Chapter VI (1)

Night, and a great quiet. A chamber of gold set with jewels glittering in the moonlight that came down some secret way, borne on a cool breath from the sea.

She lay alone in the golden place, and the jewels watched her like eyes. Was it terror, was it love that possessed her? A thousand images blurred her closed eyes—He, the Beautiful, with peacock crown, with eyes that draw the soul, with lips of indescribable sweetness. It could not be that she should lie close to the heart of the God. How dare flesh and blood aspire to that mystic marriage? Must they not perish in the awful contact? And, if it could be, how return to earth after that ecstasy?

“May I know and die!” she prayed. “Oh, let me not pass unknowing! Let me know and die!”

And as the minutes dropped by, this prayer was all her thought, and it possessed her being.

Then, dividing the darkness, she heard the voice of a Flute very far off. Like a silver mist, it spread vaporous, a small fine music, but growing, drawing nearer, and, as it strengthened, clear drops of music fell through this mist like honey from the black bees’ comb. It crept about her brain and steeped her eyes as if in poppy juice, so sweet, so gliding, most infinitely wooing as it grew and filled the air with peace.

And in this high marvel was a blissful safety beyond all words, more sweet and delectable than any man may tell. The grace of his Childhood, of the dearworthy passage of his blessed Feet among men, returned to her with a joy that melted her heart with love. And so she rose and stood upon her feet, as one called, trembling with blissful longing.

Far down the long ways, passing through pools of moonlight and dark, came One whom the music followed. His face could not at first be seen; about him was a leopard skin. Naked but for this, beautiful and slender, his silent feet moved onward. Like one utterly alone in a great forest, he came,—slowly,—lost in some unutterable thought, made audible in sweet sound.

The Bride, the Lover, and between them, the music and the moonlight only. She would have knelt, but her feet were fixed; and he drew near with unseeing eyes—O Beautiful, O wholly desirable, to draw the hearts of men! And still the Face Divine was hidden.

But as he drew near and would have passed, she cried aloud with a passionate glad cry, “My Lord indeed!” rejoicing suddenly.

And he turned and looked upon his Bride with heavens in his eyes. And as she saw what no words can utter, she fell upon his feet and lay, slain sweetly with a bliss more keen than any pain.

* * * * *

But the Brahman, Nilkant Rai, waiting behind the pillar to seize his prey, had heard and seen nothing of the Glory.

As she fell, he sprang like a tiger on a fawn, and lifted the fair dead body, and stumbled in the trailing hair, and knew his vileness conquered. And in that moment the Eye of Destruction opened upon him the beam that withers worlds and hurls them like shriveled leaves into the Abyss.

And he dropped her and stumbled screaming into the dark, a leper white as snow.

But when they came in the dawn to implore the will of the God from the happy lips that his had blessed, the Bride lay at rest on the dim straight golden bed, and between her breasts was a Flute set with strange jewels that no man could name. Nor shall they ever; for when they laid her body on the pyre they left this Flute in her bosom.

And when Anand Das heard what had befallen, he said this:—

“When did the Herdsman sleep on his guard or the Beloved fail the heart that loved Him? It is well, and better than well.”

And he who tells this story ends it thus:—

“Meditates the Herdsman ever,
Seated by the sacred river,
The mystic stream that o’er His feet
Glides slow with murmurs low and sweet—”

and breast to breast with God, the soul that adores Him.

THE BELOVED OF THE GODS
A STORY FROM THE MAHABHARATA

THE BELOVED OF THE GODS

A STORY FROM THE MAHABHARATA

Reverence to Ganesha, Lord of the Elephant Trunk, that, in a day found fortunate, he aid me to tell this tale, which whoso heareth shall receive prosperity in this world and in that other.

In the age of the ancestors there dwelt a great King in Vidarbha, with a Queen of the highest grace and beauty, and these did all things pleasing to the gods, making rich gifts to Brahmans and honouring kine, and in reward for these things the gods gave to them three sons and a daughter, and this was Damayanti, the loveliest of earthly women. And she was known throughout the universe as the “Consumer of Hearts”; for the very report of her beauty agitated the hearts of thousands who might never hope to see it. Slender-waisted was she and stately as a young palm-tree, and though she was a mortal, Sri, the wife of Narayana, had dowered her with her own eyes, black and soft and so long-lidded that they all but touched the silken hair upon her temples. The very gods in the Paradise of Indra heard the report of this marvel and coveted it.

Now as Damayanti, like a crescent moon, rounded into maidenhood, it so befell that her maidens in talk together praised none but that Tiger among Men, Nala the Prince. For they said: “This Prince overpasses all men, and what shall be said of him? Surely he is laughing, bold and handsome as Kama, the God of Love—he whose bow is strung with honey-bees, sweet and stinging. The arrows of his eyes are pointed with five-tongued flame. All hearts burn in his glances.”

And Damayanti silently heard and pondered.

But the report of her had in like manner reached Nala, and sweet thoughts grew up in him for the slender-waisted maid. And he dreamed of her.

