ATMÂ.

A ROMANCE

BY

A.C.F.

(CAROLINE AUGUSTA FRAZER)

"When âtman (nom. sing. Atmâ) occurs in philosophical treatises ... it has generally been translated by soul, mind, or spirit. I tried myself to use one or other of these words, but the oftener I employed them the more I felt their inadequacy, and was driven at last to adopt ... Self as the least liable to misunderstanding."

Max Muller, in North American Review for June, 1879.

Montreal:

JOHN LOVELL & SON,

23 St. Nicholas Street.

Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1891, by John Lovell & Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at Ottawa.

ATMÂ

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

Nearly four hundred years ago, Nanuk, a man of a gentle spirit, lived in the Punjaub, and taught that God is a spirit. He enunciated the solemn truth that no soul shall find God until it be first found of Him. This is true religion. The soul that apprehends it readjusts its affairs, looks unto God, and quietly waits for Him. The existence of an Omnipresent Holiness was alike the beginning and the burden of his theology, and in the light of that truth all the earth became holy to him. His followers abjured idolatry and sought to know only the invisible things of the spirit. He did not seek to establish a church; the truths which he knew, in their essence discountenance a visible semblance of divine authority, and Nanuk simply spoke them to him who would hear,—emperor or beggar,—until in 1540 he went into that spiritual world, which even here had been for him the real one.

And then an oft-told story was repeated; a band of followers elected a successor, laws were necessary as their number increased, and a choice of particular assembling places became expedient. And as

so the laws passed into dogmas having equal weight with the truths that Nanuk had delivered, and the places became sacred.

Nanuk's successors were ten, fulfilling a prophecy which thus limited their number. The compilation of their sayings and doings to form a book which as years went on was venerated more and more, and the founding of Oomritsur, chief of their holy places, were the principal things that transpired in the history of the Khalsa during a century and a half, save that the brotherhood was greatly strengthened by Moslem persecution, occurring at intervals.

But with the death of the ninth gooroo, by Moslem violence, and the accession of his son Govind, the worldly fortunes of the Khalsa changed. Under the leadership of Govind, a young man of genius and enthusiasm, who comes before us in the two-fold character of religionist and military hero, the Sikhs moved on to a national greatness not dreamed of by Nanuk. Govind, who bestowed on himself and his followers the title of Singh, or lion-hearted, hitherto an epithet appropriated in this connection by the Rajpoot nobility, devoted the strong energies of his vigourous and daring nature to the purpose of establishing the faith of Nanuk by force of arms. To this end he constituted the sword a religious symbol, and instituted a sort of worship of steel. The Khalsa became an aggressive force bent on the salvation of surrounding nations by violence, and succeeded so well, that, eighty-five years after Govind's death, the Sikhs, still retaining their character of a religious fellowship, were consolidated into a powerful nation under Runjeet Singh. The dream of her tenth and last gooroo was realized, the Khalsa was at her height of worldly prosperity, but her life was no longer the spirit life which had been revealed to her first founder.

And so under Asiatic skies as well as amid European civilization, man laboured to redeem the world, making frantic war on the lying creeds of past ages and proclaiming the merits of his latest discovery.

It is a strange development of human nature this animosity to creeds no longer our own. Why, if I suffer the loss of faith and hope, must I hasten to introduce my brother to my sad plight? I may do so, and perhaps enjoy good conscience in the act by vaunting that I shed light on his spiritual vision. God help my brother if his light be from me. And God help me also, if I have attained so high rank among the blessed before I have learned that the human soul is beyond human aid; that in its eternal relations each soul travels in an orbit of its own and holds correspondence only with its Sun.

CHAPTER II.

But many whose faith was in their religion rather than in God felt their spirit falter, and believed that the universe grew dark. This is ever the weakness of disciples, and thus it is that while many flocking to the new standard see all things made plain, others whose hopes are entwined about the displaced creeds suffer an eclipse of faith.

