Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self Part 17

When he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous uproar of applause that the amber pendents of the lamps swung to and fro in the strong vibration of so many uplifted voices,--shouts of frenzied rapture echoed again and again through the vaulted roof like thuds of thunder,--shouts in which Theos joined,--as why should he not? He had as good a right as any one to applaud his own poem! It had been sufficiently abused heretofore,--he was glad to find it now so well appreciated, at least in Al-Kyris,--though he had no intention of putting forward any claim to its authorship. No,--for it was evident he had in some inscrutable way been made an outcast from all literary honor,--and a sort of wild recklessness grew up within him,--a bitter mirth, arising from curiously mingled feelings of scorn for himself and tenderness for Sah-luma,--and it was in this spirit that he loudly cheered the triumphant robber of his stores of poesy, and even kept up the plaudits long after they might possibly have been discontinued.

Never perhaps did any poet receive a grander ovation, . . but the exquisitely tranquil vanity of the Laureate was not a whit moved by it, ... his dazzling smile dawned like a gleam of sunshine all over his beautiful face, but, save for this, he gave no sign of even hearing the deafening acclamations that resounded about him on all sides.

"A new Ilyspiros!" cried the King enthusiastically, and, detaching a magnificently cut ruby from among the gems he wore, he flung it toward his favored minstrel. It flashed through the air like a bright spark of flame and fell, glistening redly, on the pavement just half-way between Theos and Sah-luma...Theos eyed it with faintly amused indifference, ... the Laureate bowed gracefully, but did not stoop to raise it,--he left that task to his harp-bearer, who, taking it up, presented it to his master humbly on one knee. Then, and only then Sah-luma received it, kissed it lightly and placed it negligently among his other ornaments, smiling at the King as he did so with the air of one who graciously condescends to accept a gift out of kindly feeling for the donor. Zabastes meanwhile had witnessed the scene with an expression of mingled impatience, malignity, and disgust written plainly on his furrowed features, and as soon as the hubbub of applause had subsided, he struck his staff on the ground with an angry clang, and exclaimed irritably:

"Now may the G.o.d shield us from a plague of fools! What means this throaty clamor? Ye praise what ye do not understand, like all the rest of the discerning public! Many is the time, as the weariness of my spirit witnesseth, that I have heard Sah-luma rehea.r.s.e,--but never in all my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he given utterance to such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse-jargon as to-night! Strange it is that the so-called 'poetical' trick of confusedly heaping words together regardless of meaning, should so bewilder men and deprive them of all wise and sober judgment! By my faith! ... I would as soon listen to the gabble of geese in a farmyard as to the silly glibness of such inflated twaddle, such mawkish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such ranting verbosity..."

A burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh voice,--laughter in which no one joined more heartily than Sah-luma himself. He had resumed his seat in his ivory chair, and leaning back lazily, he surveyed his Critic with tolerant good-humor and complete amus.e.m.e.nt, while the King's stentorian "Ha, ha, ha!" resounded in ringing peals through the great audience-chamber.

"Thou droll knave!" cried Zephoranim at last, dashing away the drops his merriment had brought into his eyes--"Wilt kill me with thy bitter-mouthed jests? ... of a truth my sides ache at thee! What ails thee now? ... Come,--we will have patience, if so be our mirth can be restrained,--speak!--what flaw canst thou find in our Sah-luma's pearl of poesy?--what spots on the sun of his divine inspiration? As the Serpent lives, thou art an excellent mountebank and well deservest thy master's pay!"

He laughed again,--but Zabastes seemed in nowise disconcerted. His withered countenance appeared to harden itself into lines of impenetrable obstinacy,--tucking his long staff under his arm he put his fingers together in the manner of one who inwardly counts up certain numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he began: "Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty Zephoranim, I would in the first place say that the poem so greatly admired by your Majesty, is totally devoid of common sense. It is purely a caprice of the imagination,--and what is imagination? A mere aberration of the cerebral nerves,--a morbidity of brain in which the thoughts brood on the impossible,--on things that have never been, and never will be.

Thus, Sah-luma's verse resembles the incoherent ravings of a moon-struck madman,--moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of FORCED SUBLIMITY..." here Theos gave an involuntary start,--then, recollecting where he was, resumed his pa.s.sive att.i.tude--"which is in every way distasteful to the ears that love plain language. For instance, what warrant is there for this most foolish line:

"'The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.'

'Tis vile, 'tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars or any other stars chant? ... who can prove that the heavenly bodies are given to the study of music? Hath Sah-luma been present at their singing lesson?" Here the old critic chuckled, and warming with his subject, advanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on: "Hear yet another jarring simile:

"'The wild winds moan for pity of the world.'

Was ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!--for the tales of shipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of winds,--and however much a verse-weaver may pretend to be in the confidence of Nature, he is after all but the dupe of his own frenetic dreams. One couplet hath most discordantly annoyed my senses--'tis the veriest doggerel:

"'The sun with amorous clutch Tears off the emerald girdle of the rose!'

