The tidings of AbÚ-l Fazl’s death had made an overwhelming impression on the Emperor. It seemed to him as if everything that had until now been his support was suddenly failing him. He who had been so strong, who had never known faint-heartedness when threatened by the fiercest storms, who had braved the greatest dangers, and had always come back victor from the strife, now felt his strength crippled, and as though he were almost powerless among the many disturbances that were again breaking out in his empire. All he was capable of in those first days was to order the arrest of Nara Singh, the murderer; but this order it was impossible to carry out, as the Raja had fled and found a safe refuge far away, to await the time when Salim should ascend the throne and load him with favours. However, it was not possible that a man of Akbar’s character could remain bowed down under the burden of sorrow, however heavy it might be. For some days he shut himself up entirely, and admitted no one except Faizi and some of his most trusted friends; but with time courage returned to him to receive others who sought audience either respecting their own affairs or those of the state. Among these was Padre Aquaviva, who, before his departure, wished to take a personal leave of the Emperor.

“So you are going to leave us again, worthy Father?” said Akbar, as the Jesuit was ushered into his presence.

“I must do so, Sire,” answered Aquaviva; “our Provincial summons me back to Goa. But I cannot depart without expressing to your Majesty my heartiest thanks for the honour and favours that have here been shown us, though I hesitated to ask an audience after your serious and bitter loss. A worthy man, a true friend, and a faithful servant was AbÚ-l Fazl, and the memory of such a man is certainly a comfort in the midst of the sorrow that his loss causes. But,” added he, after a moment’s pause, “this would not be to me a sufficient consolation.”

“Not enough!” repeated Akbar in surprise. “What more would you demand?”

“I should wish for the certainty that he died with a purer soul, and with happier expectations than was possible.”

“AbÚ-l Fazl,” answered the Emperor, in an earnest but calm voice,—“AbÚ-l Fazl was as pure of soul as any of yours can be, without saying more, and he died as I would wish to die.”

The Jesuit waited, expecting Akbar would add something more, but he was silent; and the tone of his reply clearly showed that to ask for further explanation would be imprudent.

“Do you expect to return soon?” asked Akbar, after a few minutes silence.

“That will depend on the orders I receive,” answered Aquaviva. “So far as I am myself concerned, with sorrow I am compelled to confess that my mission here has been a failure.”

“How a failure? Have you not received here the fullest protection, and been shown all respect and fitting honour? and have you not enjoyed the most complete liberty to preach what you will, and to convert whom you can? Do you reckon that as nothing? Here, where a few years ago, under my predecessors, any preaching of your doctrines would have met with the punishment of death.”

“Sire,” answered the Padre, “we should indeed be ungrateful did we reckon such important privileges as nothing. Yet I must repeat that our mission is a failure as respects its principal object. You know well with what glorious hopes we came to Agra; the reverent interest you took in our holy writings, and in the ceremonials of our Church, had filled us with hope that in the end the light of truth would sink into your noble heart and deep-thinking mind; we had hoped, and almost expected with certainty, that the Church of Christ would greet in Shah Akbar one of, if not the most famous of her sons. These hopes and expectations we cannot now flatter ourselves were anything but idle; so, cannot we say with truth that our mission has failed in its highest aim? Still, it may be that here and there in our teaching there are difficulties which your philosophers cannot now solve, which closer study and research will throw light upon. I think of the great benefits that the Church has showered upon the West, and which would not here be wanting did she possess like power.”

“With reason,” said Akbar, “you now leave on one side the real dogmatical questions, for about them we shall never agree, and for the moment I feel no inclination for their discussion. You speak of benefits; I believe, willingly and with reason, that your Christian doctrines have done much for the world—more, perhaps, than any other religion—in the application of the principles of universal love of our fellow-men, and self-sacrifice; however, as we have already shown you, this is not exclusively taught by your doctrines, which, if they have done much good, have also done much that is evil. Have you not introduced the greatest intolerance that the world has ever known? Have not you, you priests, in the West exalted yourselves to tyrannize over the consciences of your fellow-men? Have you not doomed hundreds and thousands to the stake because they differed from you on some point of faith? And you call these benefits! Then, indeed, you have strange ideas of doing good; and your love for your fellow-men is of a strange kind. Tell me,” he continued, turning a penetrating look on Aquaviva, “tell me, how would you treat me, Akbar, whom you now honour so highly, were I a Christian subject of one of the princes who obey your commands? Would you not thrust me into a dungeon, and, if I remained hardened in my unbelief, deliver me to a judge to be condemned to the fire and stake?”

