_For the Lord our God Most High
He hath smote for us a pathway to the Ends of all the Earth_.
* * * * *
_And some we got by purchase
And some we had by trade
And some we found by courtesy
Of pike and carronade_.
--Kipling.
Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, etc.... To the most invincible and
most mightie prince Lord Yelabdim Echebar, King of Cambaya Invincible
Emperor--etc.
The great affection which our Subjects have to visit the most distant
places of the world, not without good will and intention to introduce
the trade of all nations whatsoever they can, by which meanes the
mutual and friendly traffeque of marchandise on both sides may come,
is the cause that the bearer of this letter John Newbery joyntly with
those that be in his company, with a curteous and honest boldnesse,
doe repaire to the borders and countreys of your Empire, we doubt not
but that your Imperial Maiestie through your royal grace will
fauvurably and friendly accept him.
And that you would doe it the rather for our sake, to make us greatly
beholden of to your Maiestie; wee should more earnestly and with more
wordes require it if wee did think it needful.
But by the singular report that is of your Imperial Maiesties
humanitie in these uttermost parts of the world, we are greatly eased
of that burden and therefore wee use the fewer and lesse words, onely
we request that because they are our subjects they may be honestly
intreated and received. And that in respect of the hard journey which
they have taken to places so far distant it would please your Maiestie
with some libertie and securitie of voiage to gratifie it, with such
privileges as to you shall seeme good; which curtesie if your
Imperiall Maiestie shal to our subjects at our request performe, wee,
according to our royall honour will recompence the same with as many
deserts as we can. And herewith we bid your Imperiall Maiestie to
fare-well.[7]
---------------------
[Footnote 7: Copy of real letter.]
---------------------
The polished Persian periods of the translation--the original of
which, drawn from its brocaded bag, lay before the King--fell
mellifluously from Abulfazl's practised lips; the final cadence of the
farewell holding in it a certain sense of finality.
Some of the audience yawned; surfeited with the magnificences, the
festivities of this New Year's Day, both minds and bodies were attuned
to sleep in the present, not to dreams of the future.
Outside the wide rose-red arches of the Hall of Audience; a rose-red
sunset was flaring in the west. Over the wide plain of India the
growing shadows were obliterating the familiar life of millions on
millions of men.
So there was silence; a second, as it were, of breathing space. Then,
suddenly, a gong struck, echoing through the arches and over the
purpling plain beyond them, in rolling reverberations.
One of the three Englishmen who stood in worn doublets and hose
awaiting the reply to their Queen's letter shivered slightly. It
sounded to him like the knell of some doom. Whose? Theirs, or the
King's, who, with face suddenly alert, rose, and standing, looked down
the central aisle. The assemblage rose also, more or less alertly, and
all eyes followed the King's.
So, cleaving the hot evening air, which seemed the more heated by
reason of the fierce blare of many colours, the dazzling glitter of
gems which came with that sudden uprising, the sound of boys' voices
singing a wild, wavering chant was heard. Then far away down the
pathway of Persian carpeting two tiny babyish figures showed, heading
a procession of lighted tapers. Boy and girl, they were naked save for
the wreaths of roses with which they were bound together, and for the
filmy gossamer veil, spangled with diamond dewdrops, which, just
reaching their foreheads in front, trailed behind them on the floor.
The first footsteps of the following choristers almost touched it, as
they advanced slowly, twelve of them in single file, each bearing a
massive golden candlestick containing a flaring camphor candle. The
smoke of these drifted backward, lit up by the white light to
fantastic curves, and rested like a pall over the procession.
The Englishman who had shivered, crossed himself devoutly as he
stepped back to let it pass. He felt as if some corpse lay there,
lifted high above the world, shrouded by that trailing fume of light.
And now the wailing chant of the "Dismissal of Day"--discordant to
English ears--steadied to something vaguely reminiscent of the Kyrie
in Palestrina's Mass of Pope Marcellus, as the procession formed
itself into a semicircle about the throne, the two tiny figures, girl
and boy, tight hand-clasped, solemn, wide-eyed, standing together at
the King's very feet.
Come Night! Our day is done
Keep thou the Sun
Safe in the West
Lulled on thy breast
For day is done.
Our light its course has run
The West has won
Lo! God's behest
Is manifest
Our course is run.
