Chapter XIV

What soft, yet awful, dignity!
What meek, yet manly, grace!
What sweetness dances in his eye,
And blossoms in his face.

CHINESE POEM.

Kazim postponed from day to day his application for employment at any of the schools of the capital, until at length, seeing his store of wealth wearing gradually away, he found himself compelled to make a vigorous effort for the future maintenance of his family. He proceeded, therefore, in the first instance, to the principal college, where the sons of several of the omrahs, and other noblemen, were educated, and stated his object, as well as his pretensions, in the most modest manner. But every office to which he aspired was already full; and even if that had not been the case, he was told that his pronunciation of the Persian was provincial, and not sufficiently pure for the capital.

Undepressed by this disappointment, Kazim next presented himself to the governor of another college of the first rank, who looked upon him as a great deal too young for the functions of a master. When obliged to mention, in his own defence, that he had passed through the university of Samarcand, not without distinction, and that he had perused most of the works which treated of the sciences, history, philosophy, and poetry, he was asked what books on divinity he had read. He confessed that he had given but a small portion of his time to that study, as very few of the compositions that met his eye upon that subject, seemed to him to discuss it in a satisfactory manner. Unfortunately for Kazim, the person whom he addressed had been a most voluminous author in the theological line; his dismissal followed, of course, without being softened by the slightest appearance of ceremony.

It was not without much difficulty, and many pangs of wounded pride, that Kazim, after these rebuffs from the higher academical establishments, made up his mind to offer himself to one of the inferior grades, as a lecturer in the very rudiments of learning. His only fear was, that he should be too readily accepted, and thus fixed for life in a subordinate rank, from which he might never be promoted. But these, too, he found crowded in every department. By some his applications were treated with a cold civility; by others he was sneered at as a Tartar,--one of the nation especially hated by the Hindoos. When in the extremity of the misery which he felt under such repeated failures, he talked of his family, and threw out an intimation of his apprehensions for their fate, if he could meet with no employment, he was looked upon as an intruder and an adventurer, without connexions or character, and was more than once advised to go back to the wilds whence he came, for that there were too many already of his class in Lahore!

When returning to Mangeli on these occasions, after walking about the capital the whole day to no purpose, the agony of his mind was overwhelming. The morning generally kindled a faint ray of hope in his breast; he knew not but that before night he might at length succeed in obtaining the object of his now humbled wishes. But as the day advanced, and disappointment followed disappointment, that feeble light again vanished, leaving his mind in a state of utter despair. His power of thought seemed to have abandoned him sometimes altogether. He leant against the corner of a street, and pressing his hand to his forehead, gazed wildly around him, as if he were in a dream, and knew not where he was or whither he was going. Often, overcome with fatigue, he could hardly trail one foot after another, as night after night he sought his home, with the same tale of misfortune. The point of sight in the prospect of his existence, which he thought he had found with so much certainty, when first he bent his way towards the Himalas, he now seemed to have irrecoverably lost. All was a dreary waste before him: the only relief of which his soul was susceptible, sprung from the unaltered affection of Mangeli, and the smiles of delighted recognition with which he was always received by the cherub she held out to kiss him on his arrival.

As a last resort, Kazim procured a little inkstand, and a few reeds, and having hired a stall in one of the principal streets, he sat there under an awning of coarse grass, and copied out some of the poems which he had committed to memory, and also a few of his own stanzas, the compositions of happier days. These he was enabled to sell for a few cowries to students who passed by his stall to the colleges. But when he found that his poems were laughed at by the critics of Lahore, by whom they were designated, with an insulting ambiguity, as the “beggar ballads,” he ceased to offer any more of his own compositions for sale, confining himself to those which he could collect from other sources. His hand-writing, which was of the most elegant description, gradually obtained for him, however, more profitable employment among the merchants who resorted to the neighbouring bazaars, for whom he drew up accounts, and letters on matters of business. The emolument which he thus earned was not much on the whole, but it was something to a frugal household; it dissipated the dense gloom that had for some time shrouded his intellect, and opened once more a prospect, though a faint one, of a favourable change in his fortune.

Sometimes, persons of the lowest order came to the amanuensis, requesting that he would prepare petitions for them to the nobility and the courts of justice; and it was remarked by a muslin weaver, near whose shop his stall was situated, that trifling as the pittance was which he received from these people, he always listened to their instructions with cheerfulness, and executed them with zeal. His own misfortunes had touched his heart with sympathy for the poor, whenever they solicited the aid of his penmanship. Nor were the many private histories of distress with which he had thus become acquainted, during the seven long years he was obliged to dedicate to his new profession, without their effect upon his feelings. He learned from them, that however short of the visions of youth his condition had fallen, it was by no means at the lowest degree on the scale of existence.

