Ye Heavens, for this in showers of sweetness shed
Your mildest influence o’er her favoured head!
Long may her name, which distant climes shall praise,
Live in our notes, and blossom in our lays.
SOLIMA.
Although Kazim was generally respected throughout the tribe, of which
he now formed a member, for his personal character and his great
acquirements, yet he could not conceal from himself, during the
solitary rambles in which he frequently indulged among the mountains,
that this was not precisely the kind of existence he had prefigured
for himself at Samarcand. Of the ordinary necessaries and conveniences
of life he enjoyed a sufficiency, and there were even those among the
tribe whom he might look upon in the light of friends. But their
intellect did not commune with his. There was no person near him with
whom he could converse, upon equal terms, on any subject derived from
history, science, or even popular poetry or fable. The habits of a
wandering nation, whether warlike or pastoral, were such as he felt
could never be congenial to his tastes. He had no pleasure in assisting
to water the herds, or in preparing the materials of the huts, or in
going through the domestic occupations which every new day brought with
it. The sports afforded to others by the mountain, the plain, or the
jungle, were to him so many occasions for toil, from which he derived
no gratification.
Mangeli was, indeed, in herself, a little world, to which his busy
thoughts and stirring aspirations frequently fled for repose. When he
beheld her engaged in the duties of her simple household, and read
in her lighted smiles the pleasure which she felt in rendering their
humble home orderly, because it was shared with him, he yielded to the
rush of delightful sensations that thrilled his whole frame. But when
he remembered that he would soon have to provide for more than Mangeli,
and that his present means or prospects afforded no hope that their
offspring would ever be raised above the grade of mere shepherds, he
blushed with shame at the degradation which he had, however innocently,
brought upon the once noble and distinguished race of Ayas. His
thoughts upon this delicate point were by no means hidden from the
partner of his life and fate, who, without any other instruction than
that which he himself and affection had given her, was enabled to read
upon his brow the sentiments that were passing through his mind, even
where they did not break out into expression. No commentary, however,
that could wound his feelings ever escaped her lips on those occasions.
She was contented with her lot, such as it was; but, at the same time,
she never failed to assure Kazim that wherever he was, she should be
equally happy. She could live with him in their hut, wherever it might
be raised from time to time; or she could wander with him over the
desert or the mountain, should it be his wish to try his fortunes in
those distant countries, of which he had so often made mention.
One day, when Kazim happened to extend his mountain rambles beyond
their ordinary distance, he was surprised, on looking towards the
south, to behold an enormous ridge of snow shining in the sun, above
the clouds, in which, at that season of the year, the Himalas were
usually concealed from view. While he was gazing upon the sublime
spectacle, his attention was suddenly attracted by the sound of a voice
quite near him; when, turning round, he beheld a dervish resting on a
long staff, which he held with both his hands.
“I have been anxiously in search of you, Kazim Ayas,” said the
stranger, “since your fortunate escape from Karaman. You won my
admiration at Samarcand. There you were the master of the whole circle
of knowledge, and what are you here? I followed you to Arjun--I
followed you to the obscure cottage in which you buried yourself on
the banks of the Ilamish--I followed you to Karaman; and where do
I at length find you? Among a tribe no better than the sheep, from
which they derive their subsistence! For shame, Ayas! one of your
Tartar race--you, who might restore your house to more than its former
splendour by your talents--to waste away the most precious years of
your existence among these inglorious hills! To Hindostan, I say, the
moment the snows are gone. Behold the Himalas, which lift their heads
above the clouds. Be their ambition yours; and, like them, the sun of
glory shall yet shine upon your brow! To Hindostan, I say, when the
snows are gone!”
Kazim, overcome with surprise, in consequence not less of the words
addressed to him, than of the manner of the stranger, whom he
remembered to have seen somewhere before, stood petrified before the
dervish, doubting whether the vision was not supernatural. Nor was
this feeling at all diminished, when, on removing his hand from his
eyes, on which he had pressed it for a moment, as if to recall his
wandering thoughts, he saw nobody near him, nor even the trace of a
footstep on the spot where the dervish had stood. He called out in
an agitated voice, repeatedly, but he received no answer, except the
faint echo of his own exclamation. The incident astonished him, the
more he thought of it. He ran here and there among the snow-crowned
crags, and looked down the precipices, and at each side of the ridges,
but nowhere could he discover the least symptom of the stranger. He
remained on the mountain, still expecting the return of the dervish,
until the approach of night warned him that it was time to terminate
his excursion.
When Kazim informed Mangeli of his adventure, she playfully looked into
his eyes, and in her simple and bewitching way asked him, if he had not
fallen asleep on the hills, and dreamt what he had told her? When he
endeavoured to assure her of the contrary, and described his interview
with the stranger, as well as the very tone of voice in which the
mysterious words were uttered, she still declared herself incredulous.
