you only knew how much I grew in those happy years. I had divined
nearly everything I learned later in China; the music of the future is
clear to me from the tom-tom of the savage to---- But I can’t write,
man; I can’t; the love of my art is dead in me; she killed my very soul.
“All the music I’ve played here for you is old, old stuff; it has all
been memory music, every note of it. You surely know that you must be
alive, intensely alive, before you can create anything! It’s the life
in you that you impart. I’m dead: the heart is cold in me; the soul a
corpse. I can do nothing worth the doing----”
“Don’t say that,” I protested. “Think how much nobler your work will be
if you do it without joy and without hope; but do it; make a beginning
at least that the world will never forget----”
He shook his head. “I can’t. You will not understand. The bad alone
survives in me. What good would it do to picture a madhouse or a wild
beast’s cage? Your Joachim was right; art is there to cheer, encourage,
console, warn even if you will; but never to horrify and disgust
and discourage. And I see nothing but beasts, lunatics, idiots; the
posturing, gibbering apes are loathsome to me!”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I exclaimed, laughing; “but you don’t
dislike Neumann or me, do you? Well, another concert or two and you’ll
find hundreds like us to love and admire you, and our love will inspire
you to do the new work.”
He shook his head. “What an optimist you are! You see you had the
knocks first, the training first that hardened you; I had the triumphs
first that left me soft and weak.”
“At any rate give yourself time,” I pleaded; “do nothing hastily; don’t
go off at half-cock, as we Americans say; another triumph or two will
make a difference; you know the French proverb, ‘L’appetit vient en
mangeant’--the appetite grows with eating.”
He smiled. “I owe you that; at least I won’t do anything till I must”;
and forced therewith to be content I went off to consult with Neumann,
whom I brought back with me to dinner.
The second concert was a far greater triumph than the first; all the
best music-lovers in Vienna were there and prepared now to welcome a
great master. As he stood bowing on the platform at the end and the
audience cheered and cheered and the women even came up in crowds to
the stage, I made my way to the side door that led behind the stage. As
I got there a young woman addressed me:
“Are you Herr ----?” Then, without waiting for an answer: “I am his
wife, take me to him!”
“I would, so gladly,” I exclaimed, “but is this the right moment?”
She looked at me with wide frightened hazel eyes. “What do you mean? I
must see him. Explain.... My God, speak, man! will you take me to him?”
She was quivering with excitement; she caught my arm in her hands as if
I were about to evade her; she was certainly very pretty; I tried to
persuade her for his sake.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” I said impressively; “but now and here you
won’t get a chance of a quiet talk; he’ll probably have left the place
as he did last time before I can catch him; but he lives with me.
I’ll get you a good opportunity, madame, where you can use all your
persuasiveness. I want you to succeed and save him, I promise you----”
“Oh, now, now,” she interrupted; “please, please, for God’s sake. I’ve
waited so long, all these weary years; please,” and the tears poured
down her cheeks.
“Come,” I said, unable to resist, “we’ll find him if we can,” and
hurriedly I took her through the passage to the waiting-room, but
Hagedorn had “left two minutes before,” as Neumann told me, looking
intently at my companion.
“Go to my rooms at once, Neumann,” I cried, “and if Hagedorn is there
keep him till we come, or keep with him at least till you bring about a
meeting. For the love of God, don’t lose sight of him till we all meet.
If you don’t understand, please believe I have good reason, and don’t
tell Hagedorn I was with a lady; just say I must meet him, see!”
“I understand,” replied Neumann. “I’m off; and if he’s not in your
rooms I’ll wait there for you. What a success, eh?” And the next moment
he was gone.
“Now,” I said, “madame, we can go quietly to my place. Should we drive
or walk? It’s only ten minutes’ drive.”
“As you please,” she replied quietly. So I took her outside and got
into a fiacre with her and gave my address.
“Shall I explain to you?” she began as soon as we were alone. “I feel
that you know the story, know it perhaps better than I do. Why did he
leave me? Why didn’t he answer my letters? It wasn’t because of one
kiss?”
“I fear it was,” was my answer. “I’m not defending him or accusing you;
but that’s what he says. He must have always been an idealist.”
“That’s why I loved him,” she cried; “but, good God! how unjust, how
cruel of him! I can hardly explain how it happened; perhaps you won’t
understand. We women do so much out of pity, for pity’s sake.