He was not rich, it was true; but then he was free from the anxiety which riches always bring, and especially from those imaginary sufferings, worse than real woes, that haunt the mind when it is disengaged from the pursuit of the actual necessaries of life. He had not attained any portion of that celebrity, or a single step of that rank, amongst his fellow men, to which some years ago he had looked forward with so much ardour. But celebrity created envy, and rank only augmented ambition. Better to remain in obscurity, than to be spoken of and pointed at in the circles of the great as a Tartar adventurer, on whom they would be delighted to impose every kind of mortification. He had few acquaintances and no friends; but he possessed a well stored mind, whose sphere he extended according to his means, from day to day, which rendered him independent of society. In Mangeli, the light of his home, and in his daughter, whom his neighbours familiarly called Mher-ul-Nissa, “the sun of her sex,” from her remarkably graceful form and brilliant countenance, shining already with more than the beauty even of her mother, he had a fund of happiness in itself more precious than the sceptre of an empire.

One morning as Kazim was seated in his stall, waiting for any customer who might wish to employ his pen, a dervish addressed him, at the same time producing an ancient manuscript, which he said he wished to have copied as speedily as possible, as he was to wait upon the prime-minister, Abul Fazeel, with both the copy and the original, in a few days. The composition was of some length, and upon looking over it, Kazim found that it related to the geography of Bengal.

“You must be aware,” said the dervish, “that Abul Fazeel has only just returned to Lahore, after an absence of several years, which he has spent in travelling through the provinces of the empire, with a view to ascertain and place on record the nature of the soil, the produce, the climate, the manufactures, and the population, by which they are individually distinguished. From the continuation of the civil war which prevails in Bengal, he has not been able to traverse that magnificent region. Here is a full and a very accurate survey of that country, made a century ago, by a learned Arabian; it is, however, much soiled, and I fear, in some parts, illegible. Copy it in the best manner you can, and here will be your reward,” putting into Kazim’s hand a gold rupee.

In a few days the copy was complete, and the dervish took it away, thanking Kazim for the elegance and accuracy with which the transcript was executed. On presenting the original roll to Fazeel, the dervish also unfolded the copy before the minister, which he looked over for some time, with the most intense interest.

“This is, indeed,” said the minister, “a most valuable document--a master-piece in every respect. The details are clear, and sufficiently ample for my purpose. But this hand-writing I have seen before--it must be that of a young man in whose fortunes I once felt a lively interest, but of whom I have never heard since that fatal expedition to”----

Here Fazeel checked himself, as if he felt that he had already gone farther than he intended.

“To Arjun,” added the dervish. “I was there too; you have heard Acbar, doubtless, speak of a poor dervish, who resided in the garden hut near Karaman”----

“And saved his life!--and ours! Excellent man--we never can sufficiently thank you!--You must come with me to the emperor.”

“No--my habit would ill befit the court of Acbar. Protect Kazim Ayas--I seek no further reward.”

“Ah! this is indeed his hand. Bring the young man to me instantly. The emperor will, I am sure, be delighted to advance the fortunes of our former companion in adversity.”

The dervish returned without delay to the stall, where he found Kazim, as usual, industriously employed.

“I bear good tidings, young man,” said he, his features glistening with heartfelt pleasure;--“Shut up your stall, and come with me just as you are.”

Kazim, trembling with joy, did as he was desired, and as they proceeded to the palace the words, “To Hindostan, I say, when the snows are gone!” which he had for some time forgotten as a mere delusion of the fancy, now returned to his memory in a flood of light. Were they, then, the whisper of a vision, or was this the dervish who pronounced them?

On arriving at the palace, his companion, who in a decided, though friendly tone, stipulated that no enquiries should be made, as to himself, led Kazim into a spacious gallery that overlooked the royal gardens. As there was a crowd of courtiers waiting to see the minister, the dervish directed Kazim’s attention, while they were waiting for their turn to be called, to the stately trees and fountains with which the gardens were ornamented. Presently the sound of a musquet, and the smoke with which the explosion was accompanied, at the lower end of the gardens, excited Kazim’s surprise. He had never seen arms of that description before. The dervish explained the nature of the instrument, while the sounds were again and again repeated, each explosion being followed by a shout of laughter from a group of young men, who appeared to be amusing themselves by firing at a target.

“It is a favourite sport of the prince Selim,” said the dervish.-- “See--here he comes, with his companions.”

“What a very handsome person,” observed Kazim; “I should at once have known him for a prince!”