Among those who in the fall of the Khalsa suffered life's last and sorest loss was Raee Singh, an aged man, in whose veins ran the blood of the gentle Nanuk. On that March morning when the disbanded army went to lay down their arms before a victorious foe, he descended the mountain slope very slowly. The rest walked in bands of five, of ten, of twenty, but Raee Singh walked alone. Although his flowing beard was white, he did not bear himself erect in the dignity of years; his eyes were fixed on the ground, for the shadow of defeat and dishonour which rested on him was hard to bear.

Presently he stood before the tent of the British general. A great heap of weapons lay there glittering in the sun. As he looked, the pile grew larger, for each Sikh cast his sword there. Raee also extended his arm, grasping his tulwar, but he did not let it go until an officer touched his shoulder and spoke. The blade fell then with a clang, and he turned away. He passed from the camp without seeing it, and took his homeward way as silently as he had come. The dreams of youth make the habit of age, and Raee had revered the Khalsa in childhood, and in manhood he had urged its high commission to his own hurt. As a Khivan proverb has it, "That which goes in with the milk only goes out with the soul," and the soul of Raee Singh gathered the fragments of its broken faith and prepared to depart with them to the Land of Restoration.

He lay for four days, taking no food, and only wetting his lips with the water which his sole surviving son proffered from time to time. His heart was crushed, he was full of years, his end was near; and his son, knowing this, was dumb with sorrow. On the evening of the fourth day he turned his face to the boy, and spoke,

When the old Sikh had ceased speaking, he lay greatly exhausted. The night deepened. It was a remote spot. Now and then the sound of trampling feet or the tread of a horse climbing the difficult road reached the ear. The hours were long and dreary, but they passed. Morning dawned, and Atmâ found himself alone. He had known that it would be so, and yet it came with the sharpness of an unexpected blow. He mourned, and, as is the way with mourners, he accused himself from hour to hour of having failed in duty to the departed during his lifetime. Looking on the face of the dead, he wondered much where the spirit that so lately had seemed to be with the frame but a single identity, one and indivisible, had fled. He recalled his father's words,

and with the recollection, the sense of loss deepened. An old cry rose to his lips, "Oh, that I knew where I might find him!"

The words by which his father had sought to comfort him still sounded in his hearing, but Grief is stronger than Wisdom. Human speech is the least potent of forces, and arguments that clash and clang bravely in the tournament of words, slaying shadows, and planting the flag of triumph over fallen fancies, on entering the lists to combat the fact of Death, but beat the air, and their lusty prowess only fetches a laugh from out of the silence.

CHAPTER III.

Indeed, a whisper was afloat of secret messages from Feragpore, whither, before the war, had been removed the Ranee Junda Kovr, deposed Queen of the Punjaub, as a consequence of a detected plot against the life of the Resident, which, together with her sullied reputation,—for she had many lovers,—had induced the council to pronounce her an unfit guardian for the little Maharajah, her son. This clever woman, a constant source of vexation to the Resident, had long forfeited the respect of friend and foe; but her intrepidity, cunning, and unscrupulous thirst for power conspired to render her formidable to the one, and to the other a partisan to be courted and retained. Her messages of insolent defiance to the Durbar are historic, but of the countless schemes and intrigues in which she continued to play the part of chief conspirator we have only heard a portion. Suffice it to say that the faithlessness of her policy alike towards adversary, or ally, and the scandal of her retinue of lovers, had gained for her an ill-repute, that combined with the watch set upon her movements by the British to render men chary of dealings with the little court at Feragpore, where she held mimic state.

But of all these tales of craft and crime Atmâ knew nothing. To him all men were valiant and all women fair and good, and the wife and child of Runjeet Singh, the Lion of the Punjaub, were invested in his fond imaginings with ideal excellence. "To the pure all things are pure," or, as a later genius has voiced it, "He who has been once good is forever great," and Atmâ lived in the corrupt atmosphere of his uncle's house, and took no hurt; nay, his spiritual life by its own dynamic force grew and thrived, for, governed by other laws than those that control our physical natures, the food of the soul is what it desires it to be, and moral poison has often served for nutriment. It is death to souls that desire death. In another sense than Bonaparte's, every man born unto the world may say, "I make circumstances."

