious habit grows; she rather hoped
her husband might become rich enough to provide her a maid always!

And after all that thought and trouble and attention she stood arrayed
at last as no more than a maid herself—true, a maid of royalty; but very
simply dressed, without a jewel, with plain light sandals on her stockinged
feet, and with a plain veil hanging to below her knees—all creamy white.
She admitted to herself that she looked beautiful in the long glass, and
wished that Dick could see her so, not guessing how soon Dick would
see her far more gorgeously arrayed.

Yasmini, when she came into the room, was a picture to take the breath
away,—a rhapsody in cream and amber, glittering with gems. There
were diamonds sparkling on her girdle, bosom, ears, arms; a ruby
like a prince’s ransom nestled at her throat; there were emeralds and
sapphires stitched to the soft texture of her dress to glow and glitter
as she moved; and her hair was afire with points of diamond light.
Coil on coil of huge pearls hung from her shoulders to her waist, and
pearls were on her sandals.

"Child, where in heaven’s name did you get them all?" Tess burst out.

"These? These jewels? Some are the gifts of Rajput noblemen.
Some are heirlooms lent for the occasion. This—and this" she touched
the ruby at her throat and a diamond that glittered at her breast like
frozen dew— "he gave me. He sent them by his brother, with an escort
of eight gentlemen. But you should wear jewels, too."

"I have none—none with me—"

"I thought of that. I borrowed these for you."

With her own hands she put opals around Tess’s neck that glowed as
if they were alive, and then bracelets on her right arm of heavy, graven
gold; then kissed her.

"You look lovely! I shall need you tonight! No other human guesses
how I need you! You and Hasamurti are to stand close to me until the end.
The other maids will take their place behind us. Now we are ready. Come."

Outside in the dark there were torches flaring, and low gruff voices
announced the presence of about fifty men. Once or twice a stallion
neighed; and there was another footfall, padded and heavy, in among
the stamping of held horses.

The night was hot, and full of that musty mesmeric quality that changes
everything into a waking dream. The maids threw dark veils over them
to save their clothing from the dust kicked up by a crowd, and perhaps,
too, as a concession to the none-so-ancient, but compelling custom
that bids women be covered in the streets.

Yasmini took Tess by the hand and walked out with her, followed closely
by Hasamurti and the other women, between the pomegranates to the
gate in the garden wall. From that moment, though, she stood alone
and never touched hand, or sought as much as the supporting glances
of her women until they came back at midnight.

A watchman opened the gate and, Yasmini leading, they passed through
a double line of Rajput noblemen, who drew their sabers at some one’s
hoarse command and made a steel arch overhead that flashed and
shimmered in the torchlight. Beyond that one order to draw sabers
none spoke a word. Tess looked straight in front of her, afraid to meet
the warrior eyes on either hand, lest some one should object to a
foreigner in their midst on such a night of nights.

In the road were three great elephants standing in line with ladders
leaning against them. The one in front was a tusker with golden caps
and chains on his glistening ivory, and a howdah on his back like a
miniature pagoda—a great gray monster, old in the service of three
Rajput generations, and more conscious of his dignity than years.
Yasmini mounted him, followed by Tess and Hasamurti, who took their
place behind her in the howdah, one on either side, Hasamurti pushing
Tess into her proper place, after which her duty was to keep a royal
fan of ostrich plumes gently moving in the air above Yasmini’s head.

The other women climbed on to the elephant behind, and the third one
was mounted by one man, who looked like a prince, to judge by the
jewels glittering in his turban.

"His brother!" Hasamurti whispered.

Then again a hoarse command broke on the stillness. Horses wheeled
out from the shadow of the wall, led by saises, and the Rajput gentry
mounted. Ten of them in line abreast led the procession, while some
formed a single line on either hand, and ten brought up the rear. Men
with torches walked outside the lines. But no one shouted. No one spoke.

Straight down the quiet road under the majestic trees, with the monkeys,
frightened by the torchlight, chattering nervously among the branches,—
to the right near the lane Yasmini used the night before, and on toward
the shadowy bulk of the great house in the distance the elephant trod
loftily, the swing and sway of his back suggesting ages of past history,
and ever-lasting ages more to come. The horses kicked and squealed,
for the Rajput loves a mettled mount; but nothing disturbed the elephant’s
slow, measured stride, or moved the equanimity of his mahout.

Villagers came to the walls, and stood under the roadside trees to smile
and stare. Every man and child salaamed low as the procession passed,
and some followed in the dust to feast their curiosity until the end of it;
but not a voice was raised much above a whisper, except where once
or twice a child cried shrilly.

"Why the silence?" Tess asked in a whisper, and without turning her
head Yasmini answered:

"Would you have the English know that I was hailed as maharanee
through the streets? Give them but leave and they would beat the
tomtoms, and dance under the trees. These are all friends here."

The great house was surrounded by a high wall, but a gate was flung
wide open to receive them and the procession never paused until the
leading elephant came to a halt under a portico lit by dozens of oil lamps.
Standing on the porch were four women, veiled, but showing the glint
of jewels and the sheen of splendid dresses underneath; they were
the first that night to give tongue in acclamation, raising a hub-bub of
greeting with a waving of slim hands and arms. They clustered round
Yasmini as she climbed down from the elephant, and led her into the
hall with arms in hers and a thousand phrases of congratulation and
glad welcome.