“I had told Goldescu that his cynical way of talking disgusted and
pained me; it did him harm too; he was growing coarser, worse, and I
was so happy. I wanted to help him; so I told him he must stop jeering
or I’d have to cease seeing him.
“He didn’t speak for a little while and I thought I had been hard on
him.
“Then he began in a strange, passionate voice:
“‘You blame me for being cynical; it’s too much. I’m cynical because I
was a fool, lost my chance. Are you stone-blind? I might have won you,
was near it years ago and waited thinking you would come to me, waited
too long, and he won you in an hour. That _Musiker_! And now you blame
me for being cynical--you! the cause of it! you!’
“I was thunderstruck, shaken.
“‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered. ‘We women are always sorry, you know, for
giving love-pain!’
“‘Don’t be sorry,’ he cried, ‘I couldn’t stand that. I never meant to
tell you; don’t be sorry; I’m the only one should grieve, but say you
forgive me.’
“‘Of course I forgive you,’ I cried.
“‘I’ll try to be better. We’ll never talk of it again,’ he said. ‘One
kiss of forgiveness,’ and before I thought he lifted my face and kissed
me--a long kiss.
“As soon as I felt how he was kissing me I pulled away and started up
hot with rage.
“‘A poor comedy,’ I cried, ‘but even you can only play it once with
me,’ and I went to the door; it was open.
“Vaguely I wondered why; after Goldescu had gone I wondered, but then
forgot all about it till I got that awful letter from the lawyer.
“I couldn’t believe that; it all seemed too monstrous to me; it does
now! Like a horrible nightmare turning sweet sleep to horror.
“A thousand times I cried: ‘Why should he leave me?’ Goldescu kissed
me without my will; I was as if hypnotised; the next moment I stopped
him. I’ve never seen him since; wouldn’t see him. I loved no one but my
husband, no one, ever! Oh! Oh!” And again the tears drowned her face
and voice.
I pitied her so that I could not help trying to console her:
“Don’t fear, please; it will all come right, it must”--the usual
inanities.
When we got upstairs Neumann met us.
“He’s not been home yet, but he’s sure to come before dinner. You’ll
not forget you’re both dining with me; this lady too, if she’ll come.”
“We may be late,” I said, “but we’ll come if possible.”
Neumann took the hint and left.
As soon as we were alone Madame Hagedorn began to fidget. “I feel
misfortune in the air,” she repeated.... “You know I feel sure if I can
talk to him I can convince him that my love never changed. And then
I’ll love him so, he’ll have to love me again. Don’t you think so?”
Then she began again graming and grieving: “I’ve been so unhappy, and
now so fearful. Are you sure he has not been here? Is this where he
sleeps?” and she pointed to my sofa-bed.
“No, no,” I replied; “he occupies the bedroom in there,” and I motioned
to the door.
“Let’s go in and see if he’s been in,” she cried.
I went first and opened the door; the bed, the chairs, his clothes--all
in the usual order. “You see,” I said, turning to her, “he’s not been
here”; but even as I spoke she pointed to the head of the bed and
there, pinned on the pillow, was a sheet of paper.
I took it and read:
“I knew she was in the hall; I felt her presence; I saw her speaking
to you; I fled.
“It’s no use, man. I will not renew the intolerable anguish; I dare
not. I prefer to---- Good-bye. You did all that could be done.... I
forgive, but there is only one way to forget.
“E. H.”
AKBAR: “THE MIGHTIEST”
AKBAR: “THE MIGHTIEST”
In the heart of Asia, in the great Temple of Samarkand, are three
tombs: one to Timour, the first of the Mughal Conquerors who overran
Asia; one to Akbar, his descendant, who as a youth won India and
established an empire; and one to Akbar’s master and counsellor,
Abulfazl. Akbar’s tomb, erected by himself, is quite a small and
insignificant one, and there the Conqueror rests quietly enough these
three hundred years and more now at the feet of his teacher. The simple
grandeur of the great sarcophagi, the humility of the invincible
emperor quickened my curiosity, first awakened by the name given to him
of “Akbar,” which means the “Mightiest” or “Highest,” and is generally
used as an attribute of God. Was he really a great man? Who gave him
the astounding title? How came it to stick to him? Why was he the only
conqueror in recorded time whose empire endured for centuries after his
death?