O monstrous piece of extravagance!--for how can the Sun (his Deity set apart) 'clutch' without hands?--and as for 'the emerald girdle of the rose'--I know not what it means, unless Sah-luma considers the green calyx of the flower a 'girdle,' in which case his wits must be far gone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry in the common natural protection of a bud before it blooms! There was a phrase too concerning nightingales,--and the G.o.ds know we have heard enough and too much of those over-praised birds! ..." Here he was interrupted by one of his frequent attacks of coughing, and again the laughter of the whole court broke forth in joyous echoes.

"Laugh--laugh!" said Zabastes, recovering himself and eying the throng with a derisive smile--"Laugh, ye witless bantlings born of folly!--and cling as you will to the unsubstantial dreams your Laureate blows for you in the air like a child playing with soap-bubbles! Empty and perishable are they all,--they shine for a moment, then break and vanish,--and the colors wherewith they sparkled, colors deemed immortal in their beauty, shall pa.s.s away like a breath and be renewed no more!"

"Not so!" interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah-luma's defence-"for the colors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in the soap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art and Poesy is but the constant reflex of these never-dying tints and sounds. Can a Critic enter more closely into the secrets of Nature than a Poet? ...

nay!--for he would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with its fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too persistently on the mere surface of things, ever to comprehend or probe the central deeps and well-springs of thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and pa.s.sion? ... Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or stir our blood into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals of a lily and name its different sections, its way of growth and habitude,--but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a perfect flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions?

No!--but Sah-luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,--not one world but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of his rhythmic splendor,--not one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering song-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. The heart,--the human heart alone is the final touchstone of a poet's genius,--and when that responds, who shall deny his deathless fame!"

Loud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward, clapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder:

"Bravely spoken, sir stranger!" he exclaimed--"Thou hast well vindicated thy friend's honor! And by my soul!--thou hast a musical tongue of thine own!--who knows but that thou also may be a poet yet in time to come!--And thou, Zabastes--" here he turned upon the old Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with much cynical disdain--"get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at fault, as usual!

Thou art thyself a disappointed author--hence thy spleen! Thou art blind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,--for thee the very sun is a blot rather than a brightness,--thou couldst, in thine own opinion, have created a fairer luminary doubtless had the matter been left to thee!

Aye, aye!--we know thee for a beauty hating fool,--and though we laugh at thee, we find thee wearisome! Stand thou aside and be straightway forgotten!--we will entreat Sah-luma for another song."

The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an undertone,--and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now rested on Theos, his self const.i.tuted advocate, with an appreciative and almost tender regard, once more took up his harp, and striking a few rich, soft chords was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clanking armor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily increasing, sonorous hum of many voices and the increased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The doors were flung open,--the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and excitement, and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed:

"O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul is taken!"

Zephoranim's black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set his lips hard.

"So! For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!" he said half-scornfully--"Bring hither the captive,--an he chafes at his bonds we will ourselves release him..." and he touched his sword significantly--"to a wider freedom than is found on earth!"

A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women shuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden interruption that had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and flattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience-chamber.

A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne--arrived at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,--a man whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all a.s.sembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches. This was Khosrul,--the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the world,--the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,--the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!

Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,--at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his shoulders,--at his majestic form which in spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an att.i.tude of fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring about him, ... something commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he confronted the King,--and for a moment or so a deep silence reigned,--silence apparently born of superst.i.tious dread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance rested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference,--seated haughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet panting of his quickened breath.

"We give thee greeting, Khosrul!" he said slowly and with a sinister smile--"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou trifled with our patience,--thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom,--of judgment,--of the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? ... wilt denounce the Faith? ... Wilt mislead the people? ...

Wilt curse the King? ... Thou mad sorcerer!--devil bewitched and blasphemous! ... What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?" And he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath.

Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.

"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a strange, foreboding chill--"Nothing--save thine own scorn of cowardice!"

The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,--a flush of shame reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive--and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man's bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compa.s.sion, for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority ...

"Unloose his fetters!" he commanded.

The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright.

Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.

"Unloose him, I say! ... By the G.o.ds! must I repeat the same thing twice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their sovereign? ... And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many and tight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron,--methinks ye might have tied him with thread and met with small resistance! I have known many a muscular deserter from the army fastened less securely when captured! Unloose him--and quickly too!--Our pleasure is that, ere he dies, he shall speak an he will, in his own defence as a free man."

In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to obey this order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron fetters wrenched asunder,--and in a very short s.p.a.ce Khosrul stood at comparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the King's generosity toward him in this respect, for he made no attempt to move,--his limbs were rigidly composed as though they were still bound,--and so stiff and motionless was his weird, attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, began to wonder whether he were made of actual flesh and blood, or whether he might not more possibly be some gaunt spectre, forced back by mystic art from another world in order to testify, of things unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign from his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one suddenly wakened from a deep dream,--shading his eyes with his lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly attired servitor,--then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering gesture of aversion.

