Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self Part 29

"'When the High Priestess Is the King's mistress Then fall Al-Kyris!'

'Tis absolute doggerel, and senseless withal,--nevertheless, it has caused the enactment of a Law, which is to the effect that the reigning monarch of Al-Kyris shall never, under any sort of pretext, confer with the High Priestess of the Temple on any business whatsoever,--and that, furthermore, he shall never be permitted to look upon her face except at times of public service and state ceremonials. Now dost thou not at once perceive how vile were the suggestions of Nir-jalis, . . and also how foolish was thy fancy last night with regard to the armed masquerader thou didst see in Lysia's garden?"

Theos made no reply, but sat absorbed in his own reflections. He began now to understand much that had before seemed doubtful and mysterious,--no wonder, he thought, that Zephoranim's fury against the audacious Khosrul had been so excessive! For had not the crazed Prophet called Lysia an "unvirgined virgin and Queen-Courtesan"? ... and, according to Sah-luma's present explanation, nothing more dire and offensive in the way of open blasphemy could be uttered! Yet the question still remained--, was Khosrul right or wrong? This was a problem which Theos longed to investigate and yet recoiled from,--instinctively he felt that upon its answer hung the fate of Al-Kyris,--and also, what just then seemed more precious than anything else,--the life of Sah-luma. He could not decide with himself WHY this was so,--he simply accepted his own inward a.s.surance that so it was.

Presently he inquired:

"How comes it, Sah-luma, that the corpse of Nir-jalis was found on the sh.o.r.es of the river? Did we not see it weighted with iron and laid elsewhere...?"

"O simpleton!" laughed Sah-luma--"Thinkest thou Lysia's lake of lilies is a common grave for criminals? The body of Nir-jalis sank therein, 'tis true, . . but was there no after-means of lifting it from thence, and placing it where best such carrion should be found? Hath not the High Priestess of Nagaya slaves enough to work her will? ... Verily thou dost trouble thyself overmuch concerning these trivial every-day occurences,--I marvel at thee!--Hundreds have drained the Silver Nectar gladly for so fair a woman's sake,--hundreds will drain it gladly still for the mere privilege of living some brief days in the presence of such peerless beauty! ... But,--speaking of the river--didst thou remark it on thy way hither?"

"Aye!" responded Theos dreamily--"'Twas red as blood"!"

"Strange!" and Sah-luma looked thoughtful for an instant, then rousing himself, said lightly, "'Tis from some simple cause, no doubt--yet 'twill create a silly panic in the city--and all the fanatics for Khosrul's new creed will creep forth, shouting afresh their prognostications of death and doom. By my faith, 'twill be a most desperate howling! ... and I'll not walk abroad till the terror hath abated. Moreover, I have work to do,--some lately budded thoughts of mine have ripened into glorious conclusion,--and Zabastes hath orders presently to attend me that he may take my lines down from mine own dictation. Thou shalt hear a most choice legend of love an thou wilt listen--" here he laid his hand affectionately on Theos's shoulder--"a legend set about, methinks, with wondrous jewels of poetic splendor!

... 'tis a rare privilege I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule Zabastes is my only auditor,--but I would swear thou art no plagiarist, and wouldst not dishonor thine own intelligence so far as to filch pearls of fancy from another minstrel! As well steal my garments as my thoughts!--for verily the thoughts are the garments of the poet's soul,--and the common thief of things petty and material is no whit more contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas wherein to deck the bareness of his own poor wit! Come, place thyself at ease upon this cushioned couch, and give me thy attention, ... I feel the fervor rising within me, ... I will summon Zabastes, ..." Here he pulled a small silken cord which at once set a clanging bell echoing loudly through the palace, ... "And thou shalt freely hear, and freely judge, the last offspring of my fertile genius,--my lyrical romance 'Nourhalma!'" Theos started violently, ... he had the greatest difficulty to restrain the anguished cry that arose to his lips.