His Might and Right are one
Plaint have we none
Come darkness blest
Give us thy Rest
Our day is done.
The words fell lingeringly, and with the last, each chorister bent
toward his taper and softly blew it out, the tiny children drew the
gossamer veil over their faces and, bending to kiss each other,
turned, still solemn, wondering, wide-eyed, to head the retreating
procession which passed, silently and in shadow, whence it came.
Was it merely the swift extinction of those twelve brilliant tapers
symbolising the Hours-of-Light which brought a sudden sense of
darkness to all the pomp and magnificence? Or was it only because
outside the rose-red arches the sun's last rim was just disappearing
beneath the western horizon? Or on that memorable evening when the
English grip first closed upon India did some shadow of future fate
fall to intensify the solemnity of the Dismissal of Day?
It may well have been so.
"Read that portion again," came Akbar's resonant voice in the pause
which ensued, "which says '_with more wordes we should require it_.'"
If there was pride in his tone there was arrogance in most of the
faces around him. Their owners had already prejudged the case, and
were ready with denial. On Akbar's, however, was only the quick
curiosity with which he met all new things, and a not unkindly
personal interest for the three adventurers whose bold blue eyes gave
back his curiosity unabashed, and whose worn doublets, shabby and
travel-stained, appealed directly to one who, like Akbar, was
desert-born and hardly bred.
"'_We are greatly eased of that burden and therefore wee use the fewer
and lesse words_.'"
The phrase seemed to satisfy, and Akbar held up his despotic
forefinger.
"Your names," he said briefly, adding to the clerkly figures who sate
in their appointed places on the floor at the extremities of the small
semicircle centred on the throne, the equally despotic word, "Write!"
"John Newbery, merchant," replied the tallest of the three, who was
also unmistakably the leading spirit. As he spoke he made an obeisance
which showed him not absolutely unversed in Eastern etiquettes.
"Your home?" put in Akbar quickly. There was a half-defiance in the
answer:
"Aleppo. My purpose is trade." Something in the face, however, belied
the latter profession for it showed the restless energy of the born
wanderer to whom gain of gold is as nothing to gain of experience and
of power.
"Is there then not trade enough in the West?" came the swift question.
"Trade and to spare mayhap, your Majesty," replied John Newbery, "but
not enough for Englishmen. We live by trade."
A faint stir of distaste rose from amongst the nobles, and Man Singh
muttered under his breath. "A Rajput lives by his sword--would I had
it in some wames I wot of!"
"And you?" continued the King, turning to the next adventurer. He was
shorter, broader, and had an open face, matched by his bluff, frank
manner.
"I am one Ralph Fitch by name, may it please your Majesty, citizen and
trader of London town."
The answer passed the muster of Akbar's mind, and he repeated the same
question to the third traveller.
Older by some years than his companions, his whole appearance
suggested a more courtly breeding than theirs.
"May it please your Majesty," he said, dropping on one knee, "if
indeed that be the proper form of addressing the mighty Jelabdim
Echebar, Emperor of Cambay, I am one William Leedes, a jeweller.
Native of England, educated at Ghent and Rotterdam. I have cut gems
for royalty"--his eyes fixed themselves on the almost rough
translucence of a huge diamond which Akbar wore ever in his turban as
a fastening to the royal heron's plume, and then he paused to draw
something from his breast--"like this, my liege."
He held out betwixt finger and thumb a small rose-cut diamond. Even in
the growing dusk of the Audience Hall it showed its hundred pinpoints
of light welded into one bright flash, and a low guttural "wah" of
admiration ran through the immediate circle round the throne. Akbar
took the stone between finger and thumb also, and as he looked his
eyes clouded instantly with dreams.
"A hundred suns where there is but one," he said, absently; "'tis like
a many-sided life!" Then he held the jewel out toward Birbal, the
young Princes, Abulfazl, Budaoni, and others of the inner court who
were craning over to see it.
"'Tis better cut," he went on, "than the little one Padre Rudolfo
showed us. Where did you learn the art?"
"At the fountain-head, my liege," replied William Leedes; "of old
Louis de Berguein's son at Ghent."
"And you could cut such gems here?"
"Given the stones. 'Tis diamond cut diamond----"
"In all things!" interrupted Akbar, with a sudden smile. Then he
turned to John Newbery.