Now it chanced that one day, wandering in the great woods that surrounded his palace, he saw a flock of swans, white and beautiful as though washed in the waters of Lake Manasarovar, that cold jewel of the Himalaya, and indeed they were of that royal race of swans who, dwelling there, feed only on unpierced seed-pearls, and therefore are they so white. So, as they drew together, the Prince, stealing noiseless as a snake through the jungle, seized one, for love of its whiteness, and held the long throat clutched in his hands and the plumed wings beneath his knees.

But in those days royal men had understanding of the lesser creatures of the gods, and that king-swan spoke and Nala heard his speech: “O Tiger among Men, slay me not. To me also is my life dear and precious! Have pity, for I will do good service. I will fly through many leagues of air, and in the ear of the Princess Damayanti will I say that of all men you are the noblest and stateliest. And having heard this, she will greatly desire you.”

And by the favour of Kama, the Prince withdrew his hands, saying, “Swan, observe your promise; for this is the duty of the honourable.”

And the swan, inclining his head, flew away with his companions, having instructed them as to the course they should pursue on alighting in the gardens of Vidarbha.

Now in the garden-close the Princess and her maidens played, and she excelled them all, though each was fair. And the swans, seeing these lovely ones among the flowers, fluttered to earth and stood near them, arching their necks and preening their feathers, and their whiteness delighted the Princess and she said, laughing: “Chase these swans, each one a swan; for it appears that they desire captivity at our hands.”

And every maiden pursued a swan, with laughter and sweet cries, and as each all but seized her swan, the swan eluded her and fluttered a little farther. Most lovely of all sights was it to behold the maidens and the swans, as, equal in beauty, they fluttered hither and thither among the flowers and the trees. And Damayanti, laughing with her voice of music, pursued her swan, she also, that lovely lady of the long eyes, not knowing that her heart was the destined prey of the swan she sought to capture.

For, when her hands were even upon the snow of his plumage, that king-swan eluded her again and spoke in the speech of man, and in amazement she stood to hear what he would say, as he inclined his head before her feet. “Lady, O Most Beautiful, Damayanti, Consumer of Hearts, there is a Prince in Nishada, and his name—oh, mark it well—is Nala. As the Twin Stars shine in the sky, so he shines among men. Surely we swans, flying in the pure air, see all men and divine beings and the great gods. But we have seen none like unto Nala. Pearl among Women, if you should wed this Prince of Princes, were it not better than well?”

And when Damayanti heard this, she looked sidelong through her lashes like a maid, for she was young and tender, and she said this, very softly: “Dear swan—white swan! Fly and tell this thing to the Prince.”

And that white beauty, the feeder on pearls, said, “Hearing and obeying, I go.”

And with strong strokes of his pinions he rose into the sky, followed by his mates, and clove the air to Nishada and told the Prince her word, being the destined messenger of love.

But he carried the heart of the maid upon his wings; for Damayanti sat her down upon the flowers and, when her ladies returned from chasing the swans, they found her with her hand pressed upon her empty bosom and tears welling like jewels from the dark deeps of her eyes. And though they entreated her to speak and reveal the cause of her grief, she would say nothing but this one thing: “All is well—and ill! Trouble me no further.”

And they returned, sighing, to the palace, with Care among them for a companion.

For Damayanti wanned and paled. Like a caged jungle-dweller would she pace up and down, unresting, her eyes upon the ground. Food lost its savour, and what was sleep but a weariness? And in the garden-close she sat in her gold gown and watched the peacocks displaying their splendour to the sun as they danced before the rains, and she only prayed for wings that she might fly to Nishada. Very full of mischief were the words of that swan!

So her royal mother, instructed by the maidens that the Princess pined away daily, went to her lord, the King, and said: “Such and such is the case of our daughter. Do then according to your wisdom.”

And the King pondered the thing deeply; for he loved his daughter, and he answered: “I perceive she is no longer a child. Youth and maidenhood are waxing in her, and who can gainsay them? It is now fitting that she make her choice among princes and kings.”

So the careful King, having considered, sent forth this message to the courts of kings: “Lords of the Earth, it is with us an ancient and honourable custom that the daughters of kings make choice of a husband suitable to their degree and royalty; nor do we force them to unchosen marriages. And this is known as the _swayamvara_ of a king’s daughter. My Princess is now of due age to choose her lord. Come therefore to the swayamvara of Damayanti, receiving honourable welcome.”

And the news flew like gongs and drums over the land; for there was no man but knew of the loveliness of the Consumer of Hearts, and each one thought within himself, “She will choose me, and yet if not, still shall I see that face of faces.”

So from every country came processions to the court of Vidarbha: trains of elephants walking slowly beneath the weight of the gold and silver castles upon their backs, where sat the kings of men; horses with jewelled saddles and bridles, the very stirrups glittering with clarified gems that the feet of kings might tread upon them; glorious companies of fighting-men, bearing their pennons; archers with bows tipped with ivory, strung until they sang like the strings of the _sitar_ in the wind. So in armies they came until the earth groaned beneath their feet, and the great camps were set about Vidarbha.

Also came Nala the Prince, gallantly accompanied, riding to Vidarbha, and thoughts of love were thick as honey-bees in his heart.

But who shall discern the thoughts of the Gods?

For it chanced that two great saints, Narada and Parvata, mighty in their austerities, pure and high of thought, ascended the heavens at that time, to make a visit and obeisance to Indra the God, in his own Paradise. And he, the King of the Clouds, rising to them, did them honour and welcomed them; for the presence of the saints is as a rich perfume in the nostrils of the gods. Therefore he saluted the two, asking tidings of the world.

