Ferishtah's Fancies/Shah Abbas
3. SHAH ABBAS.
Anyhow, once full Dervish, youngsters came To gather up his own words, 'neath a rock Or else a palm, by pleasant Nishapur.
Said someone, as Ferishtah paused abrupt, Reading a certain passage from the roll Wherein is treated of Lord Ali's life: "Master, explain this incongruity! When I dared question 'It is beautiful, But is it true?'—thy answer was 'In truth Lives beauty.' I persisting—'Beauty—yes,In thy mind and in my mind, every mindThat apprehends: but outside—so to speak—Did beauty live in deed as well as word,Was this life lived, was this death died—not dreamed?''Many attested it for fact' saidst thou.'Many!' but mark, Sir! Half as long agoAs such things were,—supposing that they were,—Reigned great Shah Abbas: he too lived and died—How say they? Why, so strong of arm, of footSo swift, he stayed a lion in his leapOn a stag's haunch,—with one hand grasped the stag,With one struck down the lion: yet, no less,Himself, that same day, feasting after sport,Perceived a spider drop into his wine, Let fall the flagon, died of simple fear. So all say,—so dost thou say?""Wherefore not?"Ferishtah smiled: "though strange, the story stands Clear-chronicled: none tells it otherwise: The fact's eye-witness bore the cup, beside."
"And dost thou credit one cup-bearer's tale,False, very like, and futile certainly,Yet hesitate to trust what many tonguesCombine to testify was beautifulIn deed as well as word? No fool's reportOf lion, stag and spider, but immenseWith meaning for mankind,—thy race, thyself?" Whereto the Dervish: "First amend, my son,Thy faulty nomenclature, call beliefBelief indeed, nor grace with such a nameThe easy acquiescence of mankindIn matters nowise worth dispute, since lifeLasts merely the allotted moment. Lo—That lion-stag-and-spider tale leaves fixedThe fact for us that somewhen Abbas reigned,Died, somehow slain,—a useful registry,—Which therefore we—'believe'? Stand forward, thou,My Yakub, son of Yusuf, son of Zal!I advertise thee that our liege the ShahHappily regnant, hath become assured,By opportune discovery, that thy sires,Son by the father upwards, track their line To—whom but that same bearer of the cupWhose inadvertency was chargeableWith what therefrom ensued, disgust and deathTo Abbas Shah, the over-nice of soul?Whence he appoints thee,—such his clemency,—Not death, thy due, but just a double taxTo pay, on thy particular bed of reedsWhich flower into the brush that makes a broomFit to sweep ceilings clear of vermin. Sure,Thou dost believe the story nor disputeThat punishment should signalize its truth?Down therefore with some twelve dinars! Why start,—The stag's way with the lion hard on haunch?'Believe the story?'—how thy words throng fast!—'Who saw this, heard this, said this, wrote down this That and the other circumstance to proveSo great a prodigy surprised the world?Needs must thou prove me fable can be factOr ere thou coax one piece from out my pouch!'"
"There we agree, Sir: neither of us knows,Neither accepts that tale on evidenceWorthy to warrant the large word—belief.Now I get near thee! Why didst pause abrupt,Disabled by emotion at a taleMight match—be frank!—for credibilityThe figment of the spider and the cup?—To wit, thy roll's concerning Ali's life,Unevidenced—thine own word! Little bootsOur sympathy with fiction! When I read The annals and consider of ThamaspAnd that sweet sun-surpassing star his love,I weep like a cut vine-twig, though awareZurah's sad fate is fiction, since the snakeHe saw devour her,—how could such exist,Having nine heads? No snake boasts more than three!I weep, then laugh—both actions right alike.But thou, Ferishtah, sapiency confessed,When at the Day of Judgment God shall ask'Didst thou believe?'—what wilt thou plead? Thy tears?(Nay, they fell fast and stain the parchment still)What if thy tears meant love? Love lacking ground—Belief,—avails thee as it would availMy own pretence to favour since, forsooth, I loved the lady—I, who needs must laughTo hear a snake boasts nine heads: they have three!"
"Thanks for the well-timed help that 's born, behold,Out of thy words, my son,—belief and love!Hast heard of Ishak son of Absal? Ay,The very same we heard of, ten years since,Slain in the wars: he comes back safe and sound,—Though twenty soldiers saw him die at Yezdt,—Just as a single mule-and-baggage boyDeclared 't was like he some day would,—for why?The twenty soldiers lied, he saw him stout,Cured of all wounds at once by smear of salve,A Mubid's manufacture: such the tale.Now, when his pair of sons were thus apprised, Effect was twofold on them. 'Hail!' crowed This:'Dearer the news than dayspring after night!The cure-reporting youngster warrants meOur father shall make glad our eyes once more,For whom, had outpoured life of mine sufficedTo bring him back, free broached were every vein!''Avaunt, delusive tale-concocter, newsCruel as meteor simulating dawn!'Whimpered the other: 'Who believes this boy,Must disbelieve his twenty seniors: no,Return our father shall not! Might my deathPurchase his life, how promptly would the doleBe paid as due!' Well, ten years pass,—aha,Ishak is marching homeward,—doubts, not he,Are dead and done with! So, our townsfolk straight
Must take on them to counsel. 'Go thou gay,Welcome thy father, thou of ready faith!Hide thee, contrariwise, thou faithless one,Expect paternal frowning, blame and blows!'So do our townsfolk counsel: dost demur?"
"Ferishtah like those simpletons—at lossIn what is plain as pikestaff? Pish! SupposeThe trustful son had sighed 'So much the worse!Returning means retaking heritageEnjoyed these ten years, who should say me nay?'How would such trust reward him? Trustlessness—O' the other hand—were what procured most praiseTo him who judged return impossible,Yet hated heritage procured thereby. A fool were Ishak if he failed to prizeMere head's work less than heart's work: no fool he! "
"Is God less wise? Resume the roll!" They did.
You groped your way across my room i' the dear dark dead of night;At each fresh step a stumble was; but, once your lamp alight,Easy and plain you walked again: so soon all wrong grew right!
You groped your way across my room i' the dear dark dead of night;At each fresh step a stumble was; but, once your lamp alight,Easy and plain you walked again: so soon all wrong grew right!
What lay on floor to trip your foot? Each object, late awry,Looked fitly placed, nor proved offence to footing free—for why?The lamp showed all, discordant late, grown simple symmetry.
Be love your light and trust your guide, with these explore my heart!No obstacle to trip you then, strike hands and souls apart!Since rooms and hearts are furnished so,—light shows you,—needs love start?