Samarkand, too, interested me. It is one of the oldest cities in the
world: even the stones of the strong houses are eaten into by the
centuries and coloured with the patine of time, and its chief citizens
are tanners now and goldsmiths as they were two thousand years before
Christ, when it was called Marcanda. But again and again I left the
bazaars and dark shops, with their silk praying-rugs that take a
generation to weave, and barbaric jewels--sky-blue turquoises as large
as filberts, carved amethysts as big as hens’ eggs, and sapphires sold
by the ounce--to return to the Temple.
One day, in an Armenian’s den in the bazaar, I found a Crusader’s
sword, and a suit of chain armour that must have belonged to one of
the knights who followed St. Louis to the Holy Land. The owner of the
shop talked the Levantine jargon, which is based on modern Greek, and
so I could make myself fairly understood. In his cautious way he took
a polite interest in me, as a customer, and when I explained to him
that I was interested in the cathedral, and especially in Akbar and his
life, he told me he would send a compatriot of his to the caravanserai,
a learned Sunni, who would give me all the information on the subject I
could desire.
The next day I found a Sufi waiting for me, who looked the priestly
part, whatever his practice may have been. He was of middle height,
yet impressive by reason of impassivity. The slow quiet ways of the
immemorial East seemed to have moulded his gentle, deferential manners.
I have never seen so expressive a face that changed so little. It
was of the purest Persian type: a narrow oval, the features almost
perfectly regular, though the nose was slightly long and beaked, the
eyes long, too, and dark brown, almost the black-brown of strong
coffee; he might have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five.
He introduced himself as having been sent to me by the merchant, and
placed himself at my disposal. I told him that what I wanted to know
was the story of Akbar--how he came to power, why he built himself a
small tomb at the feet of his teacher. Was there any reason for his
humility, any spiritual significance in it? Had he no woman in his
life, but only a man-friend?--a host of questions.
The Sufi bowed and told me he would do his best to answer me: would
I care to hear the popular story? I responded eagerly that was just
what I most wanted. Then he was afraid his knowledge of Greek might
be insufficient: would I mind if now and then he availed himself of a
dictionary? And he pulled a little shabby, dog-eared booklet out of his
pocket, which was issued in Leipzig, and contained words in Persian,
Hindu and modern Greek.
I assured him I was chiefly curious about Akbar himself. Did the great
fighter really become a sort of religious teacher and put forth a new
religion? He assured me he would tell me everything as it had been told
to him when a boy. I thanked him; that was what I desired.
“Everyone knows,” he began, “that Akbar’s real name was Jelàl-ed-Din
Muhammad. He was born at Amarkot in 1542, when his father was fleeing
to Persia from Delhi. In 1555, when the boy was thirteen years of age,
his father died. Jelàl gave the control of his kingdom to Bairam Khan
as regent, and occupied himself with games and physical exercises.
Bairam Khan set to work to subdue the provinces that had revolted from
Jelàl’s father. He carried out his work with such relentless cruelty
that his name became a byword from the banks of the Ganges to the
Caspian. He brought peace, it was said, the white peace of death!
“Till he was about eighteen Jelàl gave himself to sports and poetry
like other youths, and thought little about governing. He was the
most enthusiastic polo player of his day, and one story told about
him depicts his strength of body and impetuous intensity of character
better than pages of description. He was surprised once by nightfall in
the middle of a close game; he resolved to go on till he had gained the
victory. Accordingly he had balls made of palás wood that burns a long
time, and with these fiery balls he continued the game till his side
had won.
“I always see Akbar, in my mind, galloping furiously in the dark after
a ball of fire; that seems to me symbolic of the intense spirit of the
young conqueror. When he was sixteen or seventeen he began to listen to
criticisms of Bairam Khan. He even made some pertinent suggestions; and
the Minister-General, jealous of his power, looked out a lovely girl
for him and persuaded him to take her to wife. With the cunning of the
East Bairam Khan knew that the best way to lead princes was with such
silken strings.
“A year or two later the king had his first real shock: one evening
he was poisoned and came near death--only recovered, indeed, because
he took violent emetics on his own initiative before the doctor had
time to come to his assistance. Who were the culprits? The king knew
intuitively. There must be a conspiracy between two, he said: between
the chief cook, who alone prepared his food, and his wife, who had
cajoled him into eating it without waiting to have it tasted. He had
the chief cook before him, and in five minutes wrung the truth out of
him and found that his suspicions were correct. His dismissal of the
wretch was equivalent to a sentence of death. The culprit was strangled
before he left the ante-chamber. While that was going on Jelàl strove
to compose his spirit by writing a sonnet, but he could hardly please
himself even with the first verse.