And Narada replied: “High God, it is well with the world. It is well with the kings. There is no complaint.”

And Indra spoke again: “But where are my fighters—the kings of men? Do they not love—do they not fight as of old? I see no souls of haughty warriors entering my heaven. Is it all peace? Where are my fighting-men?”

So Narada made reply: “O Cloudy God, all is peace upon the earth, and there is no thought but of beauty: the King of Vidarbha makes the choosing for his daughter and the kings and princes dream of naught else; for she is the very Lotus of the World and the Pearl of Women. And the kings flock as one man to Vidarbha.”

And while Narada said this, the Immortals gathered to hear, and when he spoke of the maid Damayanti, their eyes shot forth peculiar radiance and they said: “To this maid’s choosing we four will go. She is worthy to choose among the deathless rather than the kings, and she shall reign in the Paradise of Indra and sit beside that divinity whose bride she wills to be.”

And Indra, the Cloudy God, said, “I will go.”

And Agni, the Lord of Fire, said, “I also.”

And Varuna, the King of Waters, said, “And I.”

And the Dark Presence that is Yama, the Lord of Death, said, “I go.”

So their winged chariots that are self-directed, flying like thought where they will, awaited them, and the gods ascended them and, thinking of Vidarbha, were presently beside its walls.

But Nala the Prince, approaching with his company of great men and soldiers, elated with love and hope, looked up and beheld the Gods, seated in their golden chariots. And these, the Protectors of the World, saw him and hesitation in their purpose seized them, because he shone like the sun and was a man indeed, and their divine hearts adjudged him worthy even of Damayanti—so straight and tall he stood and like a king’s lance, and in the beauty of his brows and strength of his person was there no blemish from head to foot. Even like their own brother, Kama, the God of Love, so he seemed to them.

But, descending through the clouds and softening their divine voices that human ears might abide them, they accosted him: “Aho! Prince of Nishada—Prince Royal! We have an errand. We have need of a noble messenger. Who will go for us?”

And he did homage, pressing his palms together, answering: “I see Four Shining Ones. I will go. What is your errand, that I may do it?”

So Indra, leaning from his chariot, said this: “The Gods stand before you, Prince of Nishada. I am Indra, the King of the Clouds, and he beside me is Agni, the Lord of Fire, and here, Varuna, the King of Waters, and he behind me is Yama, the Lord of Death. Go now to Damayanti the Princess, and say this to her: ‘The Protectors of the World, the Four Great Gods, desiring your beauty, are come to the swayamvara. Make choice then to which of these Great Ones your heart inclines; for that dignity whom you shall choose is yours, O maiden of excelling fortune.’”

But Nala, joining his hands in prayer, said to Indra: “O Mighty, how can I do this? O Mightinesses, anything but this! I, too, have journeyed to Vidarbha, desiring the maid. How should I entreat for another, even for a god? Being divine, have pity.”

But these divinities replied: “Have you not said, ‘I go’? Is it possible that a royal man should break his word? It is not possible. The great forswear themselves in nothing. Depart.”

So he said: “Her gates are guarded; for she is a king’s daughter. A man may have no secret speech with her.”

And Indra answered: “But that may you! Fear not. Depart.”

And as the divine voice ceased, the Prince stood in the inmost chamber of Damayanti. He knew not how; yet he was there.

And his eyes swam and his heart fluttered within him; for she sat with her maids like a goddess and his heart knew her. Beautiful was she and yet more than beautiful; for all grace, all love shone about her as the light surrounds the moon in her interlunar caves. So a mild radiance filled the air about the Princess and moved as she moved, going with her.

Now, when these ladies beheld a man standing in their presence, they sprang up like frightened deer, each grasping the other for protection and gathering about the Princess to shield her, so great was their fear. Then, seeing the kindliness of his beauty and the nobility of his brows, these lovely ones gathered courage and they saluted him with timidity, murmuring: “Aho, his grace! Aho, his beauty! What is he? Who?”

But the Princess, her heart fluttering like a leaf in the wind, stood higher than the rest and spoke thus: “Noble Prince—for by a faultless body I judge you royal—how have you come thus suddenly like a God? Surely this would anger my father. Have you no fear of his wrath?”

But there was love in her voice and with love the Prince answered: “O Most Lovely, I am Nala of Nishada, and I am the herald of the gods. For to your choosing come the Four, almighty, heaven-shining—Indra the King of the Clouds, Agni of the Fire, Varuna of the Waters, and he whom to name is fear, Yama, the Lord of Death. And these will that you choose one among them to be your immortal lord, and it is by their power that I stand before you. Who am I to be the messenger of the Great Ones? Now judge what is well; for this is an honour to shake the soul of a woman.”

So Damayanti bowed her fair head in reverence, hearing the gods named, and having done obeisance, she raised her head and spoke: “Yet, O Prince, is my heart set on you and I am faithful. The white swan was my messenger and to you he bore my love. It is for your sake only that the kings are bidden to my swayamvara, but I have already chosen. Even now the maidens make ready the garland that I would hang about your neck. O Prince of Men, O Flame of Strength and Knightliness, what says your heart? For me, I choose your arms or death. There is no other way.”