"And what do you bring us in exchange?" he asked.
"Gold; and all that gold brings with it," was the ready reply.
Akbar shook his head. "We have gold and to spare already!
Purse-bearer! Set forth the immortal money that they may see we lack
it not."
In the brief pause, during which an old courtier stiff with age and
brocade fumbled in a netted bag and set out a row of coins on an
embroidered kerchief, Akbar sate silent, fingering the vellum of the
Queen's letter, absorbed in thought.
"All is prepared, Most Excellent," petitioned the purse-bearer.
"Read out the legends, O Diwan!"
In obedience to the order Abulfazl, stepping forward, raised the first
huge disc which contained a hundred pounds worth of pure gold, and
read aloud from about the plain stamped semblance of a rose, these
words:
I am a golden coin
May golden be my use.
So from the obverse, where it encircled a lily, came this couplet:
Golden it is to help
The seeker after truth.
The Englishmen looked at one another. Their coin of the realm, despite
its stamp "Defender of the Faith," held no such sermons.
So from the next largest disc worth just one half the _s'henser_ came
these words:
I am a garment of Hope
May hope be high.
and from the obverse:
God in His pleasure
Gives without measure.
"May it please your Most Excellent Majesty," interrupted John Newbery
readily, "we ask but this; that following the divine example, your
Majesty at your pleasure may grant our request without measure."
Akbar glanced round his court tentatively, first toward his sons. The
eldest, Salim, a big, handsome lad who looked years older than his
age--eighteen--was asleep. Prince Murad the next, tall, lanky,
cadaverous, sate sulky, indifferent. The youngest, Danyal, a mere boy
of some twelve years, was carelessly munching sweetmeats. The King's
glance shifted with a sigh to Birbal's face.
"Wanderers are always beggars," quoted the latter warningly.
"Has Akbar's purse no penny left as alms?" came the instant answer.
"If this slave's opinion be asked, as Keeper of the Most Excellent's
regalia," spoke up Ghiass Beg boldly, "I must protest against the
jeweller."
Akbar's sudden laugh seemed almost an outrage on that decorous
assemblage. "Sure Akbar's crown can spare a gem or two? What dost thou
say, O Abulfazl?"
As he spoke, he sought the wide-open, tolerant, far-seeing eyes of the
man on whom, more than on all the others, he was dependent for the
capable grip on possibilities which changed dreams into realities.
The eyes narrowed themselves for the moment, their gaze concentrated
on that somewhat forlorn-looking group of three, awaiting the verdict.
"They come, Most Excellent," he said slowly, "by their own showing
from a nation of traders. 'Tis your Majesty's axiom--a true one--that
where trade flourishes justice must lie, seeing that the greater
principle of mind is needed for the control over the lesser principle
of gold. Yet, ere your Majesty decides, it were well that these
traders be made acquainted with your Majesty's law, which while
yielding due profit to the dealer, denies to him greed of unearned
gain; the law demands fair, frank dealing from both parties to every
contract of sale." He turned to the trio, adding courteously,
"Doubtless it is also the law of your land, and of your Queen; since
the fame of the justice of both has echoed here to the East?"
The three wanderers looked at each other dubiously, and Ralph Fitch
muttered under his breath, "Ours is _caveat emptor_ and it works
well."
Then John Newbery pulled himself together and made bold answer:
"We need no such law, for England while she trades free, trades fair.
And by that just fame of our country and of our Queen we engage to do
naught unbecoming of either----"
"And to abide by my laws," put in Akbar sharply.
"And to abide by such laws!" echoed John Newbery, adding to himself,
"so long as they may last."
There was a pause. Once more Akbar's hand--that true Eastern hand,
loose-knit, double-jointed, small, yet with sinews of iron--fingered
the Queen's letter. At all times his mind went forth joyfully to any
new thing, expectant, he scarcely knew of what; and this vellum,
warming under his finger-touch seemed to grow responsive.
It was like a woman's hand. Aye! it was a woman's hand stretched out
as a Queen's, to him as King! Stretched out across the sea; that dim
mysterious sea which he had seen once, long years before, of which he
had so often dreamt since, seeing himself standing with the ebbing
tide at his feet and calling across the receding waters....
Calling for what?
For reply--always for the reply that never came!
