by C. A. Frazer
CHAPTER X.
On the morrow the Rajah of Kashmir sat in the terraced garden and talkedof life. Those who sat with him had lately braved death on battlefield,but death had forborne to touch them, and they rejoiced in existence.All around them the story was repeated; the deepening shade spoke ofanother shadow, but the flashing sunbeams chased the thought ere itchilled; eaves fluttering to the mould said, "Ponder the grave," but theshining air stirred and sent them whirling aloft. Death and Life enacteda drama.
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The human comedy ends in woe, but Nature tenderly masks her catastrophe,and her sorrows are hung with gayest colours and adorned with fairesteffects. This is seen at sunset. The evening saddens, the earth melts,and in my egoism I hail a fellow mourner. I would protract the moment ofthe sun's entombment.
"There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not if I could be gay."
It is the mood of little griefs. An unquiet wind murmurs, but it doesnot rise to a wail.
I fain would bid th' AEolian tones prolong To mourn the jolly Day's discomfiture, And, mindful of mine own estate, among The buds and grieving trees my plaint outpour, That sweets must fade though Night will aye endure. But crafty Nature, fancy to beguile From her disaster, which, alas! is mine, Bids to the front in radiant defile A trooping host whose pomps incarnadine The faded trophies of the dying day, And, lest I fail before so brave array, She decks the quiet clouds where fancies dwell With sweet translucent gleam and melting hue To woo my swooning sense with softer spell Of blissful pink and hyacinthine blue.
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"Life," said the Rajah, "is the fairest of flowers, and its beauty andfragrance are for him who plucks."
"Plucks," sighed one, "to find it wither in his grasp."
Said the Rajah, "To do justice to life, one must forget death."
"Forgetfulness may be desirable," said another, "but how shall it beattained? How deny the tyrant who at each sunset demands his tributedues of sleep, and enwraps my vassal being in dull oblivion?"
"By ill-conditioned fears," replied the Rajah, "men invite evil. To himwho desires the solace of ghostly companionship shall the spectrestroop, a phantom in every shadow, and with him make their abode. He whofears is already overcome. To the man who would live there must be nodeath. For me, I love the rosy, teeming present; to-morrow is with thegods, and I for one," he added laughing, "will not be guilty of animpious theft by anticipating their gifts."
"Life," said an Englishman, "is a battle-field in which victory is tothe valiant. To my mind the effort after forgetfulness is no lessdisquieting than the fear you would shun. Death, could we but believeit, is simple and natural as Life."
But this he said, not knowing that
"Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be."
"It is true," spoke the Venerable Nawab Khan, a Musselman of devoutpiety, "and to what purpose do we struggle? The inevitable is not to beaverted
Tho', sliding through lush grass, the shining snake, Loving the sun, a sinuous way doth take, Its fixed journey to its home 'twill make. Even as in tranquil vale reluctant rill, In sportive twinings nigh its parent hill, Proceedeth onward to the ocean still.
"Life is a dream," continued the pious man, "and the first condition ofits happiness is peace. For me I am weary of battle-fields, and feel nodesire to grasp after illusive flowers and fading grass. If anticipatedevil is the shadow of life, the vain toils of restless ambition are itsmenace. Vain toil it is! To labour, to suffer, to sorely strive that wemay accomplish--our destiny! For that is what our utmost effort alikewith our quietude will achieve."
"And," demanded the Rajah, "is it then life to breathe? Suchtranquillity will breed torpor rather than dream. If the immobility ofFate be the theme and burden of my days I dare the more. Let us bare ourbreasts to the arrows of Fortune, let us invite the shafts of Chance,let us taunt Fate, let us dare our doom, why should we fear? The handsof Destiny are also bound, and not one pang the more shall we feel forour hardihood."
But one who reclined on a couch of roses and breathed their languorousfragrance, chided the fervency of this discourse, saying:
"If Life be a flower, Light, facile, and free, Be the grasp that would hold it; From a halcyon sea Let the breezes that stir it Blow thoughtlessly; No breath of care should chill it, Nor sad foreboding thrill it, For honey-dew lies hid Beneath a fragile lid, And ardent clutch will spill it."
"Ay," cried the Rajah, "I like the counsel of the flowers.
Obeissance to the blast Make, mock when it is past, And rise like a washen rose, deliciously, Forgetful of sorrow, Unheeding the morrow, And meeting all destinies, mad, merrily; If Life be a flower, 'tis fairest of all If for it you fear fortune's pitiless thrall, With the Tulip's proud beauty Its wisdom combine, And bear to the contest A goblet of wine!"
"Ah," sighed the pensive one, "but the flower is the poppy, for he whopossesses it presently falls asleep."
But his gentle conceit was unheard, for Nawab Khan related a story.
"One sought," said he, "the cave where dwelt a holy hermit of greatreputation for wisdom and learning. He sate him down before theentrance, and listened with patience and fortitude to the grave andweighty saws which like bats increase in darkness. Having presentlyearned the right of a disciple, he plied the sage with questions,as:--What is the material and constitution of the soul? Where are laidthe bones of Seth? What bounds the credulity of mankind? These and manymore did the Wise answer in difficult words whose sound carriedconviction. 'He knows all things,' thought the inquirer, 'I need not toply him with riddles to whom all things are plain. I will rather seekcounsel for myself concerning what lies at hand.' With that he put thequestion, 'What think you of human life?' The hermit, who had haltedhitherto at no question, arose, turned him about, and in silencewithdrew to the depths of his grotto."[2]
"Proving," laughed the Rajah, "that he added the virtue of discretion tohis multiform merits. But we turn not our backs on the question until myillustrious guest Atma Singh of the blood of the Holy Nanuk furtherexpound the nature of life."
All turned to Atma. The frivolity of the Rajah was distasteful to him inconnection with so grave a theme. His eyes involuntarily sought theglance of the young Englishman who had spoken. He was an officer in theBritish army and his name was Bertram. His expressive face kindled withkindly grace as the young Sikh claimed sympathy with him in his view oflife as a battlefield.
"But not," said Atma, "that triumph crowns prowess in this fight. Iknow that life is a battle in which sooner or later we must all succumb,but we die knowing that the right is stronger through our struggle."
"I am rebuked, Atma Singh," said Bertram; "your battlefield is a noblerone than that on which human effort is rewarded by gain. I pray youcontinue."
"Behold the strength that comes from a convert," sneered some of thecompany, as with fervent though modest speech Atma spoke of the highcourage and dauntless faith which transform defeat into Immortalvictory.
A silence fell on the gay throng. Some were gloomy because reminded oftheir national discomfiture. Others looked coldly on Atma and mutteredwith discontent--
"He speaks of life as a thing that is yet to be."
FOOTNOTE:
[2] I have taken the liberty here of altering a well-known fable whoseauthorship I do not know.