And he, sighing bitterly, said: “With the very Gods awaiting you, how, Princess, should you choose a man? And what am I but dust beneath their feet? But you, O lady, choosing one of these excelling Gods, shall escape all death and mortality and reign shining beside him throughout the ages; for immortal flowers do not wither, and death and time are unknown to such as these. Sit therefore enthroned above us. Choose and, choosing, be divine.”

But she replied in haste and weeping: “Before these mighty Gods I bow. To them I address my prayers, but you I choose—you only will I take for my husband. You only. What to me is immortal life if I have not you?”

And her body trembled like a bamboo in the wind, while he replied: “Here being their messenger, I may not speak for myself. Duty and reverence hold the door of my lips. Yet if the time come when in honour I may speak, then will I utter what lies in my heart. May that time come!”

“May it come!” said the Princess and dashed the tears from her eyes, and like a queen she stood and said: “In full presence of my father and of the kings let these Divine Ones enter, and, O Prince, who are the light of my sad eyes, enter you, too, and I, a free maiden, will choose freely. And to you, what blame? For it is I who choose and the gods know all.”

So he returned to the Gods and, sighing, told what had befallen, bidding them to the swayamvara of Damayanti, the Consumer of Hearts. So the Shining Ones knew that her heart was set upon Nala of Nishada.

Now, on an auspicious day and in the right quarter of the moon, the swayamvara was held in a mighty court surrounded by golden pillars bound with garlands, and with royal seats set for the suitors. And closing it in was a great gatehouse with guards.

Through the gates passed the kings to their places, and what a sight was there as these noblest of the earth approached! How should a woman choose among them? Crowned were they with odorous blossoms pressed down upon their dark locks. Lordly jewels swung in their ears. Some were rough in majesty, great-thewed, and the muscles stood out upon them like cords. Some were delicate in strength like bows of the archer Gods, but splendid kings were all, proud and fierce of aspect, fit spouses for such beauty; and in a ring they sat, their eyes glittering and fixed upon the way that Damayanti should enter, desiring that loveliness as the very crown jewel of their state. But none saw the Gods.

And into that ring of set faces entered the Princess, unveiled and pacing like a deer, and on her right hand her brother Danta, and the garland of choosing on her arm, and when she entered all held their breath, so more than mortal fair she seemed, and they knew that the half was not told them.

So, with her soul set on Nala of Nishada, the Princess Damayanti went by the kings, and, as she passed each one, his face darkened as when a cloud crosses the sun and the world is grey. So at last she stood before Nala and raised her eyes under the cloud of her beautifully bent lashes, and fear and pain shot through her tender heart like an arrow, for lo, the Four Shining Ones had condescended to take the earthly shape of Nala as they stood beside him, so that they might try the maid and she not know her love. There were five Nalas, and which was her own she could in no way tell, for each one bore his very face, his very form. So the Gods walk disguised, and who shall know them?

Then, sore perplexed, trembling in her great fear and reverence, she sought, meditating, to recall the signs by which the Gods may be discerned when they assume flesh. But of these none could she see, and the five remained immovable as she stood before them and in silence the kings watched what would be.

So, seeing no help in herself or anywhere on earth, that lovely lady joined her palms and, raising her lotus-eyes, spoke thus: “O Divine Ones, I heard the swan and chose my lord, and by that sincerity which I have kept in all faith and honour, I call upon your greatness, O Mighty, who for a while have blinded my eyes, to show my King to me! Appear, O Protectors of the World, in your proper shape, that I may do such reverence as mortals owe to Gods; and reveal him, mortal, but mine own.”

Being thus called upon in the strength of a pure woman, straightway the Gods, dropping all disguise, disclosed their beauty. And immediately she knew them; for their sacred feet touched not the earth but hung a span’s length above it in the air, and their forms of crystal essence cast no shadow. No sweat was beaded on their pure, eternal brows, and their crowns of flowers in radiance cast back the sun’s beams nor drooped in the heat. And neither wavered their shining eyes, fixed upon the Princess, nor did the lids flicker, and in motionless majesty the Immortal Gods stood there.

And beside them stood Nala, very weary and foredone with grief and pain. His shadow lay black before him in the fierce sun, the sweat hung thick upon his brows where the faded flowers drooped. Beautiful, wearied and mortal, he stood beside the Immortal Gods.

So Damayanti looked upon those unchanging faces, in which was neither sorrow nor anger, for they sit above the thunder; and they regarded her, as it were unseeing, yet seeing all things, as do the holy images, and in their divine hearts was no love at all. So she passed them by and hung the perfumed garland round the bowed neck of her love, and in her voice of music took him to be her lord.

And he said this: “O Lovely—O Faithful, since before Gods and men you have chosen me, unworthy, true man will I be and faith and honour will I keep while the breath is in my nostrils.”

So together they worshipped the Four, while all the kings and princes cried aloud: “_Sadhu!_”—“Well done!” For there was none but rejoiced in the beauty and faithfulness of these two.