And the spacious abode of Lehna Singh had loveliness enough to veil the sordid character of the life that was lived within its walls. Atmâ had not been ignorant of his kinsman's wealth and importance; but it is one thing to hear of wealth and to ponder in critical mood the fleeting nature of this world's weal, and quite another to gaze with the eye on the marvellous results of human thrift. He wandered through lofty and spacious apartments, whose marble arches seemed ever to reveal a fairer scene than had yet met his view. A mimic rivulet ran from room to room in an alabaster channel, and the spray of perfumed fountains cooled the air. Flowers bloomed, leafy vines trailed over priceless screens, and countless mirrors repeated the joyous beauty of the place. He beheld with admiration the gilded and fretted walls and stately domes, the new delights of a palace charmed every sense, and, appealing to poetic fancy, awoke a rapture whose fervency was due less to the entrancement of his present life than to the contemplative habit of one who had first known harmony whilst gazing on the stars, and awaked to the consciousness of beauty among the eternal hills. The ripple of the streamlet in these palace halls revived a half-forgotten music of the heart that had once responded to the gurgle of a brook.

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter."

The sympathies that had once been in unison with the rustling thicket stirred into more definite life when an artificial breeze swept by and stirred the heavy foliage of rare plants. He had caught in other days notes of Nature's vast melody. Stray notes were here made to beat to a smaller measure. Thus Art interprets Nature. It was not The Song, but a light and pleasant carol, which pleased the sense of many, and to the ear of the few brought a haunting pain of which they did not know the meaning. Such a one only sighed and said:

"In a former birth I was great and good, and my life was sublime. The ghost of its memory has touched me."

But the loveliest of Lehna Singh's possessions was Moti, his daughter and only child, the fame of whose beauty had even reached Atmâ in his mountain home. Of her he had dreamt through boyhood's years, and a happy consciousness of her proximity foreshadowed the enchanted hour when he was to behold her and own that his fondest fancies were to her loveliness as darkness to noonday. Her name he had heard whispered in the gay throng of her father's guests, on the memorable first evening of his arrival there; but, strange to tell, next day, when these first hours in a palace seemed to his excited imagination a dream in which mingled in wildest confusion the glitter of diamonds, the perfume of a thousand flowers, the revel of dazzling colors, the bewildering music of unknown instruments, and the intoxication of wonder and bliss, there rang through all only one articulate voice, sounding as if from some leafy ambush amid vague laughter and murmurs of speech, saying:

"But I tell you that Rajah Lal Singh means to pluck the rose of Lehna Singh's garden!"

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

"Before I can explain to you," proceeded Lehna, "the last words of my departed brother, I have a tale to unfold, a tale which will reveal to you in how high a degree your coming has been opportune. In these troubled days a loyal, brave, and trusty friend of the Khalsa is far to seek, and it is in quest of such a one that my honoured guest Rajah Lal Singh has, in the face of much peril, come to me from the Maharanee, now at Feragpore, whither she was sent by Purwunnah, under seal of her infant son, the Maharajah, thus made in tender years the instrument of his mother's disgrace. But on the cruel affronts of our enemies I need not dwell. These things are known to all. The plans which I am about to reveal to you, Atmâ Singh relate to the future, and speak not of disgrace, but of hope; know that in the treasures of Runjeet Singh there was one jewel—a sapphire—of magical property. To its holder it ensured success in war. This jewel, the late Maharajah received from my hands. It was a family heirloom, and descended to your father, the eldest son of our house, through countless generations. Being, when we were both young, in sore straits, and hard pressed for money, he parted with this talisman to me, on condition that after his death I should return it to his eldest surviving son. You may guess the poignancy of the grief with which I tell you then that this heirloom is no longer mine. Many years ago I gave it into the hands of Runjeet Singh for a time, in the belief that its potency would aid our national fortunes" (what equivalent Lehna received, he doubtless deemed it irrelevant to state). "The brilliancy of his career attests its worth. It should have been long ago restored to me, but my efforts to regain it were repeatedly baffled, until I was fain to content myself with the reflection that at least it served the cause, and to trust in the future for its recovery. Believing it to be in the treasury at Lahore, and firmly believing in its potency, those of us who knew of its existence never abandoned hope until its disappearance was, alas! ascertained beyond a doubt. To such, each defeat of the Khalsa caused amazement deeper than consternation. The overthrow of the Sikh power seemed a thing incredible until the recent confiscation and plunder of the treasuries, when it became certain to other vigilant onlookers as well as to myself that the Sapphire of Fate was not in the possession of the true rulers of the Punjaub at the time of their downfall. Contrast the victorious progress of the Lion of the Punjaub with the fallen fortunes of his family, when robbed of what we now believe to be the talisman of his fortunes. Not only does the Ranee believe that the recovery of this gem will ensure the prosperity of the descendants of Runjeet Singh, but I do firmly believe that its re-possession will rally the Sikh forces to form again a conquering faith. Son of Raee, have you the courage to serve the Ranee, to regain this, your inheritance, and in obedience to your father's dying words, to devote it and your own life to a fallen house, whose foes are the foes of the Khalsa?"