Perplexed, the Jesuit drew back. Such a question he had not expected; and what could he reply? Certainly it could not be denied that in all probability Akbar would be so treated were he in the situation he imagined.

“Sire,” at last he stammered, “that is not the case; and how can Akbar, the mighty Emperor of Hindustan, think of himself as the subject of one of our princes?”

“Certainly it is not so, fortunately for me! but your answer shows that my hypothesis was well grounded. Now another question: what would you do with me, Emperor of Hindustan, as I am? You wish me to be as one of your princes, who are submissive to your orders, and to use me as a tool for the maintenance of your clerical tyranny. Naturally you are very anxious for my conversion. Well, I tell you, once for all, you will never see it; not even if I entirely accepted your Evangelists, and were really publicly or privately to embrace them. I could have nothing to do with your present Church, well knowing what fatal consequences to a State would follow on its monarch taking such a step.”

“Then,” said Aquaviva, “nothing remains to us but to pray to our Lord that He by a miracle will bring about that which our zealous and feeble efforts have been unable to accomplish. And this prayer, I feel certain, will not remain unanswered. Reflect, O powerful ruler, that against Him the great of the earth are as nothing, and that He can punish those who withstand Him. He, and He alone, will triumph, and the gates of hell will avail nothing against the rock of Peter, while Christ and His Church will endure until the end of the world.”

“That may be your affair,” cried Akbar, losing a little of his usual patience; “mine is to watch over the liberty and rights of my people, and to defend them against you, as against the mullahs or priests of any other creeds. Remain here, or go, as it best pleases you; preach as seems good to you, and build churches. You shall enjoy the same privileges as Muhammadans in their mosques and Hindus in their temples. There is, however, one warning which I must give you: the moment I find you attempt to introduce any persecution amongst your converts or others, as already has been the case on the coast of Malabar, that moment shall you be banished from my kingdom, never to set your foot within it again.”

With suppressed wrath Loyola’s follower listened to these proud words; but what could he do, what could he say? He had no complaint to bring against this invariably tolerant prince, and to defy the formidable monarch would have been sheer madness. Nor would there have been a martyr’s crown to gain by doing so. If he, a helpless missionary, were to use threatening and injurious language, the Emperor would not harm a hair of his head,—only send him and his to Surat,1 and from thence in a ship to Goa, where he would be landed with the utmost courtesy. Perhaps he would not even take that trouble, but simply laugh, “I have the door, show it him.” Miserable and ignominious situation for a member of that order elsewhere so powerful and so feared, before whom the people trembled, and princes and popes were forced to bow their heads in submission!

Akbar interrupted the reflections of the disappointed and silent missionary. “Worthy Father,” he said, in his usual friendly tone, “it indeed grieves me to be obliged to speak with so much frankness and harshness in maintaining my authority in the combat you have yourself invited; and I do not wish to see you depart in anger. I have learnt much from you and yours, the knowledge of which was very welcome to me, and for that I am grateful. If I cannot fulfil your wishes, believe that it grieves me; and if on some points we differ from each other, do not imagine that causes me to respect you less highly. If you will leave us, so be it; but let us part in friendship. Let our parting be in the spirit of the noble Founder of your religion, who said well, that He came not to bring peace but a sword, and yet strove to lay the foundation of a kingdom of peace and love amongst men.”

If Aquaviva a few moments before had bent his head before the might of the Emperor, another power now subdued him, that of Akbar’s moral greatness. The religious fanatic, the passionate zealot, himself felt this, and it was with a trembling voice that the defiant, fearless apostle spoke a few words of farewell to him who stood there obdurate of heart, his eye blinded to the light of truth, and his ear deaf to the warnings of the one Holy Church.

“Forgive us, noble prince,” he said, moved in spite of himself, “if we have said what was displeasing to you, and seemed ungrateful for the many benefits we have received in your kingdom, or at your hands. Ascribe it to the fervour for our faith which animates us, and which is certainly not less strong than the enthusiasm which leads you to devote your life to the welfare of your people. Though you may yourself set no value on our prayers, yet be assured wherever we may go they will always be offered up for you.”