So the Immortal Gods, standing in that presence, gave lordly gifts to the pair. And Indra, the Cloudy God, gave this: that, when Nala should perform sacrifice, he should with mortal eyes see the visible God and behold him unafraid. And Agni, the Lord of Fire, gave this: that at all times he would come at the call of Nala. And this is a great gift. And Varuna, the King of Waters, gave this: that at the word of Nala of Nishada the waters should rise and fall, obedient. But Yama, the Lord of Death, gave two gifts; and of these the first was to walk steadfastly in the ways of righteousness; and the second (let it not be despised!) was to be skilful in preparing food. And in after times by strange chance did this prove a great and goodly gift.

Thus was the marrying of Nala, King of Men, with Damayanti, Pearl of Women.

Reverence to that Lord of Elephant Trunk to whom obstacles are as nothing, and to those Four Shining Ones who showed compassion, their ears being open to the prayer of purity.

THE HIDDEN ONE

THE HIDDEN ONE

(The heroine of this story was a Princess of the great Mogul dynasty of Emperors in India. She was granddaughter of Shah-Jahan and the lovely lady of the Taj Mahal, and daughter of the Emperor Aurungzib whose fanaticism was the ruin of the dynasty. The Princess’s title was Zeb-un-Nissa—Glory of Women. She was beautiful and was and is a famous poet in India, writing under the pen-name of Makhfi—the Hidden One. Her love adventures were such as I relate, though I have taken the liberty of transferring the fate of one lover to another.

For her poems, which I quote, I use the charming translations by J. Duncan Westbrook, who has written a brief memoir of this fascinating Princess. She was a mystic of the Sufi order and her verses “The Hunter of the Soul,” which I give, strangely anticipate Francis Thompson’s “Hound of Heaven”, in their imagery. The poems not specified as hers are a part of my story.)

The office of hakim (physician) to the Mogul Emperors being hereditary in my family from the days of Babar the conquering Emperor, I was appointed physician to the Padshah known as Shah-Jahan, and when his Majesty became a Resident in Paradise (may his tomb be sanctified!) my office was continued by his Majesty Aurungzib, the Shahinshah, and rooms were bestowed on me in his palace, and by his abundant favour the health of the Begams (queens) in the seclusion of his mahal was placed in the hands of this suppliant and I came and went freely in my duties and was enlightened by the rays of his magnanimity. And my name is Abul Qasim.

But of all that garden of flowers, the Begams and Princesses, there was one whom my soul loved as a father loves his child, for she resembled that loveliest of all sweet ladies, her father’s mother, she who lies buried by Jumna River in the divine white beauty of the Taj Mahal. (May it be sanctified to her rest!) In my Princess’s sisters, it is true I have seen a flash now and again of that lost beauty, but in her it abode steadfast as a moon that knows no change and at her birth she received the name of Arjemand after that beloved lady, whose death clouded the universe so that its chronogram gives the one word “Grief.” But the child also received the title of Zeb-un-Nissa—Glory of Women, and such this resplendent Princess most truly was.

And surely the prayer for resemblance was granted by the bounty of Allah, for she grew into womanhood dark, delicious as a damask rose, enfolding the hidden heart of its perfume in velvet leaves, a soft luxuriant beauty that stole upon the heart like a blossom-bearing breeze and conquered it insensibly. Of her might it be said:

“For the mole upon thy cheek would I give the cities of Samarkand and Bokhara,” and a poet of Persia, catching a glimpse of her as she walked in her garden, cried aloud in an ecstasy of verse:

“O golden zone that circles the Universe of Beauty,
It were little to give the earth itself for what thou circlest.”

Yet, this surprising loveliness was the least of her perfections.

But how shall this suppliant who is but a man describe the spell of her charm? Allah, when he made man and laid the world at his feet, resolved that one thing should be hidden from his understanding, that still for all his knowledge he should own there is but one Searcher of Secrets. And the heart of this mystery is woman, and if she be called the other half of man it is only as the moon reflects the glory of her lord the sun in brilliance, though (as a wise Hindu pandit told me for truth) she has a cold and dark side which is always unknown to him, where alone she revolves thoughts silent, cold, and dangerous. Therefore to sift her in her secrecies is a foolhardy thing, and not in vain is it written by Aflatoun (Plato), the wise man of Greece, that the unhappy man who surprised a goddess bathing in the forest was rent in pieces by his own hounds.

Yet this feat must be attempted for if there is a thing it concerns man to know it is the soul of this fair mystery who moves beside him and surrenders Heaven to him in a first kiss and the bitterness of the hells in a last embrace.

Therefore I essay the history of this Princess, the Glory of Women, who was an epitome of her sex in that she was beautiful, a dreamer, a poet, and on the surface sweet in gentleness as a summer river kissing its banks in flowing, but beneath——

I write.

Seeing her intelligence clear as a sword of Azerbajan, her exalted father resolved that his jewel should not be dulled by lack of polishing and cutting, and he appointed the wise lady Miyabai to be her first teacher. At the age of seven she knew the Koran by heart, and in her honour a mighty feast was made for the army and for the poor. As she grew, aged and saintly tutors were appointed, from whom she absorbed Arabic, mathematics and astronomy, as a rose drinks rain. No subject eluded her swift mind, no toil wearied her. Verses she wrote with careless ease in the foreign tongue of Arabia, but hearing from an Arab scholar that in a single line the exquisite skill betrayed an Indian idiom, she discarded it instantly because she would have perfection and wrote henceforward in her own tongue—Persian.

