Chapter XVIII

The boatmen shout--“’tis time to part!
No longer we can stay:”
’Twas then Maimuna taught my heart,
How much a glance could say!

With trembling steps to me she came;
“Farewell!” she would have cried;
But ere her lips the word could frame,
In half formed sounds it died.

Then bending down, with looks of love,
Her arms she round me flung;
And, as the gale hangs on the grove,
Upon my breast she hung.

My willing arms embraced the maid,
My heart with raptures beat;
While she but wept the more, and said,
“Would we had never met!”

MUSICIAN OF BAGDAD.

Amongst the earliest companions of the Prince Selim, there was one, named Fereid Bochari, who long continued to possess over the mind of his master an unrivalled influence. He was the son of Abdulhamid Messower, a portrait painter of Shiraz, who had been employed by Acbar for several years in painting the beauties of the harem. Bochari, while yet a boy, was frequently admitted with his father into the interior of the harem, where he became acquainted with the prince. The near equality of their ages, the lively spirits of Bochari, and the infinite resources which he had at his command for amusing the heir to the empire, soon prepared for him the way to fortune. His father, of course, gave every encouragement, and all the improvement in his power to talents, which had already won for his son the favour of so important a personage. At the earnest solicitation of Selim, Bochari was altogether domesticated in the palace. They were inseparable companions, both in the school-room and in the gardens assigned them for recreation. They grew up together from youth to manhood; and although the emperor frequently observed with solicitude, the strange power which the Persian exercised over the resolutions of the prince, whether they were connected with matters of business or pleasure, nevertheless, he made no attempt to break the links by which they appeared to be bound together.

The son of Messower was from nature, as well as from the circumstances under which he was brought up, a consummate hypocrite. In the presence of the emperor, or of the influential persons employed about him, Bochari exhibited a peculiar gravity of demeanor, supposed to be partly the result of the rigid principles of religion, which he affected to follow; partly of the profound veneration which he professed to feel for the ministers and other great officers engaged in the service of the empire. For the restraint, however, which he imposed upon himself on these occasions, he took ample compensation when he was alone with Selim. There was then scarcely any body invested with public office, whom he did not mimic with an extraordinary degree of perfection, in voice, language, and manner. Selim confessed that he would often have found it difficult to believe that Bochari was not himself the very character he represented, had not the latter generally taken care, when finishing the exhibition, to turn his originals into ridicule. When, after an evening’s amusement of this description, they found themselves near each other at any of the ceremonies of the court, in the presence of the very personages who had thus been caricatured, Selim frequently burst into laughter which he could not control; very much to the horror of the emirs, and sometimes even of the emperor, who noticed his indecorous merriment; while not a muscle was moved in the countenance of Bochari. On the contrary, he would often take it upon himself to reprove the prince for his levity, and to engage him in conversation, in order to prevent its renewal. Every body, who witnessed these scenes, looked upon it as a most fortunate circumstance, that a person of so much discretion was placed near the prince, who had sufficient influence to check these improprieties of conduct.

Bochari inherited from his father a most ungovernable passion for wine. He was rigidly cautious in never drinking before mid-day prayers, as the consequence would have been fatal had he been discovered drunk in the mosque; and, besides, the emperor seldom passed a morning without visiting the apartment of his son. But the afternoons, which were supposed to be spent by the prince, and his companion, in riding in the country near Agra, were very generally devoted by both, even before they arrived at manhood, to a very different purpose. They left the palace mounted, as usual, for an excursion. They had in their pay a peasant, who owned a small shed in the neighbourhood of the capital, to whose care they confided their horses. Then putting on the dresses of common soldiers, which they had provided, they returned in disguise to Agra; and establishing themselves in one of their favourite wine-houses, they usually drank from fifteen to twenty cups each, sometimes alone, but more frequently in the midst of the lowest company by which those places were crowded. The prince became, in a short time, so much addicted to this beverage, that if he were deprived of it, at his accustomed hours, his hands began to shake, and he was unable to sit at rest until wine was brought before him.

When Selim was permitted, at the usual age, to establish a harem of his own, Bochari lent all his assistance in collecting for it the most beautiful women of Hindostan. But the skill and perseverance with which he succeeded in rescuing his master from the predominant influence of any of his numerous wives, would have been admirable, had they been exercised in a more legitimate cause. Accustomed to dictate every fancy he suffered Selim to indulge, he would bear no rival in the absolute dominion over him, which he wielded with the sway of an enchanter. As soon as he learned, by questioning the prince, that the charms of a particular female were assuming a marked superiority in his esteem over those of her companions, he so concerted his measures, that to make him forget such dangerous attractions, a new rival was introduced, destined, in her turn, to be sacrificed the moment she aimed at securing the permanence of her ascendancy.

Bochari had, with all the world, heard much of the beauty of Mher-Ul-Nissa. The few occasions on which he had seen her, enabled him to confirm, by his own observation, the reports which had reached his ear. He acknowledged to Selim, who often spoke to him about her, that the poets, in their most inspired moments, had never portrayed an earthly being, whose presence was more bewitching than the daughter of Kazim Ayas. There were, however, a steadiness and dignity in her mien, and a quick intelligence in her eye, which at once commanded Bochari’s respect, and forbade him to think of any scheme for adding that lovely person to the harem of the prince. He feared that the moment of her marriage with Selim would, of necessity, be that of his own downfall. He could hope to find no rival in Hindostan; nay, not even in Persia, whom he might make use of, for the purpose of counteracting the influence which her fascinations of person and of mind would be sure to attain. The circumstance, therefore, of her being engaged to Afkun, was the more agreeable, as it was by him unexpected. For he had not failed to discover that Selim’s attentions to Mher-Ul-Nissa recently assumed a character very likely, if unresisted, to lead to the most important consequences.

