“I think not so. He that can give form and life to a shapeless stone, he that creates beautiful beings out of cold marble, cannot but love what is beautiful himself. But listen, Artist—to win the heart of the daughter of the Arian King requires great sacrifices.”
“I know that great goddesses require great sacrifices.”
“I do not demand what is impossible—I only wish to try thy love. Look, Farhat, dost thou see yonder rock?” and she pointed to the sharp crag. “Thou must create palaces for me out of that rock, so that I may look down from the summit with delight, and watch how the Tigris threads the beautiful plains of Assyria with its silvery curves, or how the tall palm-trees of Baghistan wave at the breathing of the gentle zephyrs. And in the heart of the rock thou must make storehouses for my treasures, and underneath there must be dwelling-places for my horses. When all this is ready I shall be thine.”
She spoke, and rode away.
Years passed away. The pickaxe and hammer of the Master worked untiringly at the unyielding rock. The ceaseless sounds of the heavy blows were to be heard day and night. The work was carried on successfully. Love strengthened the genius of the great Master, and the beauty of the Arian King’s daughter fired him with enthusiasm. He made chambers, he made state-rooms, he made halls decorated with pictures, and out of the solid rock he created a palace of marvellous beauty. He made the walls of the apartments live with pictures carved in relief. In one place he sculptured the battles that the old heroes and giants of Iran had fought with devils and evil spirits; in another the glory and greatness of the ancient kings of Iran, and festivals celebrating their victories and deeds of prowess. He drew on the stone the valiant acts of ancestral kings, their virtues, and the benefits that they scattered over the land of the Arians. He worked all these wonders for the one being to whom he had devoted all the passion of his love. He worked them all so that she might be continually reminded of the glorious past of Iran, that her heart might continually be rejoiced with the noble pride that she was the descendant of a great dynasty born of the gods, which had always done god-like deeds.
She came and saw it all.
“It is very beautiful,” she said, “but there is no water here—there are no trees. Make fountains for me that shall throw the water up higher than the clouds. Plant trees for me under whose shadow I may rest;—rest in thine arms!”
She spoke, and rode away.
He turned the courses of far distant streams and brought the water by underground channels to the very summit of the rock. He shaped the stone, dug out basins, and created silvery fountains. Day and night the never-ending supply of water rose out of the fountains, and dewed the surrounding plants with pearl-like drops. He levelled the surface of the rock, and covered it with earth brought from distant places. He planted trees and made lofty hanging gardens that looked as if they were growing in the air. Years passed. The trees grew and gave fruit, the flowers blossomed and filled the scented gardens with their gladdening perfumes. The birds came and filled the place with their happy songs. But she who was to have been the queen and pride of that beautiful paradise did not appear.
One day the Master sat at the foot of the palace he had made, leaning his chin on his hand and looking sorrowfully down the road. A peasant came up singing, and sat down beside him to rest a little.