No pains were spared upon this jewel, for the Emperor desired that its radiance should be splendid throughout Asia, yet her limit was drawn, and sharply. For in her young pride of learning she began a commentary on the holy Koran, and hearing this, he sternly forbade it. A woman might do much in her own sphere, he wrote, but such a creature of dust may not handle the Divine.

I, Abul Qasim, was with her when the imperial order reached her and saw her take the fair manuscript and obediently tear it across, desiring that the rent leaves be offered to the Shadow of God in token of obedience. But those dark and dangerous eyes of hers were not obedient beneath the veiling of silken lashes, and turning to me, to whom she told her royal heart, she said;

“What the hand may not write the heart may think, and in the heart is no Emperor. It is free,” and leaning from the marble casement she looked down into the gliding river and said no more.

Yet the Emperor made amends, and noble, as far as his light led him. Not for a woman the mysteries of the faith of Islam that he held of all things the greatest, but, fired by the praises of her tutors, he sent throughout India, Persia and Kashmir for poets worthy of this poet-Princess and bid them come to Delhi and Agra and there dwell that a fitting company be made for her.

So, veiled like the moon in clouds, curtained and attended, the Princess Arjemand was permitted to be present at tournaments in the palace where the weapons were the wit and beauty of words, when quotations and questions were flung about as it might be handsful of stars, and a line given be capped with some perfect finish of the moment’s prompting and become a couplet unsurpassable, and very often it was the soft voice from behind the golden veil that capped the wisest and completed the most exquisite, and recited verses that brought exclamations from the assembled poets.

“Not even Saadi (may Allah enlighten him!) nor Jalalu’d-din Rumi (may his eyes be gladdened in Paradise) excelled this lady in the perfumed honey of their words.” So with one voice they cried.

And this was not homage to the daughter of the Protector of the Universe. No indeed! for death has not washed out her name with the cold waters of oblivion and now that she is no more beautiful nor daughter of the Emperor her verse is still repeated where the poets and saints meet in concourse.

It will be seen that her life in the Begam Mahal (the Palace of the Queens) must needs be lonely, for there was none among the princesses who shared her pleasures, and their recreation in languidly watching the dancers or buying jewels and embroideries and devouring sweetmeats wearied her as sorely. But she had one friend, Imami, daughter of Arshad Beg Khan, and this creature of mortality who writes these words was also accounted her friend though unworthy to be the ground whereon she set her little foot.

Day after day did the Lady Arjemand with Imami write and study, and the librarians of the Emperor had little peace because of the demand of these ladies for the glorious manuscripts and books collected by her ancestors from all parts of the earth.

They sat and the walls echoed to the low note of her voice as she read and recited and so beautiful were the tones of my Princess that I have seen the water stand in the eyes of those who heard her recite her own verses or those of the great Persians. It was a noble instrument ranging from the deepest notes of passion to the keen cry of despair, and I would listen unwearied while the day trod its blossomed way from dawn to sunset in the Palace gardens. Great and wonderful was this new palace of the Emperor with tall lilies inlaid in the pure marble in stones so precious that they might have been the bosom adornments of some lesser beauty. Palms in great vases brought by the merchants of Cathay made a green shade and coolness for two fountains—the one of the pure waters of the canal, the other of rose-water, and they plashed beside a miniature lake of fretted marble rocks sunk in the floor where white lotuses slept in the twilight of the calm retreat. Such was the chamber of the daughter of the Padshah.

But of all the jewels the Princess was the glory.

Surely with small pains may the Great Mogul’s daughter be a beauty, but had she been sold naked in the common market-place this lady had brought a royal price.

Toorki and Persian and Indian blood mingled in her and each gave of its best. The silken dark hair braided about her head was an imperial crown. From the well-beloved lady who lies in the Taj Mahal (may Allah make fragrant her memory), she had received eyes whose glance of slow sweetness no man, not even the men of her own blood (excepting only her stern father), could resist, and of her rose-red lips half sensuous, half child-like, might it be said

“Their honey was set as a snare and my heart a wandering bee, Clung and could not be satisfied, tasted and returned home never more.”

The imperial Mogul women were indeed the jewels of the world, because the beauties of Asia were chosen to be their mothers. The net of the Emperors swept wide, and I, who in virtue of my age and faithful service have seen, testify that there was none like them, and the loveliest of all was fit but to serve my Princess kneeling. Shall not the truth be told? Of the soul within that delicious shrine her deeds must tell.

Now as I have written she sat with Imami by the little lake, and I in a marble recess by one of the great latticed windows that looks down on Jumna river and on the other side over the city of Shahjahanabad, new and luminous in magnificence. In all the world else are no such palace and city. At this moment she read aloud a letter from her father Aurungzib concerning the memoirs of her ancestor the Emperor Babar who founded their dynasty in India, a book written by his own hand and religiously preserved in the Mogul archives, and she read it with anger because when she demanded this book from the librarian, the Padshah hearing wrote thus:

“Happy Daughter of Sovereignty. There is one manner of life for men, who are the rulers, and for women, who are the slaves. It seems you go too far. What has a daughter of our House to do with our ancestor Zah-r-ud-din Muhammed Babar, the resident in Paradise? I have granted much already. Plant not the herb of regret in the garden of affection. He writes as a man for men. The request is refused. Recall the verse of the poet:

“‘Ride slowly and humbly, and not in hurrying pride For o’er the dusty bones of men, the creature of dust must ride.’

