In this world's inn, where sweetest song abounds
There is no prelude to one song that sounds;
The guests have quaffed their wine and passed away
Their cups were empty and they would not stay.
No sage, no stripling, not a hand but thine
Has held this goblet of poetic wine;
Rise, then, and sing! Thy fear behind thee cast
And, be it clear or dull, bring forth the wine thou hast.
_Jami_.
Babar could not tear himself away from his uncle's camp. He lingered
on and on, watching the military operations with a more or less
critical eye, but absorbing culture wholesale.
It was a revelation to him, meeting men to whom fighting was not the
end and aim of life; and these Begs and nobles of his uncle's court,
though they were all supposed to be engaged in warfare with Khosrau
Shah who was holding Hissar over the river, for his nominee the
nincompoop, had yet time for other things.
Ali-Shir, for instance, was wise beyond belief in all ways.
Incomparable man! So kind, so courteous. Babar profited by his
guidance and encouragement in his efforts to civilise himself. Thus
becoming--since there is not in history any man who was greater patron
of talent than Ali-Shir--one of that great company of poets, painters,
professors, and musicians who owe everything to him, who, passing
through this world single and unencumbered by wife or child, gave
himself and his time up to the instruction of others.
So far, therefore, as the clash of intellect went, young Babar was
satisfied. In regard to the clash of arms it was different. How such a
mighty body of Mirzas, Begs, and chiefs, who, with their followers, if
they were not double the number of the enemy over the water were _at
least_ one-and-a-half times that number, could content themselves with
practical inaction passed his understanding.
When, too, they had such battering rams and catapults as positively
made his mouth water! There was one of the latter which threw such a
quantity of stones and with such accuracy that in half an hour--just
before bedtime prayers--the enemy's fort was beautifully breached. But
the night being deemed rather dark for assault and the troops
preferring the safety and comfort of their trenches, no immediate
attack was made; the result being that before morning the breach was
repaired.
There was absolutely no real fine fighting, and at this rate his
uncle, the Sultan, would doubtless spend the whole winter on the banks
of the Amu river, and when spring came, patch up some sort of a peace
from fear of the floods which always came down with the melting snow.
"That is his way," asserted Kasim with a shrug of his shoulders. "He
leads his army forth with pomp and state, and in himself is no mean
general; but ever it comes to naught. It is so, always, when folk take
to rhyming couplets, and putting spices to their food. Give me orders
that hang together, and plain roast venison."
But all the while the honest man was stuffing his mouth full of lamb
and pistachio nuts, and Babar smiled. Still he felt that, so far as
the art of war went, he might go back to little Andijan without fear
of leaving behind him any knowledge worth the learning. It was
otherwise with the culture, and he flung himself with characteristic
vitality into music lessons, and dancing lessons, elocution lessons
and deportment lessons, until as he entered the court audience no one
could have told that but a few weeks before, he had been as rough and
as uncouth as old Kasim, who stoutly refused veneer.
"What I am, God made me," he would say, "and if folk like it not let
them leave. I budge not."
To which uncompromising independence, one pair of hands--delicate,
long-fingered, ivory hands--gave fluttering applause. They belonged to
a young man who, almost at first sight, impressed young Babar more
than anyone he had seen in all his life. He was a helpless cripple who
yet took his part in life like any other man. Every evening his
spangled litter would be brought into the big audience tent and set
down just below the King's. For Mirza Gharib-Beg (who styled himself
Poverty-prince in allusion to the meaning of his name--poor) was the
King's son by a low-born woman who had been passionately loved. So,
despite the fact that he had been born misshapen, ugly, and that
ill-health had always been his, Poverty-prince still had a hold on his
father's affection. And no wonder; since, though his form was not
prepossessing he had a fine genius, and though his constitution was
feeble, he had a powerful mind. There was nothing, it seemed to Babar,
that he could not do. He could rhyme with Ali-Shir, play the guitar
with Abdulla-Marwarid and paint with Bahzad. What is more, he could
talk mysticism far better than Kamal-ud-din, with his wagging black
beard, who pretended to raptures and ecstasies and had written a
portentously dull book about Sufism which he called "The Assembly of
Lovers"--portentously dull and also profane--which was inexcusable.
