I
CONTEMPLATING the favourites of Fame (whose laurel is bestowed, like Fortune’s smile, not always according to desert), mankind is willingly credulous. Magnified by time and distance, these far seen personages gather round them an air of fable. Sometimes, conscious of their power to hallucinate, they have conspired with the world’s credulity to create their own legend. In vain are the efforts of the rational, when once a man possesses the imagination of the world. All the exposed littlenesses and falsifications of a Napoleon fail to prevent him from towering over his time.
But in Akbar, one of the world’s great conquerors, and a greater ruler, there is something which spontaneously rejects the legendary. It is true that his historians have dutifully made some little attempts to surround him with a superhuman glory. The usual portents are said to have occurred: at seven months the baby made an eloquent speech from the cradle. But the fictitious aureole fails to cling. It is as if the man himself shook off such fetters with impatience. Not that he had no appetite for glory; far from it. But the reality, he would have felt, sufficed.
Akbarwas the grandson of that joyous and superb adventuerer Babur, who, inheriting the throne of a small, though delectable, country in the middle of Asia, spent his life in fighting and scheming for a grander throne; he ended by swooping down on Hindostan and conquering there a great dominion. His son Humayun held this precariously till he was driven out by rival rulers of Afghan race; after years of exile he won back his throne, only to die. Humayun’s son, Akbar, then but a boy, had to fight for his inheritance. He secured it; and then, piece by piece, kingdom by kingdom, he annexed in an almost incessant series of wars the countries surrounding his frontiers, till his empire stretched from sea to sea. Except for that southern portion of India called Deccan, he became master of India.
Such was his achievements as conqueror. His greater achievement as a ruler was to weld this collection of different states, different races, different religions, into a whole. It was accomplished by elaborate organization – Akbar had an extraordinary genius for details – still more by the settled policy which persuaded his subjects of the justice of their ruler. Akbar’s conceptions were something new in the history of Asiatic conquerors. Though a foreigner, he identified himself with the India he had conquered. And much of his system was to be permanent. The principles and practice worked out by Akbar and his ministers were largely adopted into the English system of government.
Yet Akbar’s achievements are transcended in interest by the man himself. And in a little book like the present it is the portrait of the man rather than the story of his doings with which we shall be most concerned. The full record of his conquests and administration can be read in the pages of Mr. Vincent Smith’s Akbar, the Great Mogul; a volume which has its faults and which is sometimes curiously unjust to its hero, but in which is collected a vast amount of solid information. The chief original authority is the Akbar-namah, the Story of Akbar, written in Persian by the emperor’s friend and minister, Abul Fazal. There are other Indian histories. But of greater interest to us, perhaps, are the vivid accounts given by the Jesuits who stayed at Akbar’s court and sometimes accompanied him on his expeditions.
Hardly anyone so conspicuously eminent in history is so plainly set before our eyes or has so actual a presence in our imagination. The detailed records of his daily life, no less than of his achievements, are corroborated not only by numerous portraits but by a long series of small paintings (very many of which are now in this country), in which his manifold activities are vividly depicted. We have him before our eyes in his prime of life. He is compact of frame, muscular, rather burly; of moderate stature, but broad shouldered; neither lean nor stout; of a healthy complexion, the colour of ripe wheat. His eyes, rather small, but with long lashes, sparkle like the points of light on little waves when they catch the sun. He wears moustaches, but no beard. His voice is loud and full. When he laughs, it is with his whole face. His movements are quick, though from much riding in his youth he is slightly bow-legged. He carries his head a little on one side over the right shoulder. His nose is no commanding beak; it is straight and small, the nostrils wide and mobile. Below the left nostril is a wart, thought to be very agreeable in appearance. In whatever assemblage of men, he is recognizably the king. He radiates energy. His temper is naturally violent; and he is aware of it, so much so, that his orders are that no death-warrant is to be carried out till it is twice confirmed. His anger is terrible, but easily appeased. He has an insatiable curiosity, and loves new things. His mind is as incessantly employed as his body.