At the same time she added, that she well knew he could never be
contented to pursue the kind of life in which he was now detained;
and that, if at the breaking up of the winter, he resolved to abandon
the tribe, she would be prepared to go with him even to Hindostan,
through every difficulty and danger. Kazim was almost angry that he
could not induce Mangeli to believe the story which he had related,
extraordinary though it was; but the more he reflected on it, the more
he was induced to waver about the certainty which he had felt at first;
and eventually, he was inclined with her to suspect that the dervish
was the creation of his own fancy, heated by much meditation on the
circumstances in which he was placed. Whether it was a reality or a
vision, however, such was the impression it made upon his mind, that
the pastoral manners and occupations of the friendly tribe appeared to
him, after that day, more monotonous than ever, and he resolved, at
all events, to effect a change in the present obscure routine of his
existence.
The long winter of those regions at length approached its term.
Suddenly the zephyrs of the spring came from the groves where they had
hitherto been sleeping. The icicles that depended from the precipices,
over which the torrents had formerly dashed in their course, as well as
the snowy mantle so long spread over the hills and plains, disappeared
at once, as if by the command of a magician. A rich carpet of green
herbage every where met the eye, interspersed with the snow-drop, the
gay crocus, the modest primrose, the cowslip, and a thousand wild
flowers, which seemed to rejoice in the cheering rays of the sun.
The mares and their young galloped over the soft turf, wild with
renovated joy. The lambs that were newly born, frisked about, calling
occasionally to their dams in a tumult of merry sounds, and running
races with each other down the declivities of the hills on which they
were at pasture. Nature dressed herself out as for a holiday; the trees
were filled with birds that made the air resound with their music,
and even the floods that rushed from the heights, subdued their usual
uproar into an enchanting murmur.
Kazim hoped that the tribe would now think of changing their abode, and
that he might, during the general movement, easily separate himself
from them, without informing the kind prince of his intentions. He
could give no cause to that worthy ruler of an innocent people for
the resolution which he had adopted; he felt that even the mention
of such an idea would be received with surprise and regret, if not
even with anger, by every one of his new friends; and as he really
had no excuse to offer for his conduct, which could appear to them
in the least degree reasonable, considering the unambitious habits
in which they had all been brought up; he convinced himself that his
best plan would be not to consult them on the subject. But the spring
came without suggesting any desire on their part to change their
temporary residence. The pasturage around them was excellent, as well
as abundant; and until it was exhausted, it seemed that they would be
disinclined to further emigration. Kazim therefore determined to make
immediate preparations for his expedition, but with as much secresy as
possible.
Selecting an intensely dark night for his purpose, he put together the
few articles of value which had been presented to him from time to
time, by the prince and other members of the tribe, and placing the
package on his camel, he led the animal cautiously beyond the precincts
of the camp, Mangeli walking with him hand in hand. His horse he left
behind, justly apprehending that it would be rather an incumbrance
than an auxiliary to them in crossing the vast solitudes which lay
between Astracan and the frontiers of India. Then lifting Mangeli to
her seat on the back of the camel, he walked by her side, assisting
her to retain her position until she was in some measure accustomed to
it. Pursuing their way through the outskirts of the camp without any
clue to guide them, they had the satisfaction to find themselves soon
ascending the mountains by which it was surrounded; and as the day
dawned, they faintly descried the huts of their late friends through
the mists which still floated over the valley. They looked back more
than once upon those habitations with feelings of regret, remembering
the hospitality and affection with which they had been uniformly
treated by every individual of the tribe. A ridge of the mountain at
length shut out the camp from their view, and the sun rising gloriously
in a cloudless sky, enabled Kazim to shape his course towards the town
of Arcan, where he hoped to exchange for money the few Persian shawls
and trinkets of which he was possessed.
Mangeli, though less fatigued by her first day’s journey than she
expected she should be, saw with pleasure towards evening the domes
of Arcan shining in the distance. Here they took up their abode for
the night in the public caravanserai, where Kazim had great difficulty
in selling his small merchandize to some Armenians, whom he met there
on their return from Bokhara to Astracan. When he looked at the fund
with which he was thus furnished, and compared it with the long route
which they still had to traverse before they could reach Lahore, he
felt as if he had been already thrown on the wide ocean of the world,
without a single friendly star to light his way. He had not the courage
to communicate to Mangeli, the inadequacy of the store with which they
had already commenced their expedition. Recommending himself and his
beloved wife to Providence, he led forth his camel with its precious
burthen from Arcan the following morning.
The adventurous pair continued thus to travel constantly from day to
day, stopping during the night at such towns or villages as they met
with in their line of journey, until at length Mangeli was attacked
by a violent fever, which for a while threatened to put an end to
their enterprize altogether. This unfortunate event, besides delaying
them far beyond the time when they had calculated on reaching India,
exhausted the slender means with which they had been provided. They had
now parted with every thing they possessed, except the camel and the
shawl in which the sacred relics of their father had been wrapped. The
former Kazim was at length obliged to exchange for a wretched horse,
in order to discharge the debts which he had contracted during the
illness of Mangeli; and had it not been for the charity of some good
villagers who dwelt on the borders of the great desert, they would have
perished of hunger before they entered on that perilous portion of
their journey.