But when Poverty-prince spoke of roses and nightingales and even of
the red wine cup, he took you into another world; and he evidently
believed what he said, whereas Kamal-ud-din was all pose.
Yet the next instant the thin ugly face would show almost impish in
its amusement and its owner would burst out with some sally that would
set them all a-laughing; and him a-coughing for the change of air
which was to have done him good was doing him harm; though he would
not admit it.
"Wherefore should I?" he laughed gaily in some anxious face. "A man is
as ill as he thinks himself--he is all things that he believes himself
to be. So I am strong, and well, and young, and deeply enamoured of a
beauteous lady. She is called Feramors--a pretty name," and he would
catch up a lute over which his thin, long, ivory hands would flutter
like butterflies and sing:
"Say! is it Love or Death, O Feramors!
That hides behind thy bosom's pearly doors?
I care not, so I reach the heart within.
Oh! let me in;
Open the closed doors, O Feramors!"
Truly he was a marvellous person! To Babar, boy as he was, the most
marvellous thing in the camp. How could he, cripple, suffering, almost
dying as he was, keep life at bay as it were? How could he sit so free
of it? He, Babar, with his health and strength was not so independent,
though he was more so than most, for, almost unconsciously, he set
himself as free as he could from encumbrance even of thought.
He shrank even from so much as came to him from Gharib, and avoided
his cousin in consequence, spending such time as he could spare from
his numerous lessons, and the watch Kasim made him keep on military
matters, in hunting amid the low hills.
But it was no use. That dark, curiously be-scented tent wherein the
cripple lay laughing at life, had a strange attraction for him. He
took to dropping into it on his way elsewhere, until old Kasim grew
uneasy.
"He lays spells on you, my liege," he protested. "They tell me he can
do it to all young folk--so have a care!"
"Smear my forehead with lamp-black against the evil eye; then shall I
be safe," laughed the boy, and yet in his heart he felt the spell.
And, oddly enough, he liked it. He was fascinated by something in this
distant, faraway cousin of his; so far-away that it scarcely seemed
worth while calling him cousin. Yet, as grandmother Isan-daulet would
say: "all men were descended from Adam!"
"Come in on thy return from the chase," said Poverty-prince one day
when he had looked in on the scent sodden tent, a picture of youth and
strength and health, in his fur _posteen_ and his high peaked cap.
"And bring thy bag with thee for this lifeless log to see. What shall
it contain? _Imprimis_--a brace of chameleon birds. I love to see
their iridescent necks and the six different colours between head and
tail--mark you! how I remember thy description, cousin-ling?"
Babar blushed. "Thou said'st thou had never seen them," he began
apologetically.
"Save through thine eyes and they are good enough for most folk. Be
not ashamed, coz, of the gift God hath given thee. And thou shalt
bring me a fat deer and some _kalidge_ pheasant--and, with luck, a
cock _minawul_. Then we will look at it with the same eyes--thou and
I--" A wistfulness had crept into his voice, and he said no more.
But the curious thing was that the bag was ever just what
Poverty-prince had predicted, neither more, nor less.
"Thou art a wizard, for sure," said Babar half seriously. "The
thought of thy words makes my aim sure at times, and at another sets
my bow arm a-quiver. Wert thou to say '_naught_,' I should return
empty-handed."
"So be it," laughed the cripple. "Why should we kill God's pretty
creatures?"
And thereinafter two whole hunts produced nothing. Whether it was a
fresh fall of snow in the hills that brought ill luck Babar could not
say, but he looked at his cousin with awe.
"Thou hast more power I verily believe," he said, "than the Dream-man
whom Uncle Hussain keeps--"
"For his amusement," put in Poverty-prince with a frown. "But _that_
is black magic; mine is white. I do naught. 'Tis thy mind that
answers--" he broke off and his large eyes--the only unmarred feature
in his face--narrowed themselves to a piercing glance. "Wherefore
should I not say it, cousin? Has it not struck thee, that had'st thou
been born crooked and not straight, or had I been born straight and
not crooked, we should have been as two twins? That is why I like
thee, and thou likest me."