“What an Emperor writes is not suitable for the Princesses of his House. His duty is rule; theirs, obedience.”

It was a discouragement but a command, and another had laid the finger of obedience on the lips of silence, but, taking counsel with her heart, this Princess did not so.

She called to me for her pen and wrote in answer:

“Exalted Emperor, Shahinshah, Shadow of God, King of the world, Refuge of the needy, father of the body of this creature of mortality, be pleased to hear this ignorant one’s supplication. Surely you have fed my mind on the bee’s-bread of wisdom, and from your own royal lips have I learnt that the words of our ancestor (upon whom be the Peace!) are full of flavour and laughter, generous and kind, shining with honour and the valour of our family. Now, since this is the root whence sprang your auspicious Majesty’s rule, should not a humble daughter triumph in it? True is it that I am your female slave, yet may this worthless body bear one day a son to transmit your likeness to the prostrate ages, and since we do not breed lions from lambs, his mother should carry the laughter and fire of her race like a jewel in the mine of her soul. I make my petition to the Padshah, the holiest of Emperors.”

“It will be granted me,” said the Princess reading these letters aloud to Imami and to me, “because of that last word—the holiest. He values that title more than to be called the Shahinshah. And with all my heart I would it were otherwise.”

“And why, high Lady?” cried Imami in sheer astonishment. “Surely the Padshah is a saint and his deeds and words will shine in Paradise. It is blessed to be devout.”

“I know little of Paradise, but I know, and my father might know if he studied the life of Akbar the Great, his great-grandfather, that to be so bitter a saint in our Mohammedan faith that he insults and persecutes every other is to break our dynasty to powder. Consider of it, Imami, as I do. Have you read the Acts of Akbar Padshah the greatest sovereign that ever reigned? Were I emperor in India thus and thus I would do.”

“Glory of Women, may your condescension increase! What did Akbar Padshah?” said Imami, joining her hands, but I said nothing because I knew.

“Though he was born Moslem yet he honoured all the Faiths, knowing in his wisdom that the music is One and the dogmas but the foolish words that man in his ignorance sets to it. All faiths are true, and none!”

The blood almost fell from my face as I heard her, because had these words been carried to the Emperor not even her rank, not even her daughterhood, could have saved the Princess. With Imami and me she was safe, but in a palace a bird of the air may carry the matter.

“Yes!” she went on, laughing coldly, “Akbar Padshah had in all ways the tastes of Solomon the Wise and his Begam Mahal (Palace of the Queens) was a garden of beauty. But observe! The Queens were chosen from every faith and each had the right to worship as she would. There were Indian princesses who adored Shiva the Great God and Krishna the Beloved. There was the Fair Persian who worshipped the Fire as Zoroaster taught, and there were ladies of the faith of our Prophet more than can be counted. Whereas in the zenana of my imperial father——”

She paused, and Imami continued with gravity that concealed a smile:

“The Begams recite the holy Koran all day, as becomes the ladies of the Emperor who says that he sighs for the life of a faquir.”

“And would he had it!” cried the Princess with passion, “for every day discontent grows among the Hindus that are taxed, beaten, and despised only because they hold the faith of their fathers. Is there one of them employed about the court or in the great offices? Not any. Whereas the Emperor Akbar in his deep wisdom made them as one with ourselves and thus built up a mighty Empire that my father with holy hands destroys daily.”

“O Brilliant Lady, for the sake of the Prophet, be silent!” I said, for indeed she terrified me by her insight. It is better for a woman that she should not know, or, knowing, keep silence. “If these words were carried to the Padshah——”

“I should at the least be imprisoned and never more see the light of day— Well, one may be a devotee out of the Faith as in it, and like Akbar Padshah, I am the devotee of Truth who shuts her fair eyes on no faith that men hold in humbleness of heart. And were it policy only, is it not madness to disgust and terrify the countless millions of the Hindus upon whom our throne is carried? The end is sure.”

“What is the end?” asked Imami in a whisper.

“Misery for himself—though that matters little, for he will take it as the robe of martyrdom from the hand of Allah, but ruin for the Mogul Empire in India. O that I were a man!”

Her face lit up into such pride and valour as she spoke that I wished it also, for I knew that her words were true as truth. But in India a woman can do nothing. It is little wonder I trembled for my Princess.

A picture of her Imperial father lay on the low table at her elbow, painted by a Persian artist of fame, and beautiful as a jewel in its small brilliant colours, and looking upon it one might see the Kismet of the Emperor in every feature. Eyes stern but sad, the narrow brows and close lips of the man who sees not life as it is but as his own thought of it, bounded by those high narrow brows that overweighted the lower part. The head of the Emperor was surrounded like that of a saint with a golden halo and his stern eyes were fixed on some vision invisible to others. The jaw was weak but fine, and of all dangerous things on earth beware the strength of a weak man in the grip of his belief. The Princess looked at it, and then at me:

“The Emperor (may Allah enlarge his reign) should have lived in the time of the Prophet and have been the Sword in his right hand. He is born centuries too late. It is policy now that carries all before it. O could I speak my mind to him, for my brothers dare not, but he and I are worlds apart and in his presence I am silent.”