Atmâ remained silent during some minutes, plunged in thought, and unconscious of the anxious scrutiny of his companions, who, bending forward, awaited his reply in breathless suspense. It was a shock to know that the heritage which was certainly his had passed from the guardianship of the kinsman to whom it had been entrusted, and indignation mingled with gentler reflections. He had not known the story of the Sapphire, and his thoughts reverted to his father, the meaning of whose reticence on a subject, which must have been full of humiliation and pain, his son sadly divined, and recalling his dying words, indelibly printed on his memory, he felt his high commission to be again renewed and vivified. Perhaps the gentle image of Moti, ever present to fond imagination, dispelled the rising clouds of distrust and resentment, and bade him meet her father's demand with response of like spirit. So now recalling the ingenuous emotion which had glowed in his face during Lehna's tragic account of the recent career of Junda Kowr, he asked where the Sapphire of Fate was to be found.

"At the Court of Golab Singh," replied his uncle, dramatically. "Golab Singh, once a horseman in the employ of Runjeet Singh, now by British machinations usurper of the crown of Kashmir. If you, Atmâ, are a true and faithful adherent of the Khalsa, you will thither repair as an envoy of the Maharanee, and will count her reward lightly won by danger encountered for the faith."

"Inform her highness of my instant readiness to perform her request," replied Atmâ.

Happiness overspread the countenance of Lehna. With a gentle sigh of relief, he abandoned the heroic and magnanimous strain in which his speech had flown, and which to so acute and wary a man of affairs was perhaps unfamiliar. He exchanged a glance of satisfaction with the Rajah, who leaned back among his silken cushions in an attitude of greater comfort than he had allowed to himself during the preceding anxious half-hour.

It only remained to instruct the young Sikh as to the course and manner of his journey, which was to be first to Ferazpore to receive the commands of Junda Kowr, thence to Jummoo, where Golab Singh, the recently appointed ruler of Kashmir, held his brilliant court.

These matters satisfactorily arranged, Rajah Lal with stately ceremony took his leave, and Atmâ found himself alone with his kinsman, who proceeded to matters of not less interest.

"I am honoured," he said, "by your proposed alliance with my house," for Atmâ had disclosed to her father his love for Moti. "I am honoured and deeply moved; but I defer this consummation of my cherished wish until all may know that among many suitors, I chose, to be the husband of my only child, a leal soldier of the Khalsa. But your high nature will, I perceive, count this prize lightly won by peril endured for the Khalsa. You go to-morrow to Ferazpore, where you will meet again Rajah Lal, who has perhaps more influence with our clever Ranee than many a better man. He repairs thither this evening, and will no doubt prepare for you a favourable reception, and you will," he added, laughing, "in all probability be received with the overflowing kindness and unveiled confidence which our British friends deprecate!"

This covert allusion was not understood by the young Sikh, in whose thoughts all men were valiant and all women fair and good. But he experienced a shade of annoyance on learning that he must owe anything to the good offices of Lal Singh. An echo seemed to sound faint and far as in a dream; "Rajah Lal," it seemed to say, "means to pluck the Rose of Lehna Singh's garden."

CHAPTER VI.