Silently Akbar returned the reverent greeting of the Padre, as he slowly left the room, his fingers moving nervously, as if he were telling his beads.

In one of the passages of the palace, where a single lamp shed a dim, uncertain light, he suddenly stumbled against a man, who answered his excuses by a suppressed curse. “Cursed Christian dog,” he muttered, as he hurried on. It was Abdul Kadir Badaoni, who was on his way to the Emperor, into whose presence he was ushered by servants, and who greeted him by saying, “You see I am always ready to speak with you. I made no difficulty about receiving you when this morning you requested an audience, although the sad circumstances in which I am placed have caused me to see but little of my friends in these last days.”

“Sire,” began Abdul Kadir, with apparent respect, but in a tone of unmistakable anger, and without paying the least attention to the friendly manner in which the Emperor had received him, “I come to bid you farewell; the time of my departure draws near.”

“You also, my worthy friend?” asked Akbar. “And what obliges you to leave us so suddenly?”

“Unwillingness,” was the reply, “to remain here and witness what is to me a daily scandal, and grieves me to the soul; and unwillingness, also, to take part in the treachery and conspiracies with which I see you surrounded, and in which, against my own wishes, I must share were I to linger here. Akbar, your empire approaches its fall! I warned you, when yet there was time, to save yourself; now, perhaps, that time is passed. I know not what is decided on, and I do not wish to know. The resistance you have aroused by your foolish and criminal scorn of our holy religion is, I consider, too powerful to be turned aside. Think of the ambition of Salim your son, and the secret alliance of other and not less ambitious people, who know how to lead him away, so that they may become masters of the rank and appointments now withheld from them. Think of all this, and you will agree with me that the state of affairs is at best extremely threatening to the continuance of your reign; but, as I said,” he continued, not remarking the slight smiles that his dark forebodings had called forth on the lips of the Emperor, “I will not remain to be a daily witness of what here occurs, and is talked of far and wide. The holy Koran you have scorned and trampled under foot; you deride the great Prophet; you indulge in godless practices, learned from impious fire-worshippers; you receive openly at court, and privately in your own apartments, our bitterest foes—the Jews and Christians—you treat them with honour and load them with favours—such a one I have just seen leaving your palace; you receive Indian charmers and magicians, and all such people as Shaitan himself has sent here. In truth, Jalalu-dÍn Muhammad, you do honour to your name! Jalalu-dÍn, the glory of faith! Bitter irony of destiny that gave you such a title, which you were destined to insult in so shameful a manner. And now, again, as if all that were not enough, as if you would fill up the full measure, see, see the exaggerated honours paid to the memory of this AbÚ-l Fazl, this arch enemy of the true faith! He, with his brother Faizi, the denier of God, tempted you to this injustice and to the desertion of our holy religion; and this is the man whom you publicly honour and exalt above all. If his life was no warning to you, then may his death be so before it is too late. You have been told, doubtless, all that was beautiful about his last moments; but believe me that the truth has been withheld from you. I, however much it may cost me, will draw back the veil, and tell you how AbÚ-l Fazl died. Hear, and shudder at the terrible account which is known to everyone excepting yourself. As long as speech was left to him, AbÚ-l Fazl did not cease to blaspheme his God in a manner to awaken horror in all who heard him; then he began to yelp or bark like a dog; his features were contorted and his lips blue, as though he already felt the first pangs of that eternal punishment that awaited him.”

“Those are lies, shameful lies!” cried Akbar, suddenly awakening from the composure with which, until now, he had listened to the fanatic’s ravings. “Shameful scandal, of which you religious zealots are alone capable, when you leave reason in the lurch and seek to throw blemishes on a noble character. How AbÚ-l Fazl died, and what were his dying words, I know from one I can trust; therefore spare me your idle inventions. I will not hear them. I have listened patiently to the insolent words you have dared to use towards me; I have shown you an indulgence that perhaps no prince in my place would have done, and you have misused it, which I will not suffer. Attack me, insult my dearest convictions, revile me, Akbar your Emperor,—it is well; all that I will pardon. But do not calumniate my truest and treacherously murdered friend, or I will make use of my power to silence for ever the tongue that has attacked in so cowardly a manner a hated opponent who can no longer defend himself.”

