Gurupada listened with the deepest attention and interest; and when the tale was finished he remained for some moments silent, sunk in thought; but at last, looking at Siddha, he said: “In truth you have laden yourself with a heavy burthen, but not so heavy as that a man cannot bear it. That you allowed yourself to be led away by Gulbadan is not to be defended, although it may be excusable; but that you did not part from her, after discovering who she was, was an inexcusable offence against your friendship with Faizi. Your original faithlessness towards the Emperor was partly the result of an error; but to remain in his service and to conspire against him was a crime. I do not judge your conduct more leniently than you do yourself; on the contrary, I judge it still more harshly. You believe that the tale of your faults was closed when you confessed your crimes to the Emperor. But you deceive yourself, you began to commit another, which may be just as unfortunate as those which preceded it, although you were led into it by an error. The greater part of mankind imagine with you that repentance is a virtue, and that by penance and self-punishment alone can sin be washed away. But few errors are so ruinous in their result as this, when penance consists in the penitent’s withdrawal from the circle in which he can labour usefully, and when also he punishes others as well as himself. And this is what you would do. First, you sought death on the field of battle, which was the simplest place, as you would not lay violent hands on your own life. But what good would your death have produced, or how could it undo the ill you have done? Unable to find an honourable death, you declare your intention of living a solitary life in the jungle, devoted to prayer and penance; but for what? How could this serve yourself or others? And then Iravati, your bride! you desert her, not because she is faithless to you, but because you have cause to feel shame in her presence. Thus you punish her more than yourself. Do you call that duty and virtue? No, my friend, such a course would end in being worse than an error. You look at me with astonishment; but the course you propose would be one of pride and defiance, because you know that you have lowered yourself. Iravati was right; you were too proud to bind yourself to a woman who knew all your weaknesses, and who had nothing to reproach herself with; and it is indeed pride that prompts you to fly the world. You fear to meet some one acquainted with your former evil deeds. You dare not look a man in the face, for fear of what he may know of you. Is that, I ask, virtue and courage? is it not, rather, a cowardly weakness?”
“But Faizi’s last words,” said Siddha.
“I foresaw that objection,” continued Gurupada; “and I do not deny that it has a certain weight. But let us beware of exaggeration. That Faizi should have acted and spoken as he did is easily to be understood in his place. You probably would have done the same; and he, were he in my place, and had to decide impartially, would doubtless say as I do. A man need not spend his life bowed down in humiliation because in an evil hour he has been guilty of a shameful deed, when his after life has been spent so as to gain the respect of his fellow-men. Now listen to the counsel you ask of me, which I willingly give. You have arrived at the full consciousness of the wickedness of your conduct, and you have accused yourself before the Emperor, before Iravati, and before me. That was well done; but the knowledge and clear insight of your evil-doing must not be the last step, but the first, in the right path. It should restrain you from all errors, not only those of the same class that have already led you astray, but also from others. It should teach you to keep better watch over yourself, your impressions, your passions. You should have greater dread of deeds which you could not confess to others without shame; and in the end you should attain to a state of mind which will make it impossible for you to act against duty or honour. But this cannot be if you seek to avoid temptation by flying from it. Resist temptation, and begin in the first place by conquering your own pride. Therefore take Iravati for your wife, and render yourself worthy of her. Go to the Emperor, and pray him to entrust you with some work by which you may serve your country; I doubt not but that he will willingly grant your request. I understand that you desire to avoid Faizi, and that is well; you owe it to him to spare him any meeting, and Hindustan is large enough to keep two men apart. In Kashmir, or in other places, you may render as good service as in Agra itself. Think over this, and, after reflection, let me know what your decision is.—No, no, do not answer me at once,” said Gurupada, seeing Siddha ready with his reply; “take the repose of which I see you have need, and to-morrow, when you have thoroughly weighed all I have said, tell me if you still see difficulties in following the advice I have given.” And with a friendly greeting the hermit left Siddha to his own thoughts.
The next day Siddha was ready to take farewell of Gurupada, perhaps for the last time. For a long while the two men stood in earnest conversation, and as at last the traveller turned to mount his horse, he warmly pressed his host’s hand, saying, with a trembling voice, but with a countenance cleared from all trouble, “I thank you, Gurupada, for the manly advice you have given me; I owe you a new life, and I hope to bear myself in it very differently from what I have done in the past, which I shall never forget. You have taught me what true repentance is; may I never give you reason to think that your good counsel has been given to one who is unworthy of it.”
[1] There have been many discussions on the true meaning of Nirvána. The best essay on the subject will be found in the “Pali Dictionary” of Mr. Childers.
Chapter XVII.
The Tomb.
In the neighbourhood of the village of Sikandra rises that magnificent building, the tasteful splendour of which is the pride of Hindustan, while it awakens the admiration of all travellers, and is one of the last memorials of the departed greatness of the Mughals. A wall with many towers gave entrance, through a broad gateway of red marble, to a path lined with shady trees, above which rose a building of majestic height and of great circumference. This building excited admiration, not alone by the stern beauty of its outline, but also by the richly-wrought gateways, minarets, cupolas both high and low, and open galleries, by which it was surrounded, giving it more the appearance of a number of palaces and pleasure-houses than of a monument. However, it was not destined for the abode of the living, but to preserve the memory of the illustrious dead,—of Akbar himself.[1]