The boatmen shout--“’tis time to part!
No longer we can stay:”
’Twas then Maimuna taught my heart,
How much a glance could say!
With trembling steps to me she came;
“Farewell!” she would have cried;
But ere her lips the word could frame,
In half formed sounds it died.
Then bending down, with looks of love,
Her arms she round me flung;
And, as the gale hangs on the grove,
Upon my breast she hung.
My willing arms embraced the maid,
My heart with raptures beat;
While she but wept the more, and said,
“Would we had never met!”
MUSICIAN OF BAGDAD.
Amongst the earliest companions of the Prince Selim, there was one,
named Fereid Bochari, who long continued to possess over the mind of
his master an unrivalled influence. He was the son of Abdulhamid
Messower, a portrait painter of Shiraz, who had been employed by Acbar
for several years in painting the beauties of the harem. Bochari,
while yet a boy, was frequently admitted with his father into the
interior of the harem, where he became acquainted with the prince. The
near equality of their ages, the lively spirits of Bochari, and the
infinite resources which he had at his command for amusing the heir
to the empire, soon prepared for him the way to fortune. His father,
of course, gave every encouragement, and all the improvement in his
power to talents, which had already won for his son the favour of so
important a personage. At the earnest solicitation of Selim, Bochari
was altogether domesticated in the palace. They were inseparable
companions, both in the school-room and in the gardens assigned them
for recreation. They grew up together from youth to manhood; and
although the emperor frequently observed with solicitude, the strange
power which the Persian exercised over the resolutions of the prince,
whether they were connected with matters of business or pleasure,
nevertheless, he made no attempt to break the links by which they
appeared to be bound together.
The son of Messower was from nature, as well as from the circumstances
under which he was brought up, a consummate hypocrite. In the presence
of the emperor, or of the influential persons employed about him,
Bochari exhibited a peculiar gravity of demeanor, supposed to be partly
the result of the rigid principles of religion, which he affected to
follow; partly of the profound veneration which he professed to feel
for the ministers and other great officers engaged in the service of
the empire. For the restraint, however, which he imposed upon himself
on these occasions, he took ample compensation when he was alone with
Selim. There was then scarcely any body invested with public office,
whom he did not mimic with an extraordinary degree of perfection, in
voice, language, and manner. Selim confessed that he would often have
found it difficult to believe that Bochari was not himself the very
character he represented, had not the latter generally taken care,
when finishing the exhibition, to turn his originals into ridicule.
When, after an evening’s amusement of this description, they found
themselves near each other at any of the ceremonies of the court, in
the presence of the very personages who had thus been caricatured,
Selim frequently burst into laughter which he could not control; very
much to the horror of the emirs, and sometimes even of the emperor,
who noticed his indecorous merriment; while not a muscle was moved
in the countenance of Bochari. On the contrary, he would often take
it upon himself to reprove the prince for his levity, and to engage
him in conversation, in order to prevent its renewal. Every body,
who witnessed these scenes, looked upon it as a most fortunate
circumstance, that a person of so much discretion was placed near the
prince, who had sufficient influence to check these improprieties of
conduct.
Bochari inherited from his father a most ungovernable passion for wine.
He was rigidly cautious in never drinking before mid-day prayers, as
the consequence would have been fatal had he been discovered drunk in
the mosque; and, besides, the emperor seldom passed a morning without
visiting the apartment of his son. But the afternoons, which were
supposed to be spent by the prince, and his companion, in riding
in the country near Agra, were very generally devoted by both, even
before they arrived at manhood, to a very different purpose. They left
the palace mounted, as usual, for an excursion. They had in their
pay a peasant, who owned a small shed in the neighbourhood of the
capital, to whose care they confided their horses. Then putting on the
dresses of common soldiers, which they had provided, they returned in
disguise to Agra; and establishing themselves in one of their favourite
wine-houses, they usually drank from fifteen to twenty cups each,
sometimes alone, but more frequently in the midst of the lowest company
by which those places were crowded. The prince became, in a short time,
so much addicted to this beverage, that if he were deprived of it, at
his accustomed hours, his hands began to shake, and he was unable to
sit at rest until wine was brought before him.
When Selim was permitted, at the usual age, to establish a harem of
his own, Bochari lent all his assistance in collecting for it the most
beautiful women of Hindostan. But the skill and perseverance with which
he succeeded in rescuing his master from the predominant influence of
any of his numerous wives, would have been admirable, had they been
exercised in a more legitimate cause. Accustomed to dictate every fancy
he suffered Selim to indulge, he would bear no rival in the absolute
dominion over him, which he wielded with the sway of an enchanter.
As soon as he learned, by questioning the prince, that the charms of
a particular female were assuming a marked superiority in his esteem
over those of her companions, he so concerted his measures, that to
make him forget such dangerous attractions, a new rival was introduced,
destined, in her turn, to be sacrificed the moment she aimed at
securing the permanence of her ascendancy.
Bochari had, with all the world, heard much of the beauty of
Mher-Ul-Nissa. The few occasions on which he had seen her, enabled
him to confirm, by his own observation, the reports which had reached
his ear. He acknowledged to Selim, who often spoke to him about her,
that the poets, in their most inspired moments, had never portrayed an
earthly being, whose presence was more bewitching than the daughter of
Kazim Ayas. There were, however, a steadiness and dignity in her mien,
and a quick intelligence in her eye, which at once commanded Bochari’s
respect, and forbade him to think of any scheme for adding that lovely
person to the harem of the prince. He feared that the moment of her
marriage with Selim would, of necessity, be that of his own downfall.