A subdued light stole through the latticed windows of the house of Junda Kowr, revealing a court whose hush and shadow contrasted with the busy life that Atmâ had left behind him. The silence and pleasing coolness were in harmonious unison with the gleaming alabaster arches, and the subdued loveliness of arrangement was more agreeable to sense than Lehna Singh's ornate magnificence. A lace-like screen hung before a lofty recess. So plain it seemed that one wondered at seeing it motionless in the breeze made by the silken punkah swinging slowly to and fro before it. It was of most delicately wrought ivory, and veiled from the court where female attendants flitted noiselessly about a group of three persons engaged in earnest conversation. One, a woman whose black eyes had none of the languor of her race, reclined among embroidered cushions. The splendour of her jewels proclaimed the Ranee. Emeralds, rubies, and diamonds glittered on brow and arms. Before her on a cushion lay a carefully folded and voluminous letter. Lal Singh lolled at her side, and his gaze like hers was fixed on the ingenuous countenance of Atmâ Singh, who stood before the Ranee. She wore no veil, and as Atmâ encountered the gaze of her bold black eyes, he remembered the sneer of Lehna Singh.

"Come near," she commanded; "you come to me from our good friend, Lehna Singh. Let me hear what word you bring from him."

"I come, Maharanee," replied Atmâ modestly, "to obey your behests in all things, but especially to undertake a perilous mission, which I am assured will result in benefit to the faithful adherents of the Khalsa, as well as to the interests of your highness and the Maharajah."

"I have heard," said the Ranee, "much of your devotion, courage, and unswerving integrity, which render you peculiarly fitted for an enterprise requiring singular daring and fidelity. Lehna Singh has not scrupled to say that peril of life itself will even be welcome to so brilliant a spirit."

Her mocking tone brought the blood to Atmâ's cheek, he scarce knew why.

"It is the high calling of a Sikh," said he, "to encounter danger, and by the sword to confirm the Khalsa."

"It is a training that makes good soldiers," returned the Ranee, "but as my claims may prove less potent than those of the Khalsa, I promise that on your successful return you shall receive from my hands rare and costly jewels, and gold whose yellow lustre will bid the treasuries of the world to open."

"On the other hand," interrupted Rajah Lal, "remember that if we are betrayed, from that moment you are surrounded by countless and powerful foes, whose revenge you shall not elude."

The lion-heart of Atmâ beat high at this threat, to which he deigned no reply.

"My reward has been named, Maharanee," he said, "than which the world can hold no dearer. I will fulfil your embassy and return to you, but the prize for which I labour needs no enhancement to make it worthy."

The Maharanee sought the eye of her companion with a glance of satisfaction, but the Rajah's gaze was rivetted on Atmâ, whilst his features were distorted as if by a moment's uncontrollable rage. The transport passed as quickly as it had come, and he sank back to his former negligent posture. But the Ranee had seen, and a look of startled and angry intelligence lighted her eyes.

Her instructions bound Atmâ to convey to Golab Singh the letter before her, which Rajah Lal placed as she spoke in a casket. It was an expedition of some peril, as the country was occupied by the British and their native allies, to whom a messenger on his way to any court must be an object of suspicion. In addition to this the friendly reception at the Court of Jummoo of an envoy of Junda Kowr was altogether a matter of conjecture.

Further directions regarding his movements in Kashmir would, the Ranee informed him, be conveyed to him from time to time by trusted servants.

"A female servant," she said, "by name Nama, has frequently been employed by me on missions requiring great tact and caution. Her I will shortly send to the borders of Kashmir, and if you repair in fitting season to the Sacred Well of Purity you will there receive from her any communication I may have to make." The subject of the fateful sapphire she lightly dismissed. "If we receive through this slave a good report of the demeanour of this new-made Rajah, this horse-boy in my husband's service, Rajah Lal Singh will join you at the court of Kashmir, and the recovery of the missing jewel, which I am told forms a prominent ornament in Golab Singh's attire, will then no doubt engage the attention of you both."

At present it was evident that the introduction of an emissary of Junda Kowr into the councils of Golab Singh was the chief end in view. No thought of danger entered the heart of Atmâ as he went out from the presence of the Maharanee to enter upon an enterprise which was to be in its course and issue as unlike the anticipations of his ardent heart as is the solemn pilgrimage of life unknown to the dreams of childhood.