"Write," he said suddenly, "write: Who injures them injures me, Akbar
the Emperor. They have safe conduct so long as they remain in my
realms."
John Newbery gave almost a laugh of relief. His part was played. The
rest lay with Providence--and Commerce! England had gained a foothold
in India. Let her see to it that she kept it. Aye! and more than kept
it.
"There is yet one more petition," said Abulfazl hastily, as the King
made as if he would rise. "The envoy from Sinde waits to bring the
accession offering of the new ruler to the feet of acceptance."
Akbar sank back amongst his cushions resignedly. The province of Sinde
was a perpetual thorn in his side. Sooner or later he felt it must be
delivered from the tyranny of its hereditary rulers, but a Tarkhan was
a Tarkhan, that is someone whom even a king would hesitate to touch,
someone hedged round by strange privileges and high honours. Still
annexation must come in the sequence of civilisation, so what mattered
it if Bazi committed suicide in a fit of drunkenness, if Payandar Jan
his son--poor "Wayfarer in Life" by name indeed!--had gone mad and
disappeared in the Great Desert, or whether Jani Beg or any other of
the ill-doing royal house of Tarkhans had seized the reins of
government.
It was a farce from beginning to end. His sympathies lay, if anywhere,
with the Wanderer who had sought escape, so men said, from hereditary
iniquity in the wilderness. From what? If rumour spoke true from
terrors almost too horrible to be told.
So he sate indifferent while the envoy, a slight man with flowing
black hair and beard, and curious dull eyes, read out from a gold-leaf
besprinkled paper that Bazi had taken the baggage of immortality from
the lodging of life, that Payandar having poured the dust of his brain
into the sieve of perplexity and so removed the known into the
unknown, Jani Beg placed his unworthiness on the steps of the Throne
of Virtue.
He did not even look up when the reading ceased and Birbal advanced to
perform his duty of taking the missive in its brocaded bag and handing
it to the throne.
But a quick exclamation roused him.
"What is it?" he asked, for Birbal stood staring at the envoy.
"Nothing, Most Excellent!" was the hasty reply, but the speaker still
stared at the envoy's throat. Was it--or was it not--a smagdarite of
which Birbal had caught a glimpse beneath brocaded muslin? His
curiosity prevailed.
"I wait, sire," he added suavely, "for the virtuous name of this
accredited of Kings."
The envoy's hand went up to his throat; he bowed gravely.
"Sufur-Dar Khan of the Kingly House," he replied.
For the life of him Birbal could not resist another low swift
question.
"And of the talisman he wears?"
The dull dark eyes held the alert ones.
"A common stone called smagdarite. If it pleases the
Favoured-of-Kings, this Dust-born-Atom-in-a-Beam-of-Light resigns it."
Ye Gods! A rose-garden indeed! Birbal's bodily eyes saw the slender
dark hand holding out the lustreless green stone, but his mind was
lost in colour, beauty, perfume. Rose-leaves twined themselves into
his brain, they sought his heart, their scent bewildered his soul, and
faint and far off he seemed to hear a singing voice--
_Who would have Musk of Roses must not touch the Rose.
Its scent is secret; only Heaven knows
How the sweet essence of a spirit grows_.
"What now!" came Akbar's full imperious voice. "Must the King wait
while Birbal dreams?"
The rose garden disappeared, for Birbal, taking it, thrust it hastily
into his bosom, and then advanced toward the King with the brocaded
bag.
"It is accepted," said the latter impatiently, signing away the
offering, "the audience ends. Birbal, your arm. I lack air. This place
is stifling."
The Englishmen awaiting the Lord Chamberlain to conduct them to
suitable lodging looked round the fast-emptying Hall-of-Audience with
the sort of stupefaction which follows on accomplishment.
"If we lose grip," said John Newbery suddenly, "'twill be the fault of
metal."
"Mettle," echoed William Leedes almost sadly. "There is mettle here
and to spare already, God knows. Yet must it go, since it is not of
English making."
Ralph Fitch looked at him dubiously. "We be Christian men, comrade,
and these but Pagans. Moreover, our commerce----"
John Newbery gave a loud laugh. "The pike and carronade for my choice,
my masters! But cheer up, friend! We will do the cutting of India
whilst William Leedes facets yonder pigeon's egg Echebar wore in his
turban."
The jeweller looked up quickly. "Lo! I could not an' I would! There is
something of steady radiance in it that would defy my tools."
