Part 19 (2/2)

Babar had both these unamiable ruffians as ancestors, but, apparently, was by no means proud of his Mongal or Moghul descent. He called himself a Turk, and wrote hardly of the race whose name, by the irony of fate, was to be attached to the dynasty he founded.

”If the Moghul race had an angel's birth, It still would be made of the basest earth; Were the Moghul name writ in thrice-fired gold, It would ring as false as it did of old; From a Moghul's harvest sow never a seed For the seed of a Moghul is false indeed!”

Babar was the son of Omar-Shaikh, King of Ferghana, or as it is now called, Khokand. At his birth a courier was sent post-haste to inform his maternal grandfather, the Khan of the Mongols, who, despite his seventy years, came back post-haste to join in the festivities, and--his uncouth, Mongolian tongue trippling over the polished Persian name Zahir-ud-din (the Evidence of Faith)--to dub the child Babar, or ”the tiger,” a nickname which stuck to him for life. A fine old man this grandfather of Babar's, and a fine old woman his grandmother must have been. A woman not to be trifled with, to judge by her action when one Jaimul-Khan, having for a time defeated her husband, seized her and made her over to one of his officers.

Isa-Begum raised no puerile objections. She received her new master quite affably, but once he was within her chamber door she locked it, bade her maids stab him to death, fling the body to the street, and send this message to Shaikh-Jaimul: ”I am the wife of Yunas. Contrary to law, you gave me to another man, so I slew him. Come and slay me if you choose.”

The erring Jaimul must have had good in him, for, struck by her courage, he restored her honourably to her husband.

At the age of five Babar was betrothed to his cousin Ayesha, and the next six years must have been spent at the millstone of education, since this was all the schooling Fate granted him, and he emerged from it with two languages at his fingers' end, and an amount of literary skill and general knowledge which was fairly surprising. His father, still in the prime of life, was killed by an accident while away from his capital, and the incident is thus described by the boy-king, who, 36 miles away, ”immediately mounted in the greatest haste, and, taking such followers as were at hand, set out to secure my throne.”

”The river flows under the walls of the castle, which is situated on the very edge of a high precipice, so that it serves as a moat. And some of the ravines down to it being scarped to support the castle, in all Ferghana stands no stronger fortress. Thus one of the walls giving way, my father, feeding his pigeons, was, with the pigeons and the pigeon-house, precipitated from the top of the steep, and so himself took flight to another world.”

A quaint description, giving a picture which lingers in the mind's eye. The fortress hanging over the abyss, the king, in Eastern fas.h.i.+on, making his pigeons tumble for their corn. Then the sudden slip, and a startled soul among the startled white wings on its way to another world. Even the body which the soul had left remains alive for ever in Babar's words:--

”My father was of lowish stature, had a short, bushy beard, and was fat. He used to wear his tunic very tight, and as he drew himself in when he put it on, when he let himself out the strings often burst. He plaited his turban without folds, and let the end hang down. He was but a middling shot with the bow, but had such uncommon force with his fists that he never hit a man but he knocked him down. His generosity was large, and so was his whole nature. He was a humane king, and played a great deal at backgammon.”

Peace be to thine ashes, oh, Omar-Shaikh! Even after all the centuries we seem to know the man himself, as we read the words in which his son has pictured him.

So, let us hark back to Ferghana, the little kingdom watered by the river Jaxartes, and give one more extract from Babar's journal to show what manner of place it seemed to the eleven-year-old king.

”Ferghana is situate on the extreme boundary of the habitable world.

It is a valley clipped by snowy mountains on all sides but the west, whither the river flows, and on which side alone it can be entered by foreign enemies. It is of small extent, but abounds in grain and fruits. Its melons are excellent and plentiful. There are no better pears in the world. Its pheasants are so fat that four persons may dine on the stew of one and not finish it. Its violets are particularly elegant, and it abounds in streams of running water. In the spring its tulips and roses blow in great profusion, and there are mines of turquoise in the mountains, while in the valley the people make velvet of a crimson colour.”

Surely this description is sufficient, not only to show us Ferghana, but also to give us a clear idea of the boy who saw it thus. Truly the temptation to quote from this delightful record is well nigh irresistible, but s.p.a.ce forbids, for there is much to say of Babar as poet, painter, musician, astronomer, knight-errant, soldier-lover, king, and _bon vivant_. He was all of these in turn; and in addition, kindly, valorous, courteous. A real paladin if ever there was one.

From the very first he gripped the reins of kings.h.i.+p with a firm hand.

And it was no easy task to guide the little kingdom through the dangers which beset it; but he succeeded ”through the distinguished valour of my young soldiers” (he himself being but twelve!) in besting his uncles the Kings of Samarkhund and Tashkund, so holding his own.

Shortly after this the young king nearly fell a victim to conspiracy, owing to his confidence in one Ha.s.san-Yukub, ”the best player of leap-frog I have known.” From this infatuation he was rescued by his shrewd old grandmother, of whom Babar speaks with sneaking awe: ”She was uncommonly far-sighted; few of her s.e.x equalled her in sagacity.”

This incident evidently sobered him, for he ”began to abstain from forbidden meats, and seldom omitted midnight prayers.”

For there is always something absolutely translucent in Babar's accounts of himself, and of everything which he heard and saw.

It is impossible even for a moment to doubt their accuracy. His self-revelation is frankness itself, and his views of men and manners bring conviction with them.

Ambition seems to have seized on him early, for ere he was fifteen, his uncle the king having died, he marched on Samarkhund to make a bid for the throne. And he succeeded. He was Emperor of Samarkhund, as his ancestor Timur had been, for exactly one hundred days, during which he appears to have enjoyed himself hugely. One is apt to think of these Eastern cities beyond the verge, as they are now--half-ruined, dreary, dead-alive. But in those days they were centres of commerce, learning, and art. To Samarkhund Timur had brought the untold riches of India, her clever craftsmen, her skilled artisans. It was a beautiful, a cultured city, and Babar came to the conclusion ”that in the whole habitable world there are few places so pleasantly situated.”

His dream of success lasted but those hundred days; then evil news of rebellion at Ferghana and an appeal for help came from his mother. ”I was ill,” he writes, ”but had not the heart to delay an instant, so being unable to nurse myself, I had a relapse.”

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