The affront of a threat and the alluring promises of riches were alike forgotten, and the star that led his exultant steps shone with the twofold radiance of love and loyalty.

CHAPTER VII.

But he had no thoughts other than of glad anticipation. Past pain and recent unrest were forgotten in the renewed joy of freedom. He cast care to the breeze for he had not lived long enough to know that the discontent which is the birthright of the children of Adam is not dependent on circumstances, but often attains most baleful activity when events seem least likely to harass the spirit. It was the morning of life and of love, and the obscurity in which youth walks is no dull haze but a golden glamour.

In one old form of the creation story is told the first utterance of Nature, the cry of chaos, "Let love be!" Through what inspiration of wisdom it comes to us out of the silence we do not know, but feel that the earlier tale of a divine mandate, "Light be!" is not at variance with it. The cry of chaos lingers in the heart of the race, and each new man in the morning of his being utters it in no doubt of its fulfilment in his own destiny. He loves mankind, and would be beloved; he loves nature, and perceives no relentless purpose in her variable moods; and perhaps most of all he loves his own soul with a love whose disenchantment is to be the sorest agony that an eternity can afford.

The cry of chaos lingers, and the story of creation is repeated in each life history. The cry meets with no response, but instead, relentlessly, surely, aye, and most mercifully, the facts and events group themselves about the cowering spirit, that before Love celestial Light may arise. It is a terrible destiny, devised by a God, and only possible in its severity for creatures to whom it has been declared, "Behold, ye are gods!"

At noon Atmâ rested beside a pool. It was a sequestered spot surrounded by thickets. The rushes grew rank and tall on the margin and in the water. The soft cooing of the doves hidden in the wood broke the stillness. He ate of the slender fare which he carried, and reclined on a flower couch until sleep closed his eyes. The doves cooed on, and bright lizards watched him.

Presently he awoke with a start. A rush of wind, a sudden plash of water were followed by the whizzing of an arrow through the air. He was close to the water. Softly peering through the reeds he saw, palpitating and stricken with fear, a snowy swan. The arrow had missed the stainless breast and it was unhurt. The wild creatures of his mountain home were dear to Atmâ, and he would fain shield the beautiful bird.

Two youths emerged from the thicket at some distance from where he stood. He went to meet them, smiling at the folly of his half-formed intention of guiding them from their prey. After courteous salutation they inquired whether he had seen the swan.

"It is a bird reared by ourselves," they said, "which strayed from us two days ago. We thought to wound it in the wing and recover it, but the creature is so wild that doubtless it is as well that it be killed out-right."

Atmâ had slept, he told them, had been aroused by their approach, had hardly realized the cause of his awakening. "The swan is difficult to rear," he said, "if indeed such effort be not fruitless."

"It is fruitless," they assented, "but we need not search hereabout if you have not seen it. You must have heard the flap of his wing had it alighted near you," and they turned their steps in a contrary direction. Atmâ watched their vain search until on the opposite side of the pool they disappeared into the wood.

He stole a glance into the hiding place of the swan. The soft plumage had not the dazzling purity which he had known, and the beautiful neck that should be proudly curved, drooped.

"Poor imprisoned creature," he thought, "grown in bondage, alien to its own nature of strength and beauty."

He watched it unperceived, timidly washing its plumage in the still deep water. Soon it floated further from the bank. Now and then it waited and listened. The story of its captivity was told again in its stealthy, trembling happiness.

But high overhead, between it and a disc of blue sky, intervened a stream of lordly birds flying south. From their ranks wafted a cry, and as it fell there rose a wild echo, an unfamiliar note from the captive swan.[1] It rose skyward, wearied wing and broken spirit forgotten. It might be danger, but it was Home, and like a disembodied spirit it ascended to a life that, altogether new, was to be for the first time altogether familiar.

A thought of kindred saddened the heart of Atmâ. In the loss of parents and brethren lay, he thought, the sole cause of the heaviness that oppressed him. Their restoration would have made existence complete. He had lost them before he had awakened to the knowledge that those we love are even, when nearest, very far away. Humanity does not hear the voice of kindred on earth.