"Four queens!" Hasamurti whispered.

Tess and Hasamurti followed, side by side, not down the main hall,
but to the left, into a suite of rooms reserved for women, where they
all removed their veils and the talking and laughter began anew. There
were dozens of other women in there—about half as many ladies as
attendants, and they made more noise than a swarm of Vassar freshmen
at the close of term.

The largest of the suite of rooms was higher than the rest by half a
dozen steps. At its farther end was a gilded door, on either side of
which, as far as the walls at each end, was a panel of very deeply carved
wood, through the interstices of which every whisper in the durbar hall
was audible when the women all were still, and every man and movement
could be seen. Yasmini took her stand close to the gilded door, and
Tess and Hasamurti watched the opportunity to come beside her—no
very easy matter in a room where fifty women jockeyed for recognition
and a private word.

But there came a great noise of men’s voices in the durbar hall, and
of a roll-call answered one by one, each name being written in a vellum
book, that none might say afterward he was present, who was not, and
none might escape responsibility. The women grew silent as a forest
that rustles and shivers in the night wind, and somebody turned down
the lights, so that it was easier to see through the carved panel, and
not so easy to be seen. Immediately beyond the panel was a dais,
or wide platform, bare of everything except a carpet that covered it
from end to end. A short flight of steps from the center of it led to the
durbar floor below.

The durbar floor was of polished teak, and all the columns that supported
the high roof were of the same wood, carved with fantastic patterns.
From the center hung a huge glass chandelier, its quivering pendants
multiplying the light of a thousand candles; and in every corner of the
hall were other chandeliers, and mirrors to reflect the light in all directions.

Grouped in the center of the hall were about two hundred men, all armed
with sabers,—men of every age, and height and swarthiness, from stout,
blue-bearded veterans to youths yet in their teens,—dressed in every
hue imaginable from the scarlet frock-coat, white breeches and high
black boots of a risaldar-major to the jeweled silken gala costume of
the dandiest of Rajput’s youth. There was not a man present who did
not rank himself the equal of all reigning kings, whatever outward deference
the exigency of alien overrule compelled. This was a race that, like the
Poles, knew itself to have been conquered because of subdivision
and dissension in its ranks; no lack of courage or of martial skill had
brought on their subjection. Not nearly all their best were there that night—
not even any of the highest-placed, because of jealousy and the dread
of betrayal; but there was not a priest among them, so that the chance
was high that their trust would be well kept.

These were the pick of Rajputana’s patriots—the men who loved the
old ways, yet admitted there was virtue in an adaptation of the new.
And Yasmini, with a gift for reading men’s hearts that has been her
secret and her source of power first and last, was reviving an ancient
royal custom for them, to the end that she might lead them in altogether
new ways of her own devising.

The roll-call ended, a veteran with a jeweled aigrette in his turban stood
apart from the rest with his back toward the dais steps and made a
speech that was received in silence, though the women peering through
the panel, fluttered with excitement, and the deep breathing in the durbar
hall sounded like the very far-off murmur of a tide. For he rang the
changes on the ancient chivalry of Rajasthan, and on the sanctity of
ancient custom, and the right they had to follow what their hearts
accounted good.

"And as in ancient days," he said, "our royal women chose their husbands
at a durbar summoned by the king; and because in ancient times,
when Rajasthan was a land of kings indeed and its royal women, as
the endless pages of our history tell, stood proved and acclaimed as
fit to govern, and defend, and die untarnished in the absence of their
lords; therefore we now see fit to attend this durbar, and to witness
and give sanction. Once again, my Lords, a royal daughter of a throne
of Rajasthan shall choose her husband in the sight of all of us let come
of it what may!"

He ceased, and the crowd burst into cheers. Yasmini translated his
speech afterward to Tess. He said not a word of Gungadhura, or of
the throne of Sialpore, leaving that act of utter daring to the woman who
was, after all, the leader of them all that night.

Now all eyes were on the dais and the door behind it. In the inner room
the women stirred and whispered, while a dozen of them, putting on
their veils again, gathered around Yasmini, waiting in silence for her to
give the cue. She waited long enough to whet the edge of expectation,
and then nodded. Hasamurti opened the door wide and Yasmini stepped
forth, aglitter with her jewels.

"Ah-h-h!" was her greeting—the unbidden, irrepressible, astonished gasp
of mixed emotion of a crowd that sees more wonder than it bargained for.

The twelve princesses took their place beside her on the dais, six on
either side. Immediately behind her Tess and Hasamurti stood. Yasmini’s
other maids arranged themselves with their backs to the gilded door.
She, Tess and Hasamurti were the only women there unveiled.

She stood two minutes long in silence, smiling down at them while Tess’s
heart-beats drummed until she lost count, Tess suspecting nervousness
because of her own nerves, and not so wildly wrong.

"You’re not alone," she whispered. "You’ve a friend behind you—two friends!"