So they followed their guide, catching a glimpse as they passed
through the courtyards of two figures standing under the Great Arch of
Victory and looking out over the purpling Indian plain. It was Akbar's
favourite evening resort, and to-night he had his favourite companion,
Birbal.
It was growing chill already under the massive masonry of the palaces,
but it was still warm out in the open where the blistering sun had
scorched all day long into the very heart of India--that dreaming
heart hidden away under the wide arid levels, under the calm content
of its multitudinous peoples.
The little dancing lights of the long line of booths and shops which
edged the whole twenty miles from Fatehpur Sikri to Agra had already
begun to glitter. The stars were lower in the sky, and only in the
West, Venus hung resplendent. A haze of heat and dust from the
lingering steps of homing cattle lay in quaint streaks, still faintly
tinted with gold, over the distant country, and hung whiter, more
obscure, and mingled with the smoke of the city, about the base of
that mighty mountain of wide measured steps which recedes up and
upward, climbing the low ridge of rocks until it finds pause in the
vast platform whence--as springs no other in the wide world--the tall
Arch of Victory thrusts itself skyward exultantly.
"'_Hafiz!_'" quoted the King suddenly. "'_No one knows the secret! Why
dost ask what happens in the Wheel of Time?_' But we do ask it,
Birbal! How many years is it since we two have sought the rose-essence
of truth and found nothing but the scentless leaves? And yet 'tis
here! I feel it, I know it!"--he touched his forehead lightly.
"Strange to hunger so, after what is hidden in me, myself!"
Birbal shook his head. "What is self, my master? Purusha gazes upon
the Dancer Prakriti, but by and by his eyes will tire of her
disguises----"
"And then," interrupted Akbar, eagerly, "what then? When the object is
gone, what of the subject? Answer me that, thou cold Kapilian! Nay!
Birbal! I cannot believe it so. It strikes a chill to my very marrow.
'Tis warmer beneath the shelter of All-pervading Atman holding both
mind and matter in tenacious grip. Yet even that is cold to my hot
life."
He turned slightly, and let his eyes follow the inlaid marble
lettering of the legend which he himself had ordered to be set round
his great Arch of Victory.
_Said Jesus, on whom be peace: The world is a bridge, pass over it,
but build no house there. Who hopes for an Hour, hopes for Eternity.
Spend the Hour in Devotion. The rest is unknown_.
"Aye! but a bridge to what?" he murmured. "Could I but know what lies
before me--before this land!" His eyes embraced the darkening plain,
and questioned vainly the reddening flush behind the departed sun. "We
hope--that is all--hope for an hour--hope for eternity!--an eternity
for ourselves and for our children!"
Those far-seeing eyes turned to rest lovingly on the red towers of
Fatehpur Sikri. "No! I will never give it up. Birbal--it is my city of
dreams--the heritage of those who shall come after me--the birthplace
and the death-place of the holder of an empire that is deathless.
Water? Lo! what is water? 'Man,' says Padre Rudolfo the Jesuit, 'doth
not live by bread alone.' Neither does he live by water."
"Natheless, sire!" put in Birbal drily, "it hath a trick of being the
birthplace of most things; and the last report of the engineers is
unfavourable. There is not even a dampness at three hundred feet!"
"Then we must make an aqueduct from the river--the Ganges, an' thou
wilt--even from Holy Himalya," answered the King gaily. "Akbar is not
to be let or hindered by aught save Death--and even so"--he glanced
with his winning, affectionate, almost womanish smile, at the man
beside him--"thou dost not forget the promise that whoever of us finds
freedom first shall come back--with news."
"I have not forgotten, Master," replied Birbal. "Yet who should want
my poor ghost--if I have one?"
Akbar's face lit up with curiosity, almost with credulousness.
"A ghost! By my faith, Birbal--which only God Himself knows since I
sway like any weathercock!--a ghost is what we need! Someone to tell
us fairly, squarely----" Then he smiled. "Didst see one but now when
thou stoodst staring at the Sinde envoy like a fretted porcupine?"
Birbal paused. He had almost forgotten the incident. "Nay, I saw no
ghost," he said slowly, and his hand sought his bosom as he spoke.
Then his face paled, for he could feel nothing there. The Garden of
Roses had gone.