“He could not shirk the question: What was to be done with the girl?
At length Jelàl called her before him and asked her simply why she had
conspired with the cook. What had he done to make her hate him?
“The girl shrugged her shoulders disdainfully and kept silent.
“‘Do you love cooks better than kings?’ asked the monarch at last; and
the girl burst forth:
“‘We women love those who love us and care for us. When did you ever
care for anyone but yourself? You think more of winning a chaugan game
than of winning love. A woman to you is a plaything. How can you
expect love when you never give it?’
“The king was shaken with surprise and doubt. After all, the girl was
right enough and what she said was true. He had always treated her as
an instrument of pleasure. Why should he expect gratitude and affection
from her?
“What was he to do with her?... this woman he had loved and trusted?
“He was utterly at a loss till a thought struck him. In spite of his
diabolic cruelty, or because of it, Bairam Khan had been successful
in life. He had conquered provinces and subdued cities; he should
know how to deal with a faithless woman. So Bairam Khan was summoned
to the presence and asked by the king for his advise. The old warrior
pronounced himself decisively.
“‘A great ruler should be beloved by his friends,’ he said, ‘and feared
by all the rest of the world. The Emperor Jelàl is already beloved by
all who know him. He must make himself feared so that whoever in the
future dares to think of revolt shall have the cold of death in his
nostrils. The girl should be hung up in public and sliced to death with
a sharp tulwar. That is the most lingering and most painful death that
can be inflicted on a woman. It might be so managed,’ he concluded, ‘by
beginning with the hands and going on to the feet, that the agony would
be prolonged for more than an hour. The emperor himself should preside
at the ceremony.’
“The young monarch heard him attentively to the end and then:
“‘What would the pain of the woman profit me?’ he asked sharply.
“Bairam Khan answered: ‘The punishment of the wrongdoer is the
protection of the powerful.’
“The young king stared at him. ‘The powerful need no protection,’ he
said; and, after a pause, added in a loud, severe voice:
“‘You have taught me, Bairam Khan, that what men say about you and your
cruelty is true. Hitherto I have lived for my pleasures and left the
care of my kingdom to you. Now I’ll take the rule into my own hands
and allow you to make the Holy Pilgrimage.’ (This was practically an
order to Bairam Khan to make that pilgrimage to Mecca which ensures
salvation.) And the young king, with that generosity which was always a
marked trait in his character, added:
“‘A suitable jaghir out of the parganas of Hindustan shall be assigned
for your maintenance and transmitted to you regularly.’
“Thus dismissed, Bairam Khan stood stock still for a moment and then
salaamed till his forehead rested on the floor before he rose and
backed out of the hall.
“Jelàl then called the defiant girl before him again. ‘You can keep
the jewels,’ he said, ‘and all the other gifts my love bestowed upon
you.’ The girl glanced aside indifferently, as if she had not heard. ‘I
cannot punish where I have loved,’ the king went on slowly, ‘nor give
you pain who have given me pleasure.’
“The girl looked at him still in suspicion, unconvinced.
“‘What are your gifts to me?’ she snapped. ‘I shall be killed before I
leave the palace.’
“And the king answered: ‘You shall go in peace, still keeping the name
and honour of the king’s chosen.’
“On hearing this the girl cried aloud: ‘The king is indeed the king.’
And, falling on her knees, bowed herself before him.
“And the king continued: ‘One of these days I shall come to Agra and
there build you a house, and you shall live in it and speak to me
freely.’
“And the woman looked long at him, as if seeking to divine his meaning,
and then turned and left the Court without a word and went to live in
Agra. From her the king has learned many things only known to women....
“When the rule was taken away from Bairam Khan he rebelled, but was
quickly broken in battle by the king, and then as quickly forgiven and
sent on his way to Mecca. On the point of embarking he was stabbed in
the back by one he had wronged, and died with all his sins unpardoned.
Jelàl continued the promised jaghir to his children....
“Ten years later the young king had overrun all India north of the
Deccan and subdued it, spreading his fame the while from Delhi to the
Dardanelles--indeed from end to end of the civilised world as the
civilised world then was. Men began to wonder at him, and his constant
successes awed them; some even passed from praise to adoration, calling
him ‘Akbar.’ But he would not use the name: didn’t deserve it, he said;
his victories had all been easy....