And yet strange to say, Akbar, the greatest and, except possibly Philip of Spain, the wealthiest potentate of his time in the world, a man versed in history and poetry and delighting in philosophical discussion, is illiterate. He can neither read nor write. It is true that there exists on the flyleaf of a precious manuscript copy of the “Life of Timur”, Akbar’s ancestor, a single signature of his, laboriously written in a childish hand and reverently attested by his son Jahangir. But this signature, preserved as an unique marvel, only confirms the universal testimony to his inability. Yet, if unable to read, he is all the more able to remember. He has books read aloud to him, and knows them better than it he had read them himself. His memory indeed is as prodigious as his energy.
A traveler from Europe in the latter part of the sixteenth century who should arrive at last in the Mogul’s dominion would find no difficulty in seeing the emperor at close quarters and enjoying his conversation. Foreigners were welcome; and indeed among those who habitually thronged the courtyards at Fatehpur-Sikri, that strange splendid city built at Akbar’s whim and afterwards so suddenly abandoned, were men of various Asiatic races, predominantly Persians, Turks, and Hindus, and of many diverse creeds. ‘The Great Mogul’ was a sort of fairy tale in the West; yet here were all the marks of a civilization closely parallel with that of Europe, though so different on the surface. The external mangnificence might have some touches of the barbaric; but then what barbarities mingled with the refinements of European courts! What dirt was disguised by the perfumes! Refinements were here of every sort; not only luxurious appointments and the gratification of the senses, but a love of letters and the arts. Poetry was held in high honour, and the ingenuity of the Persian pets’ ‘conceits’ could rival those of Marini and his northern imitators. Painters and architects abounded, under the direct patronage of the emperor, who himself had learnt to draw and was a skilled musician, besides being a worker in half a dozen handicrafts. If theological disputation and religious animosities were a sign of high civilization, these rivaled in fierceness those of Western countries; but while in Europe the disputants burnt or massacred one another in their zeal, and devastated whole countries in the name of religion, here in India a restraining power prevented arguments from ending in the use of swords: here was a monarch who actually believed in toleration.
Any day, then, our traveler might have seen Akbar holding a reception; for he holds audience twice a day. The blaze of the Indian sun makes strong shadows from the verandah-pillars of the red sandstone palace, where Akbar receives one courtier or envoy after another. Peacocks sun themselves on the roof of the verandah; in the countryard elephants are slowly led; a groom holds a cheetah in leash; an animated crowd of virile-looking men in dresses of fine silk and of various colours stand about. Akbar himself is dressed in a surcoat reaching to the knees (where he a stricter Muslim it would reach to the feet), and wears a closely-rolled turban hiding his hair; a rope of great pearls hangs from his neck. His manner has subtle changes. With the great he is great and does not unbend; to the humble he is kindly and sympathetic. It is noticeable how he makes more of the small presents of the poor (and he is very fond of presents) than of the costly gifts of the nobles, at which he will hardly glance. As a dispenser of justice he is famous; every one wronged (an observer has said) ‘believes the emperor is on his side’.
Four times in twenty-four hours Akbar prays to God; at sunrise, at noon, at sunset, and midnight. But anyone who tried to keep up with his daily activities would need to be of iron make. Three hours suffice for Akbar’s sleep. He eats but one meal a day, and that at no fixed time. He eats but little meat, less and less as he grows older: ‘Why should we make ourselves a sepulcher for beats?’ is one of his sayings.
Rice and sweetmeats are the chief of his diet, and fruit, of which he is extremely fond. His day is long one, and he fills it full. Between state councils and conferences with ministers or generals he inspects his elephants – of which he has five thousand in his stables – his horses, and other animals. He knows them by name. He notes their condition; if any show signs of growing thin and poorly, the keeper responsible finds his salary docked. Presently he will repair to an upper terrace where are the dove-cotes, built of blue and white brick, and with infinite pleasure he watches the evolutions of the tumbler-pigeons, deploying and returning, massing or separating, to the sound of a whistle.