The apprehensions of Bochari, on this subject, were excited to an extreme degree one evening, soon after it was publicly declared that Afkun was to be united to the daughter of the high treasurer. The chieftain had scarcely obtained from Mher-Ul-Nissa, the promise of her hand, when he was again suddenly called to his government by the occurrence of a series of the most awful calamities, which were caused by the overflowing of the lakes, in consequence of the melting of the snows in the mountains, as well as an unusual continuance of heavy rains. The waters overspread the country for many leagues, and as they poured along with irresistible fury, they swept away not only the harvests standing in the fields, but whole villages, and innumerable flocks and herds, which happened to be within the reach of the inundation.

During Afkun’s absence, Kazim gave a splendid banquet in honour of the approaching nuptials. Selim and his companion, together with several of the most dignified personages of the empire, were present. The wines, all of the most exquisite kind, were very freely circulated; and after the crowd of less intimate guests had withdrawn, the ladies, veiled as usual, made their appearance.

At the request of Selim, Mher-Ul-Nissa sung to her lute several of her favourite airs. Bochari observed, that her melodies, whether from accident or design he could not conjecture, were, for the most part, of a grave and even plaintive turn, instead of being suited to the joyousness of the occasion. There was one especially, which told, in the most touching tones, the grief of a Cingalese girl, who had been attached to a native of her own island; but who had an opportunity, after being sold as a slave, to improve, in some degree the severity of her fate, by marrying a foreign prince. The verses, in which she described the innocence and ardour of her first love, as contrasted with the reluctance she felt in bestowing her hand, where it never could be accompanied by her heart, were given by Mher-Ul-Nissa with a tenderness, which drew tears from every body present, with the exception of Bochari. While all other eyes were fixed upon the ravishing minstrel, his were wholly employed in watching, with secret anguish, the powerful effect which her performance produced on the feelings of the prince.

Although Mangeli beheld this scene with the natural pride of a mother, yet feeling that if it were prolonged, under the circumstances, it might give rise to unjust interpretations, she desired her attendants, all of whom were robed in the most sumptuous attire, to form for the dance. But although those maidens, most of whom were characterised by beauty and gracefulness, executed their appointed parts in the dance in a superior style, they attracted not the slightest notice from Selim. His wrapt attention still dwelt on the song which he had last heard, and he pressed for its repetition with so much earnestness, that it seemed almost inhospitable to refuse his request. Mher-Ul-Nissa resumed her instrument; but while she was still preluding to the air which she intended to play, two of the principal strings snapped asunder with a loud, and, as some felt, an ominous sound, like the shriek of an evil genius.

In order to dissipate the sudden gloom which this incident created throughout the company, she rose, and ordering Kanun to take the flageolet, while another of her attendants struck the double-stringed harp, she stood in the midst of the circle like some wonderful statue fresh from the hand of the artist. The music of the two performers at first lamented the fate of a Hindu shepherdess, whom the god Vishnu transformed into marble, lest, during his temporary absence from earth, she might surrender her affections to an ordinary mortal. A rapid transition was then made to the most charming pastoral strains, resembling those which the former companions of the metamorphosed maid poured forth from their simple reeds; when after seeking her for many a day over the fields, where she had been accustomed to tend her flocks, they at length discovered her near a fountain, as they thought asleep. They hoped that they might awake her from her lethargy, by addressing her in the tones which she most loved to hear--the songs of her youth; but she remained insensible to their appeals, renewed though they were from day to day. At length, a young unknown shepherd, who, with a lyre slung on his back, joined the group one morning, as they were proceeding to the fountain, mingled the brilliant notes of his instrument with those which had hitherto failed to produce any effect on the sleeping girl. Suddenly the marble trembled, and became relaxed--the glow of genial warmth overspread the whole figure--blushes kindled on the cheeks--the eyelids separated, and from beneath them shot forth a living fire--the arms moved--and while the rustics, gazing with rapture on the miraculous change that was going on, imparted to their music the brightening joy by which they were inspired, the strange shepherd, taking the maid by the hand, called all her limbs into the most exquisite action, descriptive of the happiness of those, who, after a long separation, are again joined in the sweet consciousness of mutual affection.

Mher-Ul-Nissa answered to each variation in the strain, with irresistible truth and power of expression. The statue, veiled in drapery, seemed for a while without vitality--breathless--cold--but still beautiful, even in apparent death. No feature or limb moved, while the airs of the shepherdesses emulated each other, in endeavouring to recall her to emotion; but when the well-known music of the god touched her ear, the effect was electric upon the whole assembly. Her figure appeared to warm by degrees, from utter insensibility to a divine rapture. The sentiment that actuated her entire being was shown in attitudes and movements, refined far above those exhibitions to which the grosser sense gives rise.

Selim followed her steps, with a degree of admiration which he knew not how to repress within the ordinary bounds of decorum. He was beside himself with delight. And when, in gliding before him, her veil chanced to be wafted from her head, suddenly disclosing to his view all the charms of her unrivalled countenance, blushing, with confusion for such an untoward accident, his bended knee, his upward glowing looks, his hand pressed on her’s, whilst he exclaimed, “NOURMAHAL!”[2] at once proclaimed feelings, which, though they found no words, announced, that from that hour they were, for good or for evil, to rule his subsequent existence.

[2] “Light of the harem!”