The boy sat and stared at him, almost incredulously. He could not
imagine his youth and strength pent up in that prison of a body; and
yet ...
Yes! without doubt there was some tie. Else why should he feel so
intimate--why should he speak to Poverty-prince of things which every
decent young Mahomedan was taught to keep to himself; for instance of
Dearest-One and the possibility of her marrying Baisanghar?
The blood rushed to his face, however, with shame when he felt his
cousin's hot, long-fingered, trembling hand close on his wrist in
quick arrest.
"Marriage--say not the word! Dost not know? Nay--I forgot thy
youth--and I will not soil thine ears with the tale. But we in foul
Herat know most wickedness, most degradations. And there is that in
miserable Baisanghar's life that bars marriage with any woman worthy
the name. Aye! and he knows it--poor maimed soul enmeshed for ever by
the wickedness of one who should have protected him--May God's curse
light on him for ever. So think not of marriage, cousin."
Babar shook off his cousin's clasp haughtily. It was not that he
resented having substance given to his vague doubts of Baisanghar--it
was better to know for sure; but interference with his womenkind was
intolerable. And he had brought it on himself!
"By your leave," he said with terrific dignity, "we will speak no more
on such private matters. 'Tis my own fault. Such subjects are not meet
for public conversations."
Poverty-prince lay back on his cushions and kindly raillery took
possession of his face. "Not meet, sayest thou cousin-ling? Yet are
they the best half--nay! the three quarters of life. Dost know that
even to me, cripple, marriage hath played the major part?"
Babar's eyes involuntarily travelled over the distorted body, the
crumpled limbs, and Poverty-prince laughed cynically.
"Thou art right, boy," he went on; "loathsome to sight and touch, what
had I to do with weddings. But princedom weighs heavy with the pandars
of the court. And 'twas done early. Mayhap they did not dream I would
grow up so monstrous--as I did." He paused and his pale face grew
paler, his hot fingers clasped and unclasped themselves. "Mayest thou
never--nay! thou will not--see fear upon a girl's face. I saw it. Dost
understand? Nay, thou art but a child still. Thank God! I did. So she
waits for release by my death. And then--" He paused again and this
time bright, cold raillery took possession of his face as he said:
"Thou wilt make a fine bridegroom, cousin-ling, some day! Fair maids
will not be alarmed at thee!"
"Likely I shall be of them," answered the boy stoutly; and it was
true; barring Dearest-One, the stupid, mincing creatures filled him
with dismay.
This passed but a few days before Kasim, who thought his young charge
had had quite enough of the camp, proposed starting homewards. There
seemed no prospect of the campaign coming to a close. Quite a variety
of strategical movements had been made, mines had been dug, forts
besieged, but the result was nil. And time was passing. Events had not
been going smoothly at Samarkand, the moment for intervention might be
near and Grandmother Isan-daulet had sent a messenger advocating
return.
None too soon, for the very same day King Hussain's runners brought
news of a conspiracy to turn out Baisanghar, and bring in a younger
brother Ali-Khan.
"But he is not of the blood, either," said Babar hotly. "Kasim! we
must go back at once." The desire for conquest was stirring in him
once more.
"The sooner the better, sire," replied the stout warrior, settling his
sword belt. He had wearied terribly among the smart soldiers and was
longing for a real raid once more.
"To say farewell," echoed Poverty-prince, when Babar looked in that
night at his cousin's tent; "I thought it was not to be for a week
yet." And his hot hand clasped the cool one with a lingering touch.
"There was news from Samarkand," replied the lad, regret tempering the
keenness which had come to his face with the prospect of action. "And,
cousin, it matters little--'tis but a few hours' difference--"
"A few hours?" echoed the cripple, speaking, for the first time since
Babar had known him, almost regretfully; "that means much to one who
has but a few days or weeks to live. Not that it does so really, coz,"
he added, recovering his usual serenity. "And thou wilt spare me one
of the hours? I dare claim so much of my twin?"
