Ferishtah's Fancies/Mihrab Shah
6. MIHRAB SHAH.
Quoth an enquirer, "Praise the Merciful!My thumb which yesterday a scorpion nipped—(It swelled and blackened)—lo, is sound again!By application of a virtuous rootThe burning has abated: that is well:But now methinks I have a mind to ask,—Since this discomfort came of culling herbsNor meaning harm,—why needs a scorpion be?Yea, there began, from when my thumb last throbbed, Advance in question-framing, till I askedWherefore should any evil hap to man—From ache of flesh to agony of soul—Since God's All-mercy mates All-potency?Nay, why permits He evil to Himself—Man's sin, accounted such? Suppose a worldPurged of all pain, with fit inhabitant—Man pure of evil in thought, word and deed—Were it not well? Then, wherefore otherwise?Too good result? But He is wholly good!Hard to effect? Ay, were He impotent!Teach me, Ferishtah!"Said the Dervish: "Friend,My chance, escaped to-day, was worse than thine:I, as I woke this morning, raised my head, Which never tumbled but stuck fast on neck.Was not I glad and thankful!""How could headTumble from neck, unchopped—inform me first!Unless we take Firdusi's tale for truth,Who ever heard the like?""The like might hapBy natural law I let my staff fall thus—It goes to ground, I know not why. Suppose,Whene'er my hold was loosed,hold was loosed, it skyward sprangAs certainly, and all experience provedThat, just as staves when unsupported sink,So, unconfined, they soar?""Let such be law—Why, a new chapter of sad accidents Were added to humanity's mischance,No doubt at all, and as a man's false stepNow lays him prone on earth, contrariwise,Removal from his shoulder of a weightMight start him upwards to perdition. Ay!But since such law exists in just thy brainI shall not hesitate to doff my capFor fear my head take flight.""Nor feel reliefFinding it firm on shoulder. Tell me, now!What were the bond 'twixt man and man, dost judge,Pain once abolished? Come, be true! Our Shah—How stands he in thy favour? Why that shrug?Is not he lord and ruler?"
"Easily!His mother bore him, first of those four wivesProvided by his father, such his luck:Since when his business simply was to breatheAnd take each day's new bounty. There he stands―Wherelse had I stood, were his birth-star mine?No, to respect men's power, I needs must seeMen's bare hands seek, find, grasp and wield the swordNobody else can brandish! Bless his heart,’Tis said, he scarcely counts his fingers right!"
"Well, then—his princely doles! from every feastOff go the feasted with the dish they ateAnd cup they drank from,—nay, a change besidesOf garments' . . . "Sir, put case, for service done,―Or best, for love's sake,—such and such a slaveSold his allowance of sour lentil soupTo therewith purchase me a pipe-stick,―nay,If he, by but one hour, cut short his sleepTo clout my shoe,—that were a sacrifice!"
"All praise his gracious bearing.""All praise mine—Or would praise did they never make approachExcept on all-fours, crawling till I bade'Now that with eyelids thou hast touched the earth,Come close and have no fear, poor nothingness!'What wonder that the lady-rose I wooAnd palisade about from every wind, Holds herself handsomely? The wilding, now,Ruffled outside at pleasure of the blast,That still lifts up with something of a smileIts poor attempt at bloom" . . ."A blameless life,Where wrong might revel with impunity―Remember that!""The falcon on his fist—Reclaimed and trained and belled and beautifiedTill she believes herself the Simorgh's mate—She only deigns destroy the antelope,Stoops at no carrion-crow: thou marvellest?"
"So be it, then! He wakes no love in theeFor any one of divers attributes Commonly deemed love-worthy. All the same,I would he were not wasting, slow but sure,With that internal ulcer" . . ."Say'st thou so?How should I guess? Alack, poor soul! But stay—Sure in the reach of art some remedyMust lie to hand or if it lurk,—that leechOf fame in Tebriz, why not seek his aid?Couldst not thou, Dervish, counsel in the case?"
"My counsel might be—what imports a pangThe more or less, which puts an end to oneOdious in spite of every attributeCommonly deemed love-worthy?" "Attributes?Faugh!—nay, Ferishtah,—’tis an ulcer, think!Attributes, quotha? Here's poor flesh and blood,Like thine and mine and every man's, a preyTo hell-fire! Hast thou lost thy wits for once?"
"Friend, here they are to find and profit by!Put pain from out the world, what room were leftFor thanks to God, for love to Man? Why thanksExcept for some escape, whate'er the style,From pain that might be, name it as thou mayst?Why love,—when all thy kind, save me, suppose,Thy father—and thy son—and . . well, thy dog,To eke the decent number out—we fewWho happen—like a handful of chance stars From the unnumbered host—to shine o'erheadAnd lend thee light,—our twinkle all thy store,—We only take thy love! Mankind, forsooth?Who sympathizes with their general joyFoolish as undeserved? But pain—see God'sWisdom at work!—man's heart is made to judgePain deserved nowhere by the common fleshOur birthright,—bad and good deserve alike.No pain, to human apprehension! Lust,Greed, cruelty, injustice crave (we hold)Due punishment from somebody, no doubt:But ulcer in the midriff! that brings fleshTriumphant from the bar whereto arraignedSoul quakes with reason. In the eyes of GodPain may have purpose and be justified: Man's sense avails to only see, in pain,A hateful chance no man but would avertOr, failing, needs must pity. Thanks to GodAnd love to man,—from man take these away,And what is man worth? Therefore, Mihrab Shah,Tax me my bread and salt twice over, claimLaila my daughter for thy sport,—go on!Slay my son's self, maintain thy poetryBeats mine,—thou meritest a dozen deaths!But—ulcer in the stomach,—ah, poor soul,Try a fig-plaster: may it ease thy pangs!"
So, the head aches and the limbs are faint!Flesh is a burthen—even to you!Can I force a smile with a fancy quaint?Why are my ailments none or few?
So, the head aches and the limbs are faint!Flesh is a burthen—even to you!Can I force a smile with a fancy quaint?Why are my ailments none or few?
In the soul of me sits sluggishness:Body so strong and will so weak!The slave stands fit for the labour—yes,But the master's mandate is still to seek.
You, now—what if the outside clayHelped, not hindered the inside flame?My dim to-morrow—your plain to-day,Yours the achievement, mine the aim?
So were it rightly, so shall it be!Only, while earth we pace together For the purpose apportioned you and me,Closer we tread for a common tether.
You shall sigh "Wait for his sluggish soul!Shame he should lag, not lamed as I!" May not I smile "Ungained her goal:Body may reach her—bye and bye?"