The Tâj—the Crown of Kings—stands on a raised terrace; it is a considerable distance from the gate, and the eye is led to it by a wide, straight path, bisecting a garden, which, at the first glance, seems a mass of dark green foliage. The garden is extensive, and shut in by a high wall. Just outside this wall, to right and left of the Tâj, are a palace and a mosque of deep red sandstone. More than that you cannot see, but the river Jumna flows under the rear wall of the raised terrace on which the Tâj stands.
The marble monument, which contains the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, is an enormous building, and represents seventeen years’ work of a force of twenty thousand men. But the design is so faultless, the proportions so perfect, the whole effect so exquisitely graceful, that, until you are close to the wide steps leading up to the terrace, and realise that men standing by the walls look almost like flies, you are not struck by any sense of extraordinary size.
The building itself is superb. The conception is absolutely unique, and the harmony of every part a crowning triumph; the splendour of material, the purity of that dazzling, unbroken whiteness—these are a joy and a delight.
But the surroundings, the setting in which this jewel stands, are so marvellously well calculated to exactly frame the picture, that the whole scene seems a vision, unearthly in its beauty. When once that sensation passes, when one has gazed, and blinked, and rubbed one’s eyes, and compassed the reality of it all, one is profoundly impressed by the genius that could raise such a heavenly edifice, and one is proudly thankful to have lived that hour of life, to have felt the soul stir, and to carry away an imperishable memory of one of the noblest of human achievements.
The main entrance is by a great arched door, bordered by Arabic characters in black marble let into the white wall. Pierced marble windows admit a dim and softened light to a lofty chamber. In the comparative gloom one slowly discerns a marble wall surrounding the centre space. The wall is inlaid with precious stones—jasper and onyx, sardius and topaz, amethyst, chrysobel, and sapphire, set in floral designs. Within this enclosure are the white marble tombs of Shah Jahan and his wife.
Last night the moon was full, and, an hour before midnight, I went and sat in that dark stone palace, and revelled in the beauty of a spectacle that cannot be equalled on earth. It is said that the palace was built for Royal ladies, and was specially designed to give them the most perfect view of the Tâj. There is an open stone verandah, over which I leaned and gazed in ecstasy at the scene. The dark trees of the garden spread from under the walls of the palace over a wide space of ground, and from them rose the incomparable Tâj; minarets, walls, and windows, blazing with silver sheen under the direct rays of the moon, softened in the half shadows, darkening to deep tones of grey on the river face. Slightly to the left of the Tâj, and as far beyond it as the Tâj was from me, stood the mosque, a splendid foil to the glittering radiance of the tomb. In the shadow, cast by the great mass of marble, rippled the shallow waters of the wide river. The rear walls of the building are on the edge of the bank, and beyond the Tâj the river stretches away in a silver ribbon towards the city. In a line to the right of the Tâj, and distant about three miles, rises a dark hill, crowned by the Palace and Citadel of Agra. The enclosing walls and battlements, built of the same red sandstone, were scarcely distinguishable from the hill; but the moonlight caught the white marble buildings within, and innumerable lights twinkled from walls and windows.
I must have been a long time in my solitude, intoxicated by the wonder of the night and the splendour of the scene, when I heard the strains of a violin, played with extraordinary skill. The music seemed familiar (for I had heard the songs of many Eastern lands), and, moreover, I became certain that the instrument was being played somewhere in the great building wherein I chanced to be. The sounds ceased, but presently the musician began a Persian dance which I recognised; and as the wild air leaped from the strings in quickening waves of sound, the devilry of the mad nautch seemed to possess me, and it became impossible not to beat time to the rhythm of the music. Again there was silence, and I wondered greatly who could make a violin throb with such feeling, and where the minstrel could be. Whilst still absorbed by these thoughts, and anxiously listening for the faintest sound, my ear caught the strains of an Arab love-song that I knew well enough, but had never heard played like this before, nor yet under such circumstances. The air was in the minor key, and was, I knew, played only on three strings, but it seemed to wail and shiver from the instrument out into the night, through the trees, across the bright lights and deep shadows, to mingle with the crooning of the river, to fill the atmosphere and soar towards the empyrean. It was like the song of a lark at the dawn of a day in spring. The power of the musician was such that Tâj and city, mosque and river and garden faded away, and I distinctly saw a narrow street in an Arab town. Flat-roofed buildings, pierced by a few small iron-barred windows, lined either side of a street, which rose in a gentle ascent till it twisted out of sight round a distant corner. A brilliant moon, shining in a cloudless sky, threw into white light the roofs on one side the street. But the houses on the other side cast a deep shadow, and in that shadow a man, with his back to me, was standing playing the three-stringed Arab gambus, and singing—singing as though for his life, in a low, sweet voice—up to a barred window whence issued a ray of yellow light. I thought I could even understand the words of the passionate serenata, though I know almost as little of the Arabic as of the Patagonian tongue. It was the music, the angelic skill of the violinist, which had bewitched me, and I stood enthralled by that soul-entrancing melody.
Before you write me down an emotional ass, remember where I was, and try to imagine what I saw, what I heard. I cannot expect to impress you with any true idea of either scene or song.
While those yearning, thrilling, imploring waves of sound cried to the exquisite beauty of the night, I was spell-bound. But, in the silence that followed, I reasoned that the music came from above me, probably from the roof, and that I might well seek the author of it. I passed through a maze of passages, where light and shadow alternated, and, as I groped about to find a staircase, I was guided to my object by the strains of the violin, and a gleam of light which, striking through a narrow window, disclosed a winding stair.
As I expected, the stairs led up to the roof, and I was not a little surprised by what I saw there. The head of the staircase was in a corner of the great flat space forming the roof, and a parapet, about thirty inches high, completely enclosed it, except for a flight of outside steps leading down to another and lower roof. The cement floor and surrounding parapet were so brilliantly lighted by the moon, that every inch unshadowed was as bright as day. Four people occupied the space, and my eye was first caught by a white-robed, dark-complexioned boy, who, leaning against the parapet, played a violin with closed eyes, his face set in an expression of dreamy rapture. At a little distance from him, but nearer to me, were a woman and two girls. The woman sat upon a quantity of silks spread over the parapet, while she leaned against a pile of cushions placed against a round stone column. I should say she was hardly twenty. Her skin was very fair, her complexion wonderfully clear, her hair black and abundant, her eyes large, dark, and liquid, while long curling lashes threw a shadow far down her cheeks. The eyebrows were strongly marked and slightly arched, like the artificial spur of a game-cock. Her nose was straight and rather small; her scarlet lips made a perfect Cupid’s bow, and the upper lip was so short that it disclosed teeth of extreme regularity with a whiteness and sheen as of pearls. The chin was round, the face oval; the ears, hands, and feet very small, but beautifully formed. This woman, or girl, was clothed in silk skirts of a dull red, heavy with gold thread; she wore a jacket of white satin, embroidered with small red and gold flowers, and fastened by three diamond brooches. On her head, falling in graceful folds over her shoulders, was a dark gossamer veil, studded with tiny gold stars, and bordered by a wide hem of shining gold lace. In one hand she listlessly held a long spray of stephanotis. She seemed absorbed by the music, and the wonder of that soft white light, which so enhanced her loveliness that I stared in wide-eyed admiration, forgetful of Eastern customs, of politeness, and all else, save only that fascinating figure. At her feet, on the roof, sat two girls, attendants, both clad in bright-coloured silk garments, and both wearing gold-embroidered gossamer veils.