The pathetic playfulness of the appeal went straight to the lad's soft
heart; he fell on his knees beside the cushions, then sat back in the
Mahomedan attitude of prayer. "Nay, brother," he said--and there was
quite a tremble in his young voice--"say not so--I am but a poor
creature beside thee. Thou art--truly I know not what! Sometimes I
think an angel from God's paradise--thou art so splendid!"
"Knowest thou if angels be splendid?" asked Poverty-prince with
radiant raillery. "For myself I know not--only this--that I shall miss
my double--" He looked at the lad's lithe limbs, at his long legs, his
great stretch of arm. "And to think," he muttered, "that I might have
been born so--My God! to think of it."
Then suddenly he clapped his hands and gave a peremptory order to the
servant who appeared.
"See that I be not disturbed--that no one enters."
He waited till they were alone, then drew something from his bosom and
held it before him in both hands. It was a tiny crystal bowl scarce
large enough for his finger tips. But they held the glittering thing
lightly. It looked like a diamond body to two fluttering ivory wings,
as he said slowly, musically.
"It hath lain in my breast, ever. I found it in the hand of death," he
said dreamily, "but the Riddle-of-Life ends for me, and begins for
thee. So take it, when I have told thee how it came to me."
Those ivory hands of his seemed more like wings than ever as, still
holding the bowl before him, he lay back and it showed clear against
the shadows of the tent.
"Thou knowest," he went on, "the graveyards of the hill-folk? Set on
an hill and thick with iris flowers--the flowers of immortality--the
green sword leaves guarding the blossoms, guarding the quiet dead
below? It was the day I saw fear in a maiden's eyes--there was
such a graveyard not far from her father's dwelling--he is dead now
and she awaits the release of death amongst beneficent ladies in a
House-of-Rest at Herat--and I bid them carry me there; for my heart
was aflame and I cursed God for this carcase, seeing she was fair. So
they left me there overlooking the valley, and when they had gone I
lay amid the crushed iris and writhed--but of that no more. It hath
passed.
"So, suddenly, between my empty wide-spread arms and clutching fingers
I saw something amid the crushed blossoms. It must have been a very
old grave on which I lay, since the iris roots matted thick upon it as
if to hide the dead that lay in the hollow of it; for the rams and the
winds sweeping on that high exposed spot had torn the covering of soil
from Mother Earth's bosom. What I saw was this crystal cup. Perchance
it had been used when the dead was laid to rest, and forgotten.
Perchance some sad lover had set it there with flowers and tears in
the poignancy of first grief, and gone away to love another. Who
knows? The iris-roots had grown to a cup around it; twisted, white,
iris-roots like dead fingers; and I took it from them. Take thou it, O
Zahir-ud-din Mahomed, from one close to the Adventure of Death. I
burden the gift with but one condition--if ever thou comest across a
frightened maid--" here his whole face became radiant with smiles--"be
not afraid of her. So take it cousin-ling. It is no cup of King
Jamsheed to bring thee counsel in thy need. Yet it hath its virtue to
those, who, like thou hast, have eyes to see. It can bring content."
Content! was this the secret of Poverty-prince's charm? Babar, bold,
young, every fibre of him keen-strung for the Life, on the brink of
which he stood, cared little for content. Yet he took the cup and
looked at it curiously. Quaint of a surety! Taller than it was broad.
Small enough to lie in the hollow of the hand. The brim over-thick by
reason of heavy bosses below the edge: five bosses like those in blown
glass, but oval, like eyes. The rest faintly frosted by fine
scratchings (were they without or within?--within surely) which, were
they letterings, would need a magnifying glass ere they could be
deciphered. But at the bottom, so disposed that one must read in
drinking, these words showed clear:
"Save the cup of life, what gift canst thou bring?"
That was from Hafiz surely?
"Aye! divine Hafiz," replied his cousin answering his thought boldly.
"Now, hold it to the light, cousin-ling, and see its virtue."
