On the morrow the Rajah of Kashmir sat in the terraced garden and talked
of life. Those who sat with him had lately braved death on battlefield,
but death had forborne to touch them, and they rejoiced in existence.
All around them the story was repeated; the deepening shade spoke of
another shadow, but the flashing sunbeams chased the thought ere it
chilled; eaves fluttering to the mould said, "Ponder the grave," but the
shining air stirred and sent them whirling aloft. Death and Life enacted
a drama.
* * * * *
The human comedy ends in woe, but Nature tenderly masks her catastrophe,
and her sorrows are hung with gayest colours and adorned with fairest
effects. This is seen at sunset. The evening saddens, the earth melts,
and in my egoism I hail a fellow mourner. I would protract the moment of
the sun's entombment.
"There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not if I could be gay."
It is the mood of little griefs. An unquiet wind murmurs, but it does
not rise to a wail.
I fain would bid th' Æolian tones prolong
To mourn the jolly Day's discomfiture,
And, mindful of mine own estate, among
The buds and grieving trees my plaint outpour,
That sweets must fade though Night will aye endure.
But crafty Nature, fancy to beguile
From her disaster, which, alas! is mine,
Bids to the front in radiant defile
A trooping host whose pomps incarnadine
The faded trophies of the dying day,
And, lest I fail before so brave array,
She decks the quiet clouds where fancies dwell
With sweet translucent gleam and melting hue
To woo my swooning sense with softer spell
Of blissful pink and hyacinthine blue.
* * * * *
"Life," said the Rajah, "is the fairest of flowers, and its beauty and
fragrance are for him who plucks."
"Plucks," sighed one, "to find it wither in his grasp."
Said the Rajah, "To do justice to life, one must forget death."
"Forgetfulness may be desirable," said another, "but how shall it be
attained? How deny the tyrant who at each sunset demands his tribute
dues of sleep, and enwraps my vassal being in dull oblivion?"
"By ill-conditioned fears," replied the Rajah, "men invite evil. To him
who desires the solace of ghostly companionship shall the spectres
troop, a phantom in every shadow, and with him make their abode. He who
fears is already overcome. To the man who would live there must be no
death. For me, I love the rosy, teeming present; to-morrow is with the
gods, and I for one," he added laughing, "will not be guilty of an
impious theft by anticipating their gifts."
"Life," said an Englishman, "is a battle-field in which victory is to
the valiant. To my mind the effort after forgetfulness is no less
disquieting than the fear you would shun. Death, could we but believe
it, is simple and natural as Life."
But this he said, not knowing that
"Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be."
"It is true," spoke the Venerable Nawab Khan, a Musselman of devout
piety, "and to what purpose do we struggle? The inevitable is not to be
averted
Tho', sliding through lush grass, the shining snake,
Loving the sun, a sinuous way doth take,
Its fixed journey to its home 'twill make.
Even as in tranquil vale reluctant rill,
In sportive twinings nigh its parent hill,
Proceedeth onward to the ocean still.
"Life is a dream," continued the pious man, "and the first condition of
its happiness is peace. For me I am weary of battle-fields, and feel no
desire to grasp after illusive flowers and fading grass. If anticipated
evil is the shadow of life, the vain toils of restless ambition are its
menace. Vain toil it is! To labour, to suffer, to sorely strive that we
may accomplish--our destiny! For that is what our utmost effort alike
with our quietude will achieve."
"And," demanded the Rajah, "is it then life to breathe? Such
tranquillity will breed torpor rather than dream. If the immobility of
Fate be the theme and burden of my days I dare the more. Let us bare our
breasts to the arrows of Fortune, let us invite the shafts of Chance,
let us taunt Fate, let us dare our doom, why should we fear? The hands
of Destiny are also bound, and not one pang the more shall we feel for
our hardihood."
But one who reclined on a couch of roses and breathed their languorous
fragrance, chided the fervency of this discourse, saying:
"If Life be a flower,
Light, facile, and free,
Be the grasp that would hold it;
From a halcyon sea
Let the breezes that stir it
Blow thoughtlessly;
No breath of care should chill it,
Nor sad foreboding thrill it,
For honey-dew lies hid
Beneath a fragile lid,
And ardent clutch will spill it."
"Ay," cried the Rajah, "I like the counsel of the flowers.
Obeissance to the blast
Make, mock when it is past,
And rise like a washen rose, deliciously,
Forgetful of sorrow,
Unheeding the morrow,
And meeting all destinies, mad, merrily;
If Life be a flower, 'tis fairest of all
If for it you fear fortune's pitiless thrall,
With the Tulip's proud beauty
Its wisdom combine,
And bear to the contest
A goblet of wine!"
"Ah," sighed the pensive one, "but the flower is the poppy, for he who
possesses it presently falls asleep."
But his gentle conceit was unheard, for Nawab Khan related a story.
"One sought," said he, "the cave where dwelt a holy hermit of great
reputation for wisdom and learning. He sate him down before the
entrance, and listened with patience and fortitude to the grave and
weighty saws which like bats increase in darkness. Having presently
earned the right of a disciple, he plied the sage with questions,
as:--What is the material and constitution of the soul? Where are laid
the bones of Seth? What bounds the credulity of mankind? These and many
more did the Wise answer in difficult words whose sound carried
conviction. 'He knows all things,' thought the inquirer, 'I need not to
ply him with riddles to whom all things are plain. I will rather seek
counsel for myself concerning what lies at hand.' With that he put the
question, 'What think you of human life?' The hermit, who had halted
hitherto at no question, arose, turned him about, and in silence
withdrew to the depths of his grotto."[2]
"Proving," laughed the Rajah, "that he added the virtue of discretion to
his multiform merits. But we turn not our backs on the question until my
illustrious guest Atmâ Singh of the blood of the Holy Nanuk further
expound the nature of life."
All turned to Atmâ. The frivolity of the Rajah was distasteful to him in
connection with so grave a theme. His eyes involuntarily sought the
glance of the young Englishman who had spoken. He was an officer in the
British army and his name was Bertram. His expressive face kindled with
kindly grace as the young Sikh claimed sympathy with him in his view of
life as a battlefield.
"But not," said Atmâ, "that triumph crowns prowess in this fight. I
know that life is a battle in which sooner or later we must all succumb,
but we die knowing that the right is stronger through our struggle."
"I am rebuked, Atmâ Singh," said Bertram; "your battlefield is a nobler
one than that on which human effort is rewarded by gain. I pray you
continue."
"Behold the strength that comes from a convert," sneered some of the
company, as with fervent though modest speech Atmâ spoke of the high
courage and dauntless faith which transform defeat into Immortal
victory.
A silence fell on the gay throng. Some were gloomy because reminded of
their national discomfiture. Others looked coldly on Atmâ and muttered
with discontent--
"He speaks of life as a thing that is yet to be."
FOOTNOTE:
[2] I have taken the liberty here of altering a well-known fable whose
authorship I do not know.