Part of the day is devoted to the harem, in which there are three hundred women. At another time he will be watching (like Marcus Aurelius) gladiatorial combats, or fights between elephants, or between elephants and lions. But though entering with such zest on his amusements, his mind is occupied also with other things; for messengers arrive continually from every part of the empire and rapid decisions have to be taken. Another time he is inspecting his school of painters, passing quickly among them and appraising their work. Or he will go down to the workshop, and turn carpenter or stonemason. He is especially fond of the foundry, and loves to found a cannon with his own hands.
When at evening lights are lit in the great hall, the emperor takes his seat among his countiers and has books read to him; or music is played, and Akbar himself joins in or he laughs at jests and stories. If there are foreigners present, he plies them with unceasing questions. He will sit far into the night absorbed in discussions on religion; this is one of his dear delights. He drinks wine, or wine mixed with opium, and sometimes falls into a stupor: but this does not affect his terrible energy. Yet this crowded, pulsing life does not wholly absorb him. Frequently he will disappear and sit apart in solitary meditation for hours at a time.
Such is Akbar’s way of life at court. But these are only intervals between campaigns, which he always opens with a hunt on an enormous scale. Even on his campaigns he will, when there is no need for swift marching, pursue much the same occupations.
Of how many notable people in the world’s history does our knowledge seem so complete?
Yet do we really, after all, know Akbar the man? What is the truth about his character? Quite contrary opinions have been expressed; and many of his actions can be interpreted in opposite ways.
Since the witness of Akbar’s own historian, Abul Fazal, may be thought too prejudiced – he is indeed fulsome in flattery, though he records with equanimity acts which, to us at any rate, are not very creditable – let us turn to the Jesuits; they certainly had no motive for giving Akbar more than his due.
‘He never’, says Bartoli, ‘gave anybody the chance to understand rightly his inmost sentiments or to know what faith or religion he held by, but in whatever way he could best serve his own interests he used to feed one party or the other with the hope of gaining him to itself, humouring each side with fair words. A man apparently free from guile, as honest and candid as could be imagined, but in reality so close and self contained, with twists of words and deeds so divergent from each other and most times so contradictory, that even by much seeking one could not find the clue to his thoughts.’
That is one view: the portrait of a consummate dissembler, open in appearance, inwardly subtle and deceitful and bent only on his own aggrandizement. And if this clue be accepted, it is easy to read Akbar’s actions in that light. When he is humane to an enemy or traitor – and his humanity seemed extra-ordinary to his contemporaries – he can be represented as humane only from policy. And his wars of aggression, which some have represented to have been undertaken from the noblest motives only, have been pictured by others as merely the behaviour of ‘a pike in pond, preying on its weaker neighbours.’ In fact, the truth about Akbar is not simple; his was by nature a complex character; in the intricacy of circumstances its complexity was bound to be increased. But let us try to approach it a little closer.
The Jesuits came into contact with Akbar through discussions on religion. He had sent for them of his own accord, and they had hoped to convert him. But they had every excuse for being exasperated with him, since he always in the end eluded their grasp, and nothing is more natural than Bartoli’s angry outburst. But when the question of religion is in abeyance, when the ground is neutral and there is no occasion for prejudice, we find a different tone.
The king is by nature simple and straightforward. These are the words of the Jesuit Monserrate, who accompanied Akbar on his Kabul expedition; and the occasion was the discovery of Akbar of treachery on the part of a man he had loaded with honours. ‘Naturally humane, gentle and kind’ is the phrase of Peruschi. ‘Just to all men,’ says another.
‘By nature simple and straightforward’: that, I think, is the truth; but we must stress a little that by nature. For, that a man should live the life led by Akbar, accomplish what he accomplished, and succeed in being always simple and straightforward, would be something of a miracle. In continual danger from his boyhood, he was surrounded by treachery, jealousy, and intrigue. He seldom knew whom he could trust. He had continually to wear a mask and to hide his thoughts in self-confidence. The astonishing thing is that he did not end in protecting himself by an armour of permanent suspicion and guile, but that he would often trust men after they had proved unfaithful, still seeking to find ‘if any portion of good remains in that evil nature, as he said on one occasion. But was he to be trusted himself? Not perhaps when ambition possessed him, or a great scheme was at stake.