“Take my head,” said Abdul Kadir, as, undismayed, he looked the Emperor in the face. “You know that I have ever desired to give my life for you. If my death can do you no service, it may at least appease your unjust wrath. I have said what I believed to be the truth, whether you believe it or not. I did my duty, and you can do yours, or what you are pleased to consider as such.”

“Enough,” said Akbar, recovering from his indignation; “I desire your life as little as your death. Go hence unharmed, but do not dare ever again to come into my presence.”

Without a word of greeting, Abdul Kadir turned round, and with a proud and defiant look strode towards the door; but as he laid his hand on the curtain that hung before it, the Emperor called him by his name, and the proud Muhammadan turned round in surprise.

“Abdul Kadir,” he said, “do not let us part so. We have known each other too long, and learnt to respect each other too highly, to part in such a manner. For I know, in spite of our difference, your respect and esteem are mine—even your vehemence proves it; and I, on my side, do not only look upon you as a learned and wise, but as a brave and honourable man, which in these days is of far greater value. I would not willingly see any one leave me in anger, and you least of all. Go; I understand that it is necessary you should do so, and that it cannot be otherwise; but do not go with wrath in your heart: think on the long years that we have passed together in peace and friendship, and forget the cause that makes our parting unavoidable.”

As Akbar began to speak, Abdul Kadir’s countenance still retained its defiant expression; but by degrees this softened at the generous words of the forgiving prince, and though he said nothing, his whole bearing spoke, as Akbar held out his hand. He grasped it warmly, and a tear fell on it as he bent his head. Then he turned and went, never to return, for he also was one of those whom the Emperor would see no more. Akbar remained for some time gazing towards the curtain that had closed behind his friend of former years. At last, with faltering step he approached the open gallery, and gazed out on the gardens, with their softly falling fountains, lying in profound peace under the silvery moonlight. Then, wearied out, he sank on one of the marble seats, and covered his face with his hands.

Thus, they all forsook him one after another: AbÚ-l Fazl cruelly torn from him, the Christian missionaries departing in anger, and now Abdul Kadir bade him farewell for ever; and all this happened in the moment when, above all, he needed the support of true friends—in the midst of dangers and difficulties, when even his own son rose against him, and strove to wrench from his hands the sceptre he had so long wielded for the prosperity and welfare of his subjects. And all this for the sake of religion! For that Salim took up arms in the name of the true faith was certain; and it was generally believed that Nara Singh had been a tool in the hands of religious fanatics.

“Religion,” said Akbar to himself, “what is it, then? Is it a blessing bringing peace and joy to the soul of man, showing him his utter nothingness, leading him to humility and adoration, and awakening in him the love of his fellow-man, and the desire to live for the good of others? Or is it a fatal thing, making man prouder, more overbearing to others, the deeper his convictions are rooted; a madness that at times masters the greatest and noblest, forcing them to hate and curse, and that brings crime, murder, and bloody strife amongst the people? Would it be fortunate, or unfortunate, should the human race with one consent cease to possess any religion? Unanswerable question! Full of the greatest contradiction, and yet to which every one would be ready to reply without thought. Without religious worship all are agreed that there can be no salvation for man, no order in society. But when the question of the choice of a religion arises, at once the flames of conflict break out; and each man cries ‘Mine, and mine alone!’ Swords leap from their scabbards, and steel and violence are to decide what is truth. Is it possible that some day a religious system may arise that will content all, and unite the human race in one bond of love? Were they idle and foolish dreams with which I flattered myself when I believed that I had found it? Alas! it is hard to lose friends, but harder to lose cherished illusions that are dearer still.”

A hand laid gently on his shoulder made Akbar look up. By his side stood Faizi, to whom was allowed the privilege of approaching the Emperor unannounced.

“Akbar,” said Faizi, “awaken from your sad and useless musing. Must I be the one to say to you, be a man!—I, who, in comparison with you, am so weak? But it is necessary that I should so speak. I do not feel less keenly the loss of my dear brother, than you the loss of a true councillor and a much-loved friend. It is necessary that we should both rouse ourselves, and not allow grief so to overwhelm us as to make us weak in the face of dangers that still threaten the kingdom; therefore I dare to say to you, show yourself again a man. To be so cast down is unworthy of you; and if AbÚ-l Fazl could know it, he might perchance acknowledge for the first time in his life that Akbar is not faultless.”