I sighed. Not his throne, nor his children, nor his women, nor aught on earth weighed for one grain of sand against the Pearl of the Faith. True is it that the Emperor Akbar followed the Vision also but with eyes how wide and clear!—knowing this for certain, that mortal man _cannot_ know, that Truth is a bird flying in the skies and lets fall but a feather to earth here and there. So he made for himself a faith that held the quintessence of all the faiths, and had his sons been like to him—but past is past. They were not, and they broke his great heart.

So I said, bowing very low:

“Princess, when the happy day comes that you must wed you shall make your lord Lord of the World with your wisdom.”

She laughed, but bitterly.

“O, I have lovers! For one, Suleiman, my cousin, son of the brother whom the Emperor slew because he stood too near the throne. By report I knew what he was, but I saw him and spoke with him——”

“My Princess, and how?” I asked in great surprise, knowing that his presence in the Begam Mahal would have been death.

She looked at me with large calm eyes.

“My faithful servant, have you come and gone so long about the Begam Mahal and have not known that all things are possible? Prince Suleiman was veiled like a woman, and like a woman he stood where you sit, and I saw his face and we spoke together. Should not cousins meet who may be man and wife? And I have loved his father, Prince Dara, very much, who was learned and good.”

I trembled again when I heard, for had the Emperor guessed that she had done this thing what hope for her? His three brothers had he slaughtered, and the Prince Suleiman was doomed.

“And he saw your face, O Brilliant Lady?”

“No, and not for fear’s sake but because I liked him not at all. He said ‘O Envy of the Moon, lift up your veil that I may enjoy the marvel of your beauty’ and I sang this verse I had made to my lute.”

She caught up her lute that lay beside her and sang,

“I will not lift my Veil,
For if I did, who knows?
The bulbul might forget the rose,
The Brahman worshipper
Adoring Lakshmi’s grace
Might turn, forsaking her,
To see my face;
My beauty might prevail.
Think how within the flower
Hidden as in a bower
Her fragrant soul must be,
And none can look on it.
So me the world shall see
Only within the verses I have writ.
I will not lift the Veil.

“And the fool caught me and would have torn it,” she added, “but Imami restrained him, and he flung from us like a woman in temper as in dress. A contemptible creature!”

“But Lady of Beauty, what had you against him?”

“Do I not know all that goes on in this city? Do I not know that Prince Suleiman spends his days and nights in Shaitanpur (Devilsville, the quarter of pleasure) and was I to show my face to a man reeking from the embraces of the bazaar? No, I am Makhfi (the Hidden One) and hidden I will remain for such as he. I will be no rival to Peri Mahal the dancer and her like.”

And even as she ended a low voice at the curtain that veiled the entrance asked for admission and when she granted it, the heavy silk was drawn aside and a tall veiled woman entered. The Princess did not look up but I saw Imami’s eyes fix as if startled.

“Her slave prays for a word with the Marvel of the Age whose mind is so lovely that it outshines even her fair face and her face so beautiful, that it is the lamp that permits the light of her soul to shine through.”

“Warm for a woman!” said the Princess, and looked straight at the new-comer who stood salaaming with the utmost humility. She added impatiently:

“There is no need of this ceremony, lady. Remove your veil. The good physician Abul Qasim is privileged to see the faces of all in the Begam Mahal.”

In a flash the veil was torn off and a man’s face appeared beneath it—young, bold, and handsome with the high features of the Imperial House, a splendid dissolute young man with the down black on his upper lip like the black astride the young swan’s bill. Prince Suleiman, the son of Dara the Emperor’s brother.

“Ha, daughter of my uncle!” he cried,— “Did I not wager, did I not swear, that I would see that hidden beauty and now I see it face to face. Poets have sung it and painters praised it, but their words and their colours were lies for they could not utter the truth. And having seen I entreat for my father’s sake, for love’s sake, that it may be mine.”

He made towards her eagerly, wholly disregarding Imami and me. I looked to see her confused or angry, but she spoke with a most misleading calm.

“Exalted cousin, you have won your wager and your bride. If her embrace is cold it is at least constant and——”

“Cold, with those burning lips of rose, those glowing eyes? O Loveliest, Divinest, grant me one kiss for earnest if you would not have me die at your feet.”

I saw her sign with her hand to Imami who glided away, flattening herself against the wall as if terrified, then she spoke serenely.

“Exalted cousin, when were you last in Shaitanpur?”

It stopped him like a lightning flash. He stood arrested on the marble before her face.

“I know nothing of Shaitanpur,” he said, breathless.

“No? Nor of the dancer Peri Mahal and her house with the courtyard of roses, nor of the song she sings?”

Again she caught up her lute and sang in a low voice,

“Black bee, strong bee, the honey-eater,
Plunder my perfume, seek my heart
Cling to me, ravage me, make me sweeter,
Tear the leaves of the rose apart.”

He stared, his eyes slowly dilating. That the daughter of the Emperor should sing the song of the bazaar—the song of the light women—! Then it emboldened him. He threw himself forward to seize her hand.