We shall find, when we come to recount them, certain events in which he cannot be acquitted of unscrupulous and even perfidious behaviour. And yet fundamentally, I am persuaded, he was honest and sincere. See how, when he meets a transparently honest nature, like Ridolfo Aquaviva, the mutual liking is instinctive.
‘Naturally humane and kind.’ Everyone was struck by this aspect of Akbar’s character, remarkable indeed in one who had the absolute powers of an autocrat and who suffered so much from faithless servants. Yet he could be fiercely cruel in his anger. Historians are accustomed to condone the faults of a great man by arguing that they were the faults of his time. But a man shows his greatness by the measure in which he surpasses the standards of his age. Akbar’s acts of cruelty, less cold-blooded than the cruelties of contemporary rulers in Europe – and even twentieth-century Europe cannot afford to give itself superior airs in this respect – these acts shock us because they were done by Akbar, who could be so singularly generous and forgiving.
Akbar said, ‘The noblest quality of princes is the forgiveness of faults.’ And his kindness and humanity are the more surprising in one who had in his veins the blood of the two most pitiless conquerors the world has known, Jinghiz Khan and Tamerlane. Vincent Smith maintains that Akbar’s clemency in his earlier years was merely policy; that if he had been strong enough he would have punished and not spared. Who shall say? Motives mingle. But if he perceived that the humane course was not only generous but sensible, I think we should rather admire his intelligence than blame his astuteness.
At any rate, Akbar’s clemency, like Caesar’s, was famous. Was he also, like Caesar, an epileptic? The native historians say nothing of it, nor does Monserrate, the Jesuit, who knew him intimately. The statement that he had the falling sickness is casually made in Du Jarric’s compilation from Jesuit notes and records, on what authority is unknown, and only there. The Jesuits supposed that he took to sports and amusements to distract his melancholy; which seems a superfluous conjecture. But the fact of the disease is not improbable. Akbar’s second son Murad developed epilepsy.
‘Just to all men.’ It was Akbar’s justice that chieftly reconciled the peoples he conquered to his rule It was a basic quality in his nature. And it proceeded not so much, I think, from a sense of law, as from a sort of uncorrupted innocence of mind which persisted through all his experience of the world. Innocence may seem a strange word to use. I mean an innate candour powerful enough to be able to see thing unclouded by the prejudices which we absorb from our surroundings or inherit from the past or imbibe from early teaching, and to which most natures unconsciously surrender. There were impositions which for centuries the Muhammadan conquerors had laid upon the Hindus.
They had been accepted as things of course. They were the conquerors’ due. To Akbar with his direct vision they seemed unjust; and though hardly more than a boy, against all tradition, against the opposition of every one, he abolished them. It was again in the teeth of the most dangerous opposition that he made overtures to the Jesuits and seemed on the verge of adopting Christianity. What held him back in the end? It was the thought to which, with a child’s obstinacy, he was always returning: there are good men professing every creed, and each proclaiming his creed to be true, all the others false; how can one be sure that he is right? He was the antithesis of a bigot.
On the other hand, he was anything but indifferent. For in this man of action, this lover of life, whose body exulted in its strength and who strode through the world so confidently, there was hidden a profound capacity for sadness, self-doubting thoughts, dissatisfactions, a craving for illumination. From boyhood he had, from time to time, mystical experiences, in which he seemed to be given direct communion with the Divine Presence; and on his death-bed, when he was past recognizing men and past all speech, while eager theologians hung over him in the hope to direct the departing soul, he was heard murmuring to himself and endeavouring to articulate the name of God.
So it was that the Jesuit fathers, intent to win all of him or nothing, supposed him to be tortuously evading them for some subtle policy of his own, whereas it was really his own baffled simplicity of reasoning, never able to surrender itself to authority from without, which in its turn baffled them. There is something engaging in Akbar’s faults and weaknesses, which were not petty, but rather belonged to the things which made him great. He was, above all things, human.