As the wings of Ambition can fly:
If thou the clear summit of hope wouldst attain,
And not have thy labour in vain;
Be steadfast in that which impell'd, for the peace
Of earth he who leaves must have trust:
He is safe while he soars, but when faith shall cease,
Desponding he drops to the dust.
Then said he, 'Fear no further thwacking, but honour and prosperity in
the place of it. What says the poet?--
“We faint, when for the fire
There needs one spark;
We droop, when our desire
Is near its mark.”
How near to it art thou, O Shibli Bagarag! Know, then, that among this
people there is great reverence for the growing of hair, and he that is
hairiest is honoured most, wherefore are barbers creatures of especial
abhorrence, and of a surety flourish not. And so it is that I owe my
station to the esteem I profess for the cultivation of hair, and to my
persecution of the clippers of it. And in this kingdom is no one that
beareth such a crop as I, saving one, a clothier, an accursed one!--and
may a blight fall upon him for his vanity and his affectation of solemn
priestliness, and his lolling in his shop-front to be admired and
marvelled at by the people. So this fellow I would disgrace and bring to
scorn,--this Shagpat! for he is mine enemy, and the eye of the King my
master is on him. Now I conceive thy assistance in this matter, Shibli
Bagarag,--thou, a barber.'
When Shibli Bagarag heard mention of Shagpat, and the desire for
vengeance in the Vizier, he was as a new man, and he smelt the sweetness
of his own revenge as a vulture smelleth the carrion from afar, and he
said, 'I am thy servant, thy slave, O Vizier!' Then smiled he as to his
own soul, and he exclaimed, 'On my head be it!'
And it was to him as when sudden gusts of perfume from garden roses of
the valley meet the traveller's nostril on the hill that overlooketh the
valley, filling him with ecstasy and newness of life, delicate visions.
And he cried, 'Wullahy! this is fair; this is well! I am he that was
appointed to do thy work, O man in office! What says the poet?--
“The destined hand doth strike the fated blow:
Surely the arrow's fitted to the bow!”
And he says:
“The feathered seed for the wind delayeth,
The wind above the garden swayeth,
The garden of its burden knoweth,
The burden falleth, sinketh, soweth.”'
So the Vizier chuckled and nodded, saying, 'Right, right! aptly spoken, O
youth of favour! 'Tis even so, and there is wisdom in what is written:
“Chance is a poor knave;
Its own sad slave;
Two meet that were to meet:
Life 's no cheat.”'
Upon that he cried, 'First let us have with us the Eclipser of Reason,
and take counsel with her, as is my custom.'
Now, the Vizier made signal to a slave in attendance, and the slave
departed from the Hall, and the Vizier led Shibli Bagarag into a closer
chamber, which had a smooth floor of inlaid silver and silken hangings,
the windows looking forth on the gardens of the palace and its fountains
and cool recesses of shade and temperate sweetness. While they sat there
conversing in this metre and that, measuring quotations, lo! the old
woman, the affianced of Shibli Bagarag--and she sumptuously arrayed, in
perfect queenliness, her head bound in a circlet of gems and gold, her
figure lustrous with a full robe of flowing crimson silk; and she wore
slippers embroidered with golden traceries, and round her waist a girdle
flashing with jewels, so that to look on she was as a long falling water
in the last bright slant of the sun. Her hair hung disarranged, and
spread in a scattered fashion off her shoulders; and she was younger by
many moons, her brow smooth where Shibli Bagarag had given the kiss of
contract, her hand soft and white where he had taken it. Shibli Bagarag
was smitten with astonishment at sight of her, and he thought, 'Surely
the aspect of this old woman would realise the story of Bhanavar the
Beautiful; and it is a story marvellous to think of; yet how great is the
likeness between Bhanavar and this old woman that groweth younger!'
And he thought again, 'What if the story of Bhanavar be a true one; this
old woman such as she--no other?'
So, while he considered her, the Vizier exclaimed, 'Is she not fair--my
daughter?'