Persian Literature, Ancient and Modern

by Elizabeth A. Reed

Another bitter thought added not a little to his self-reproach, for was he not also a traitor to the sacred trust of friendship? His chosen friend was in constant peril, he knew not where, and he was living in ease and luxury without trying to find him; he thought he could go to the king, and, by proving his royal birth and his claim to the Persian throne, he could hopefully ask for the hand of the princess, but this would be a virtual desertion of the cause of his friend, and he could not consent to thus sacrifice the sacred claims of fraternal love for his own pleasure and happiness. Long he tossed upon his sleepless couch and still the matter was far from settled; at last he fell into a feverish slumber which was haunted by a fair face, with dark, loving eyes, but there were also visions of a loyal friend who was suffering on account of his unyielding devotion to the prince—even the vindictive face of Behrām passed before his mind, and the morning found him still weary and disturbed. He decided, however, to pursue his search for Mūshteri, even at the risk of losing Nahīd, for was not this his first and most sacred obligation?

Having resolved to follow what seemed the path of duty, at whatever cost, his tempest-torn heart was at rest. Surely the sacrifice and renunciation were better than the gratification of self-love, and when he had found his friend he would present to the king a formal request for the hand of Nahīd. While yet he pondered, a messenger was announced from the king with an order for his immediate presence in the council chamber of the palace.

THE DECISION.

The imperative nature of the summons bore with it an air of danger; it was not the kindly invitation which he had been wont to receive, or at least the messenger did not deliver it as such, and the scene in the garden with all its possible consequences, flashed before the mind of the prince. He dismissed the chamberlain with the reply that the call would be promptly obeyed, and then sat down to collect his thoughts in order to be prepared for whatever ordeal might await him.

He could not avoid the conviction that he must now pay the penalty for his betrayal of the king’s trust, and he thought of the broken-hearted mother who was grieving her life away over the uncertain fate of her child; he had no hope that he could even send her a message, for Oriental monarchs were not in the habit of granting such privileges to men who were condemned to execution.

But he had little time for sad reflections, and soon he was on his way to obey the imperial summons. He was ushered into the royal presence and was received with the usual courtesies, but the king ordered the Vizir to leave the room, and then Meher knew that he should soon learn his fate.

The monarch slowly recounted the principal incidents of their acquaintance, and after giving an account of the battle and the victory which Meher had snatched from the very hands of defeat, he said: “I have consulted with my principal counselors, and we have decided that the only suitable reward which we can confer upon the unknown Persian youth is to give him the Princess Nahīd in marriage.”

Meher fell upon his knees in an ecstacy of gratitude, and it was some time before he could even thank the king for his great kindness; but he could not prove himself further unworthy of this great trust, and after expressing, as best he could, his appreciation of the priceless gift, he proceeded with true manliness, to tell his whole story to King Keiwan. He told of his parentage, his claims to the crown of Persia, his unchanging friendship with Mūshteri, who was exiled for his sake, of his determination to find his friend, and his great appreciation of the kindness of his royal host.

Nothing was hidden in this manly confession; the scene in the garden was given with unfaltering truthfulness, even while the narrator watched the dark frown that was gathering upon the brow of Keiwan. The angry king listened in dismay, though he could but admire the moral courage of the prince, who, when he had finished, threw himself upon the clemency of Keiwan.

There was a silence that seemed to bode little good to Meher, and then the king said: “I have seen how thou could’st forgive, even a foe; I have seen thee plead for Kāra Khān, who would gladly have taken thy life, if it were in his power; a king cannot afford to be less magnanimous than thyself—arise and receive my forgiveness. But the grateful prince remained at his feet and there expressed his devout thankfulness.