The boy did as he was bid, feeling dazed and dreamful. A seven-lamped
tripod behind his cousin's cushions had been lit--at least he could
not remember that it had been there when he came in--Seven little
lamps ...
Why! those five bosses were deftly arranged to gather the light and
send it ... God and His Prophet! How beautiful!
Through the clear eye before his eyes he saw his cousin's face--all
glorified--splendid utterly ...
That something which came to him ever with the sight of beauty, filled
him with joy ...
But stay! the bosses must be magnifying glasses also! He could read
something.
What was it?
_Ishk_ (love)? or _Ashk_ (tears)?
"Thou wilt see more clearly when thou hast learnt to use the five eyes
of the soul," came his cousin's voice; "then thine own thoughts will
return to thee from the Mirror-of-Life. Now put it into the bosom of
thy fur coat. There is room there for it and majesty likewise. And now
I will sing the Song-of-the-Bowl ere thou goest."
He clapped his hands once more, and the boy sighed and rubbed his eyes
dreamily. Surely the seven lamps had been lit? But now they were not;
the semi-darkness of the scent-sodden tent closed in on him, and that
was his cousin's every-day voice:
"Bring me my dulcimer, slave! Lo! King-ling, it suits the measure
better than the _cithara_ and I am proud of the tune! 'Tis my own."
So, after a while, the tinkling notes began, the voice rose
plaintively:
[Illustration: Three Bars of Music with words]
"Clear Crystal Bowl! Thy sun-sparkles blind
Every poor soul whose eyes seek to find
Way through Life's wilderness on thy bright brim,
Crystal Bowl!
What wilt thou bring to him,
Darkness or Light?
Clear Crystal Bowl! Thy touch, icy cold,
Chills lovers lips that lay overbold
Hot clinging kisses on thy bright brim,
Crystal Bowl!
What wilt thou bring to him,
Love or Despair?
Clear Crystal Bowl! I laugh like thy wine!
Bring me Life's whole! all things must be mine!
Is not the wide world mirrored in thee
Crystal Bowl?
I bid thee bring to me
Joy, Grief, Life, Death--"
The voice ceased and there was silence for a little while.
But in all the long after-years the memory of those tinkling notes,
that thin voice claiming the whole of life, remained with Zahir-ud-din
Mahomed.
"Well! God's peace go with thee," said Poverty-prince brightly at the
last; "methinks thy boyhood is about past, and sterner stuff hath to
come. But keep the gift of death and if thou lose it--at least
remember my poor verses. And, coz--" here the wizened face almost
dimpled with laughter, "if thou comest across the frightened maid--I
give no names, they are an encumbrance, remember to make her not
frightened of my twin! Farewell."
It was a stirring night. The river had to be crossed silently in the
very face of Khosrau Shah's pickets (for he was holding the north bank
for his nominee the nincompoop) and a stealthy way made skirting the
enemy's camp, ere they could reach the hills beyond. Some of the party
felt inclined to put Andijan tactics in force, make a rush through the
out-posts, give and take a few sabre cuts, and so make off; but Babar,
even though old Kasim hesitated, had learnt something besides
accomplishments in his uncle's camp; he had learnt that time was long,
and that it was well to choose your own. So he rode canny.
It was dawn ere they reached the last vantage ground whence they could
see the camp they had left. It lay curiously calm and peaceful. Kasim,
more than half-asleep on his horse now there was no chance of a fine
fight, yawned, and stretched his arms wide.
"No more of that for me," he said lustily. "I am for cut and thrust
and a good bellyful of plain food."
"But I am for all things," laughed Babar. He was trying to pick out
his cousin's tent, and as he spoke he put his hand into the bosom of
his coat to feel for the Crystal Bowl.
He could not find it!
Had it dropped out or what...?
"I must go back," he said, half to himself--"I must, I must!"
"Go back? Wherefore?" asked old Kasim. "What is it, sire--to go back
is Death; the enemy is awake by now."
The boy-King looked at him keenly. "Aye!" he said shortly, "and to go
on is Life. I must remember, as he said. Forward! gentlemen!"