“Handsome he undoubtedly is,” rejoined the dervish; “rather too much so for the heir of such an extensive empire, which will demand more vigour, both of mind and limb, than I fear he will ever exhibit.”

While the dervish was still speaking, the prince and his friends ascended from the gardens by the marble steps which led to the gallery.

“It is said,” whispered the dervish to Kazim, after they passed, “that the prince is already well acquainted with the fascinations of the wine-cup; nevertheless, although he is nearly thirty years of age, he does not, as you see, look five-and-twenty.”

The crowds, in the ante-rooms, having at length sensibly diminished, the dervish and Kazim were directed to attend the minister. They found him in a splendidly decorated apartment, seated on a divan, with a large bundle of papers in his hand, from which he raised his eyes but for a moment, while he glanced at Kazim.

“Shew that young man,” said the minister to an attendant, “into my writing room, and give him these papers, which he must set about copying instantly.”

Kazim was too much abashed by the novelty of his situation, to notice the features of the minister--though it struck him that the voice which he had just heard, was not altogether strange to his ear. The dervish, pressing his hand warmly, resigned him to the care of the attendant, by whom he was conducted to an inner apartment, the floor of which was covered with papers, scattered about in all directions. A spot having been cleared for his use, and writing implements having been placed before him, he was left alone to pursue the labours which had been assigned him.

The minister again addressed the good dervish, and entreated him to remain until the emperor, who was then at mid-day meal, should be disengaged. But, he said, that having at length succeeded in placing in the career of fame and fortune, one that would prove eminently worthy of both, he could not postpone his departure for Cashmere, whither he was bound on a pilgrimage. Fazeel could not even persuade him to accept an onyx ring, which he took off his finger, and receiving the blessing of the holy man, suffered him, with the greatest reluctance, to set out upon his journey.

Kazim scarcely knew how many hours he had been in his new office, when his attention was interrupted by the sound of steps. Immediately a door behind him, which he had not before perceived, opened, and Fazeel, with another person, clothed in a woven dress of silk and gold, bound at the waist by a zone of diamonds and rubies, stood before Kazim, smiling, as if they were amused by the attitude of astonishment which he naturally assumed. He rose on his feet, looked first at one, then at the other, while the reed with which he had been writing fell from his hand, unnoticed on the floor, and his face was mantled in blushes.

“It must be Suleiman and Baba Seirami,” at length exclaimed Kazim.

“Whom you now behold as Acbar and his minister Abul Fazeel,” said the emperor, embracing the young man with tokens of the most lively pleasure. Kazim would have made his obeisance in the ordinary form, but this Acbar would not permit.

“No--no, no ceremony to-day. We are both extremely happy, to find that you have at last made your way to Hindostan, where you may count upon my invariable friendship.”

“And Mangeli, too,” said Fazeel; “has she also come with you? Doubtless as beautiful as ever!”

Kazim, overcome with emotion, knew scarcely how to reply to the numerous questions which the emperor and the minister then put to him rapidly one after another. He made no secret of any part of his story, disclosing the leading circumstances of his life, as they had occurred since he had last seen them. Acbar kindly expressed his concern, that Kazim had not availed himself of the instructions, especially addressed to him in the letter which Fazeel had sent from Karaman. Kazim, in explanation, replied, that the letter duly reached the camp, but that as it had been unfortunately worn into fragments, he was prevented from becoming acquainted with the emperor’s generous intentions in his behalf.

“Well! well!” observed the sovereign, “we must now endeavour to repair the time you have lost. Fazeel will appoint you one of his principal secretaries, and I hope often to see you, that we may talk over our adventures in Arjun.”

“With respect to which, however,” added Fazeel, as Acbar retired by the door at which he had entered, “it will be necessary for you to be silent to all other persons. That expedition was, as you know, a most unfortunate affair in every respect; one of those sudden and irresistible resolutions, which the emperor’s extraordinary genius for war sometimes acts upon, without the requisite deliberation. He had nearly lost Hindostan, while endeavouring by rapid movements and surprises, to break up a confederacy that had been preparing in the north, the object of which was to pour down troops into the then rebellious provinces of Cashmere and Lahore. The adoption of the name of Suleiman, who was actually one of the chieftains engaged in the conspiracy, was one of those stratagems which have sometimes served him successfully in lieu of an army, although upon that occasion we were indeed any thing but fortunate. It was well that we were enabled even to make good our escape to Lahore, where, however, order has since been in a great measure restored.”

Kazim listened to Fazeel with the deepest interest, rejoicing inwardly in the delight which he should feel in imparting to Mangeli the sudden alteration that had taken place in their fortunes.