“My true and noble friend,” said Akbar, “I thank you from my heart for your frank words. To exchange thought for action is indeed now necessary. However, you perhaps are mistaken as to the nature of the thoughts in which you found me sunk; the memory of your brother had only a share in them.” And then Akbar recounted the farewells of Aquaviva and Abdul Kadir, and the reflections to which they had given rise.

“In all that,” said Faizi, after a moment’s reflection, “I recognise my magnanimous Emperor, and my philosophical and idealistic friend. You know what are my feelings on the subject you have touched upon. I do not set much store by what men are wont to call religious worship, when by that they mean an unlimited mystical feeling devoid of all reality, and still less when it depends on unproved propositions and dogmas that take their rise in imagination. However right men may be when they call me atheist, they are not so when they deem me an unbeliever. On the contrary, I believe much; but my faith rests on firm ground, on that of experience itself. Among other things, I believe, as I have said more than once, in the law of gradual development, not in material life alone, but especially in the soul and mind of man. In this development I see the solution of the great problem that you, like all other reformers and founders of religions, most wish to discover. Think where we men began, and how far we have already progressed, and think at what point we may yet arrive! We were nothing better than animals, and after the lapse of some thousand years we are reasonable beings; and when thousands and thousands of years have rolled by, where shall we be? Shall we not—not only some of us, but all, perchance—have attained a clear insight into the immortal and necessary union of things (or union of spirit and matter) through continued search and through the development of knowledge. Then, content and resting on this knowledge, should we not dispense with the dreams that we now accept under the well-sounding name of religious worship, which, well-considered, is only a means to satisfy our self-love, by assuring us of salvation in a future state, which no mortal can put on one side.”

“Your spirit soars high,” said Akbar, “and your eye sees far—to me it seems too far and too high. I think of the present; the future brings me but little consolation.”

“But,” asked Faizi, “do I lose sight of the present? Does it not belong to the first maxim of my faith—or, if you prefer it, to my philosophy—that men should fulfil to the uttermost the duties laid upon them? Truly, contemplation and knowledge are idle when for their sake reality is thrust on one side. If philosophy did not teach us to devote our powers to the living present, then were it nothing but a phantasy and an idle delusion of the soul. To work with zeal and energy for the end we propose to ourselves, is a very different thing from wishing for impossibilities, and falling back discouraged at our want of success. And so it is with religion, or, in a more limited sense, with the religion of the people, or the conviction of the people respecting the invisible world. This does not develop suddenly at a sign from some inspired reformer, but slowly in the course of ages; and in all cases it must be preceded by an indispensable condition, that of the cultivation and enlightenment of the people, and this is not possible unless they possess the means—not possible without prosperity. And in that which concerns the first foundation of enlightenment and cultivation, has Akbar just cause for self-reproach and discouragement? Can he say that he has not done enough, or at least much, for the welfare of the people entrusted to his rule? Look back, my Emperor, on what you have accomplished, and, leaving your theological contemplations on one side, judge if the consequences of what you have done are not the best encouragement to continue with energy the work that is already begun.”

Faizi was right, it was no flattering speech of a courtier, when he praised the social reforms that the Emperor had introduced and continued with success. The experience of following centuries bear out his words. Of Akbar’s religious dreams scarcely a trace was left after his death, but his land system has remained the foundation on which the successive rulers of Hindustan have built, and at one time it was proposed, by an able and intelligent Englishman, to introduce this system into our Dutch Indian possessions, where it would have borne good fruit. This, however, fell to the ground through the dulness and want of knowledge of our Governors.”

“You are right, Faizi,” said the Emperor, rising to his feet and lifting up his head as though animated with new life; “we must work, not dream, work as long as the day remains, unwearied, and without pausing. You must stand by me now that I have lost my greatest support; and I think I may promise that you will be as content with Akbar as he with you. But now for one more emblem; averse to them as you are, this will find grace in your eyes. See yonder faltering, mighty apparition! in that I recognise the condition in which for days my soul has been bowed. But to-morrow the sun again rises, and I will once more show myself, not as I am, but as I should be. That is the duty of a prince. So long as the impulse does not come from the people, the prince, with his councillors, should be the fountain of light and life in the State. If at times I forget this,—then, Faizi, call, as AbÚ-l Fazl did, the holy duty of a prince before my spirit, and speak to me as you have done this night.”