“It was after he had subdued Kashmir that the first severe trial of his
life took place. The king of distant Khandesh had sent an embassy to
him, congratulating him on his conquests, and, according to custom, the
emperor sent him back a firman, thanking him and saying that he would
take one of his daughters to wife as a pledge of enduring amity.
“The king replied that he felt himself greatly honoured by the
proposal, and with the letter dispatched his youngest daughter with a
great retinue and many gifts. She turned out to be a beautiful girl,
as those Northern women sometimes are, but very proud. The emperor,
being only thirty-two at the time, fell to desire of her at the first
meeting. Strange to say, she held aloof from him; would not go into the
harem even as a queen, and was not to be won by prayers or promises.
“When the king in a moment of passion threatened to take her by force
she plainly told him he could take her body perhaps, but her spirit and
her heart were her own, and he would never gain them by violence.
“The king then tried to win her by gifts and kindness, by rich jewels
and great shows staged in her honour--shows in which hundreds of wild
beasts fought for days, such shows as had never been seen before in
the world. The girl was flattered and pleased in spite of herself.
One combat in especial interested her. When she saw a pair of wild
stallions fighting with superb pride and fierceness she cried out with
delight and admiration, for the wild desert horses fought standing up
on their hind legs, striking with their front feet and ever seeking
with open mouth to seize the adversary by the crest and hurl him to
the earth. This conflict pleased the girl much more than the deadlier,
bloodier strugglings of tigers and bulls which the emperor staged for
her amusement.
“But when it came to love-making she withdrew into herself and again
and again denied the monarch, now passionately, now sullenly.
“One day the king threatened to send her back home, and she retorted
that nothing would please her better; and when he questioned her
further she confessed boldly that one of the young nobles about her
father’s Court had attracted her. It appeared that the courtship had
not gone beyond glances, the girl admitting ruefully that her father
would never allow her to marry a mere subject, as he believed himself
to be directly descended from God. This new and unexpected difficulty
enraged the emperor. He was at a loss, too, irritated by his own
indecision and fear of taking a wrong step.
“Fortunately good counsel was at hand. An Arab, named Mubárak, whose
ancestors had settled in Rajputana, was renowned for wisdom, and as
his two sons grew to manhood they became famous as having inherited
their father’s genius. Shaik Faizi, the elder, was known everywhere as
a doctor and poet. He had composed many books and won popularity by
always attending the poor for nothing. His younger brother, Abulfazl,
was an even greater man. When only fifteen years old his learning was
the wonder of the district, and by twenty he had begun to teach in
the mosques. The Persian proverb says that no tree grows very high
which comes to maturity quickly. But Abulfazl was an exception to this
rule. Jelàl induced him to abandon his intention of giving himself up
wholly to a life of meditation at twenty-three, and took him into his
own suite. Though eleven years older than Abulfazl, the king grew to
respect him more and more, and their intimacy developed into a mutual
understanding and affection. At his wits’ end to know how to win his
proud wife Jelàl turned to Abulfazl.
“‘In love and war,’ he said, ‘no one should ask for counsel. But in
this absurd difficulty I’d like to know whether anyone can find a way
where I see no sure outlet.’
“After some time for thought Abulfazl told him there were many ways and
they all reached the goal--with time.
“‘I’m faint with desire,’ cried the king; ‘wild with impatience.’
“‘Is she wonderful in beauty, or in mind, or in character?’ asked
Abulfazl.
“‘In all!’ exclaimed the king. ‘She’s without a peer in the world.’
“Abulfazl smiled. ‘The madness of love speaks through you. Such desire
is mere ignorance. Enjoy her once and the glamour will be gone.’
“‘But the joy will be mine,’ cried the king, ‘and the memory. The
illusion of love and desire are the chiefest pleasures in life. Bare us
of them and what would life be worth?’
“‘More than you would believe now,’ said Abulfazl. ‘But what is her
real power over you?’
“The king thought in silence. ‘Her courage,’ he replied, ‘and, to tell
you the truth, her disdain of me and, of course, her loveliness.’
“‘It is a great opportunity,’ said Abulfazl, ‘to win the great fight
with one blow. The only course worthy of my lord is that he should
conquer himself and subdue his passion.’
“‘Impossible!’ cried the king. ‘She is in my blood, in my brain, in my
heart. If I don’t win her I shall have lost the world.’