He could hope to find no rival in Hindostan; nay, not even in Persia,
whom he might make use of, for the purpose of counteracting the
influence which her fascinations of person and of mind would be sure to
attain. The circumstance, therefore, of her being engaged to Afkun, was
the more agreeable, as it was by him unexpected. For he had not failed
to discover that Selim’s attentions to Mher-Ul-Nissa recently assumed
a character very likely, if unresisted, to lead to the most important
consequences.
The apprehensions of Bochari, on this subject, were excited to an
extreme degree one evening, soon after it was publicly declared that
Afkun was to be united to the daughter of the high treasurer. The
chieftain had scarcely obtained from Mher-Ul-Nissa, the promise of
her hand, when he was again suddenly called to his government by the
occurrence of a series of the most awful calamities, which were caused
by the overflowing of the lakes, in consequence of the melting of the
snows in the mountains, as well as an unusual continuance of heavy
rains. The waters overspread the country for many leagues, and as they
poured along with irresistible fury, they swept away not only the
harvests standing in the fields, but whole villages, and innumerable
flocks and herds, which happened to be within the reach of the
inundation.
During Afkun’s absence, Kazim gave a splendid banquet in honour of the
approaching nuptials. Selim and his companion, together with several of
the most dignified personages of the empire, were present. The wines,
all of the most exquisite kind, were very freely circulated; and after
the crowd of less intimate guests had withdrawn, the ladies, veiled as
usual, made their appearance.
At the request of Selim, Mher-Ul-Nissa sung to her lute several of
her favourite airs. Bochari observed, that her melodies, whether from
accident or design he could not conjecture, were, for the most part,
of a grave and even plaintive turn, instead of being suited to the
joyousness of the occasion. There was one especially, which told, in
the most touching tones, the grief of a Cingalese girl, who had been
attached to a native of her own island; but who had an opportunity,
after being sold as a slave, to improve, in some degree the severity
of her fate, by marrying a foreign prince. The verses, in which she
described the innocence and ardour of her first love, as contrasted
with the reluctance she felt in bestowing her hand, where it never
could be accompanied by her heart, were given by Mher-Ul-Nissa
with a tenderness, which drew tears from every body present, with
the exception of Bochari. While all other eyes were fixed upon the
ravishing minstrel, his were wholly employed in watching, with secret
anguish, the powerful effect which her performance produced on the
feelings of the prince.
Although Mangeli beheld this scene with the natural pride of a mother,
yet feeling that if it were prolonged, under the circumstances, it
might give rise to unjust interpretations, she desired her attendants,
all of whom were robed in the most sumptuous attire, to form for the
dance. But although those maidens, most of whom were characterised by
beauty and gracefulness, executed their appointed parts in the dance in
a superior style, they attracted not the slightest notice from Selim.
His wrapt attention still dwelt on the song which he had last heard,
and he pressed for its repetition with so much earnestness, that it
seemed almost inhospitable to refuse his request. Mher-Ul-Nissa resumed
her instrument; but while she was still preluding to the air which she
intended to play, two of the principal strings snapped asunder with a
loud, and, as some felt, an ominous sound, like the shriek of an evil
genius.
In order to dissipate the sudden gloom which this incident created
throughout the company, she rose, and ordering Kanun to take the
flageolet, while another of her attendants struck the double-stringed
harp, she stood in the midst of the circle like some wonderful statue
fresh from the hand of the artist. The music of the two performers at
first lamented the fate of a Hindu shepherdess, whom the god Vishnu
transformed into marble, lest, during his temporary absence from
earth, she might surrender her affections to an ordinary mortal. A
rapid transition was then made to the most charming pastoral strains,
resembling those which the former companions of the metamorphosed
maid poured forth from their simple reeds; when after seeking her for
many a day over the fields, where she had been accustomed to tend her
flocks, they at length discovered her near a fountain, as they thought
asleep. They hoped that they might awake her from her lethargy, by
addressing her in the tones which she most loved to hear--the songs
of her youth; but she remained insensible to their appeals, renewed
though they were from day to day. At length, a young unknown shepherd,
who, with a lyre slung on his back, joined the group one morning, as
they were proceeding to the fountain, mingled the brilliant notes of
his instrument with those which had hitherto failed to produce any
effect on the sleeping girl. Suddenly the marble trembled, and became
relaxed--the glow of genial warmth overspread the whole figure--blushes
kindled on the cheeks--the eyelids separated, and from beneath them
shot forth a living fire--the arms moved--and while the rustics, gazing
with rapture on the miraculous change that was going on, imparted to
their music the brightening joy by which they were inspired, the
strange shepherd, taking the maid by the hand, called all her limbs
into the most exquisite action, descriptive of the happiness of
those, who, after a long separation, are again joined in the sweet
consciousness of mutual affection.
Mher-Ul-Nissa answered to each variation in the strain, with
irresistible truth and power of expression. The statue, veiled in
drapery, seemed for a while without vitality--breathless--cold--but
still beautiful, even in apparent death. No feature or limb
moved, while the airs of the shepherdesses emulated each other,
in endeavouring to recall her to emotion; but when the well-known
music of the god touched her ear, the effect was electric upon the
whole assembly. Her figure appeared to warm by degrees, from utter
insensibility to a divine rapture. The sentiment that actuated her
entire being was shown in attitudes and movements, refined far above
those exhibitions to which the grosser sense gives rise.
Selim followed her steps, with a degree of admiration which he knew not
how to repress within the ordinary bounds of decorum. He was beside
himself with delight. And when, in gliding before him, her veil chanced
to be wafted from her head, suddenly disclosing to his view all the
charms of her unrivalled countenance, blushing, with confusion for such
an untoward accident, his bended knee, his upward glowing looks, his
hand pressed on her’s, whilst he exclaimed, “NOURMAHAL!”[2] at once
proclaimed feelings, which, though they found no words, announced, that
from that hour they were, for good or for evil, to rule his subsequent
existence.
[2] “Light of the harem!”