Then Yasmini spoke.

"My Lords." The word "Bahadur" rolled from her golden throat like chords
of Beethoven’s overture to Leonori. "You do our olden customs honor.
True chivalry had nearly died since superstition and the ebb and flow
of mutual mistrust began to smother it in modern practises. But neither
priest nor alien could make it shame for maidenhood to choose which
way its utmost honor lies. Ye know your hearts’ delight. Goodness, love
and soundless fealty are the attributes your manhood hungers for.
Of those three elements is womanhood. And so, as Shri—goddess of
all good fortune—comes ever to her loved one of her own accord and
dowers him with richer blessing than he dreamed, true womanhood
should choose her mate and, having chosen, honor him. My Lords,
I choose, in confidence of your nobility and chivalry!"

Pausing for a minute then, to let the murmur of assent die down, and
waiting while they stamped and shuffled into three long lines, she
descended the steps alone, moving with a step so dignified, yet modest,
that no memory of past events could persuade Tess it was artistry.
She felt—Tess was sure of it, and swore to it afterward—in her heart of
hearts the full spiritual and profound significance of what she did.

Beginning at the left end of the first line, she passed slowly and alone
before them, looking each man in the eyes, smiling at each one as she
passed him. Not a man but had his full meed of attention and the honor
due to him who brings the spirit of observance and the will to help another
man succeed.

Back along the second line she went, with the same supreme dignity
and modesty, omitting not even the oldest veteran, nor letting creep
into her smile the veriest suggestion of another sentiment than admiration
for the manliness by whose leave she was doing what she did. Each
man received his smile of recognition and the deference due his pride.

Then down the third line, yet more slowly, until Tess had cold chills,
thinking Utirupa was not there! One by one she viewed them all, until
the last man’s turn came, and she took him by the hand and led him forth.

At that the whole assembly milled into a mob and reformed in double
line up and down the room. The same voice that had thundered in the
darkness roared again and two hundred swords leapt from their scabbards.
Under an arch of blazing steel, in silence, Yasmini and her chosen
husband came to the dais and stood facing the assembly hand in hand,
while the swords went back to their owners’ sides and once more the
crowd clustered in the center of the hall.

There was a movement in among them then. Some servants brought
in baskets, and distributed them at about equal intervals amid the forest
of booted legs. When the servants had left the hall, Yasmini spoke.

"My Lords, in the presence of you all I vow love, honor, fealty and a
wife’s devotion to the prince of my choosing—to my husband who shall be—
who now is by Gandharva ceremony; for I went to him of my own free
will by night! My Lords, I present to you—"

There was a pause, while every man present caught his breath, and
the women rustled like a dove-cot behind the panel.

"—Gunga Khatiawara Dhuleep Rhakapushi Utirupa Singh—Maharajah
of Sialpore!"

Two hundred swords sprang clear again. The chandeliers rattled and
the beams shook to the thunder of two hundred throats.

"Rung Ho!" they roared.

"Rung Ho!"

"Rung Ho!" bringing down their right feet with a stamp all together that
shook the building.

Then the baskets were cut open by the swords’ points and they flung
flowers at the dais, swamping it in jasmine and sweet-smelling buds,
until the carpet was not visible. The same black-bearded veteran who
had spoken first mounted the dais and hung garlands on Yasmini and
her prince, and again the hall shook to the roar of acclamation and the
sharp ringing of keen steel.

But Yasmini had not finished all she had to say. When the shouting
died and the blades returned to scabbards, her voice again stirred their
emotions, strangely quiet and yet reaching all ears with equal resonance,
like the note of a hidden bell.

"And since, my Lords, in olden days it happened often that a Rajput
woman held and buttressed up her husband’s throne, honoring him
and Rajputana with her courage and her wit, and daring even in the arts
of war, so now: this prince shall have his throne by woman’s wit. Before
another full moon rises he shall sit throned in the palace of his ancestors;
and ye who love royal Rajasthan shall answer whether I chose wisely,
in the days to come!"

They answered then and there to the utmost of their lungs. And while
the hall resounded to the crash and clangor of applause she let go
Utirupa’s hand, bowed low to him, and vanished through the gilded
door in the midst of her attendant women.

For two hours after that she was the center of a vortex of congratulation—
questions—whisperings—laughter and advice, while the women flocked
about her and she introduced Tess to them one by one. Tess, hardly
understanding a word of what was said to her, was never made so much
of in her life, sharing honors with Yasmini, almost as much a novelty
as she—a Western woman, spirited behind the purdah by the same
new alchemy that made a girl of partly foreign birth, and so without
caste in the Hindu sense of it, revive a royal custom with its antecedents
rooted in the very rocks of time. It was a night of breathless novelty.

There were the inevitable sweetmeats—the inevitable sugared drinks.
Then the elephants again, and torches under the mysterious trees, with
a sabered escort plunging to the right and left. The same torch-lit faces
peering from the village doors and walls; and at last the gate again in
the garden wall, and a bolt shot home, and silence. Then:

"Did I do well?" Yasmini asked, leaning at last on Tess. "Oh, my sister!

Without you there to lend me courage I had failed!"