"Away ... Away!" he muttered in a thrilling whisper that penetrated to every part of the vast hall--"Wilt force me to drink blood?" He paused,--and in the same low, horror-stricken tone, continued. "Blood ... Blood! It stains the earth and sky! ... its red, red waves swallow up the land! ... The heavens grow pale and tremble,--the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament for that which shall come to pa.s.s ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! Blood ... blood! The blood of the innocent! ... 'tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders ... founders ... never to rise again!"

These words, uttered with such hushed yet pa.s.sionate intensity produced a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking toward the King as though silently requesting permission to retire. But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious nervous reluctance.

"Thou art mad, Khosrul"--then said the monarch in calmly measured accents--"And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till now r.e.t.a.r.ded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in great Kings too oft degenerates into weakness--and this we cannot suffer to be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few poor remaining years. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our leniency,--and madman as thou art, thou showest a madman's cunning,--thou dost break the laws and art dangerous to the realm,--thou art proved a traitor, and must straightway die. Thou art accused..."

"Of honesty!" interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of melancholy satire in his tone. "I have spoken Truth in an age of lies! 'Tis a most death-worthy deed!"

He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he were a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man. Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet answered nothing--and a brief pause ensued. Theos grew more and more painfully interested in the scene,--there was something in it that to his mind seemed fatefully suggestive and fraught with impending evil. Suddenly Sah-luma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter.

"Now by the Sacred Veil,"--he said gayly, addressing himself to the King--"Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with too much gravity! I recognize in him one of my craft,--a poet, tragic and taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic simile, . . marked you not the mixing of his word-colors in the picture he drew of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a blood-red sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with blackening stars? As I live, 'twas not ill-devised for a madman's brain! ... and so solemn a ranter should serve your Majesty to make merriment withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic's chronic want of originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous fashion of music such as we wot not of!" And turning to Khosrul he added--"Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard?

Thou shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,--and the King shall p.r.o.nounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent and lasting sweetness!"

Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate's half-mirthful, half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compa.s.sion in his own deep, solemnly penetrating eyes.

"Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!" he said mournfully--"Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by the breath of the sea! ... thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great has been the measure of thine inspiration,--yet thou hast missed its true teaching,--and of all the golden threads of poesy placed freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou shouldst find G.o.d!

Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy fate! ... Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits thy destroyer!"

And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and pointed steadfastly to--the King! There was a momentary hush...a stillness as of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the apparent relief of all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.

"By all the virtues of Nagaya!" he cried--"This is most excellent fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first favorite in the realm? ... Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and exhausts patience,--though of a truth I am sorry for the shattering of thy wits,--'tis sad that reason should be lacking to one so revered and grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown is the life of Sah-luma, through whose inspired writings alone my name shall live in the annals of future history--for the glory of a great poet must ever surpa.s.s the renown of the greatest King. Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand enemies, and these strong palace-walls razed to the ground by the engines of warfare, we would ourselves defend Sah-luma!--aye, even cry aloud in the heat of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should be sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one capable of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!"

Sah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this enthusiastic a.s.surance of his sovereign's friendship,--but nevertheless there was a slight shadow of uneasiness on his bold, beautiful brows. He had evidently been uncomfortably impressed by Khosrul's words, and the restless anxiety reflected in his face communicated itself by a sort of electric thrill to Theos, whose heart began to beat heavily with a sense of vague alarm. "What is this Khosrul?" he thought half resentfully--"and how dares he predict for the adored, the admired Sah-luma so dark and unmerited an end? ... "Hark! ... what was that low, far-off rumbling as of underground wheels rolling at full speed?

... He listened,--then glanced at those persons who stood nearest to him, . . no one seemed to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were fixed fearfully on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had suddenly changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair, outstretched arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror personified.

"Victory... Victory!" he cried, catching at the King's last word ...

"There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! ... Thy conquests are ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to wave on the towers of thy strong citadels! Death stands behind thee! ... Destruction clamors at thy palace-gates! ... and the enemy that cometh upon thee unawares is an enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they who are mightiest among the mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be trodden down as wheat,--thy captains and rulers shall tremble and wail as children bewildered with fear:--thy great engines of battle shall be to thee as naught,--and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be useless as straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury!

Zephoranim! Zephoranim! ..." and his voice shrilled with terrific emphasis through the vaulted chamber ... "The days of recompense are come upon thee,--swift and terrible as the desert-wind! ... The doom of Al-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris the Magnificent shall fall.. shall fall! ... its beauty, its greatness, its pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly destroyed.. and ere the waning of the midsummer moon not one stone of its glorious buildings shall be left to prove that here was once a city? Fire! ... Fire! ..."