"Nourhalma!" O memory! ... slow-filtering, reluctant memory! ... why, why was his brain thus tortured with these conflicting pang, of piteous recollection! Little by little, like sharp deep stabs of nervous suffering, there came back to him a few faint, fragmentary suggestions which gradually formed themselves into a distinct and comprehensive certainty, . . "Nourhalma" was the t.i.tle of HIS OWN POEM,--the poem HE had written, surely not so very long ago, among the mountains of the Pa.s.s of Dariel!

CHAPTER XXIII.

"NOURHALMA."

His first emotion on making this new mental rediscovery was, as it had been before in the King's audience-hall, one of absolute TERROR, ...

feverish, mad terror which for a few moments possessed him so utterly that, turning away, he buried his aching head among the cushion where he reclined, in order to hide from his companion's eyes any outward sign that might betray his desperate misery. Clenching his hands convulsively, he silently, and with all his strength, combated the awful horror of himself that grew up spectrally within him,--the dreadful, distracting uncertainty of his own ident.i.ty that again confused his brain and paralyzed his reason.

At last, he thought wildly, at last he knew the meaning of h.e.l.l! ...

the frightful spiritual torment of a baffled intelligence set adrift among the wrecks and shadows of things that had formerly been its pride and glory! What was any physical suffering compared to such a frenzy of mind-agony? Nothing! ... less than nothing! This was the everlasting thirst and fire spoken of so vaguely by prophets and preachers,--the thirst and fire of the Soul's unquenchable longing to unravel the dismal tangle of its own bygone deeds, . . the striving forever in vain to steadfastly establish the wavering mystery of its own existence!

"O G.o.d! ... G.o.d!--what hast Thou made of me!" he groaned inwardly, as he endeavored to calm the tempest of his unutterable despair,--"Who am I? ... Who WAS I in that far Past which, like the pale spirit of a murdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so threateningly! Surely the gift of Poesy was mine! ... surely I too could weave the harmony of words and thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes it then that all Sah-luma's work is but the reflex of my own? O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma! ... when shall it be unraveled?

'Nourhalma!' 'Twas the name of what I deemed my masterpiece! ... O silly masterpiece, if it prove thus easy of imitation! ... Yet stay..

let me be patient! ... t.i.tles are often copied unconsciously by different authors in different lands, . . and it may chance that Sah-luma's poem is after all his own,--not mine. Not mine, as were the ballads and the love-ode he chanted to the King last night! ... O Destiny! ... inscrutable, pitiless Destiny! ... rescue my tortured soul from chaos! ... declare unto me who,--WHO is the plagiarist and thief of Song.. MYSELF or SAH-LUMA?"

The more he perplexed his mind with such questions, the deeper grew the darkness of the inexplicable dilemma, to which a fresh obscurity was now added in his suddenly distinct and distressful remembrance of the "Pa.s.s of Dariel." Where was this place, he wondered wearily?--When had he seen it? whom had he met there?--and how had he come to Al-Kyris from thence? No answer could his vexed brain shape to these demands, .

. he recollected the "Pa.s.s of Dariel" just as he recollected the "Field of Ardath"--without the least idea as to what connection existed between them and his own personal adventures. Presently controlling himself, he raised his head and ventured to look up,--Sah-luma stood beside him, his fine face expressive of an amiable solicitude.

"Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou didst thus bury thine eyes in thy pillow?" he inquired ... "Pardon my discourteous lack of consideration for thy comfort! ... I love the sun myself so well that methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noon-day and yet take pleasure in the warmth of such a golden smile! But thou perchance art unaccustomed to the light of Eastern lands,--wherefore thy brows must not be permitted to ache on, uncared for. See!--I have lowered the awnings, . . they give a pleasant shade,--and in very truth, the heat to-day is greater far than ordinary; one would think the G.o.ds had kindled some new fire in heaven!"

And as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and waved it to and fro with an exquisitely graceful movement of wrist and arm, while Theos gazing at him in mute admiration, forgot his own griefs for the time in the subtle, strange, and absorbing spell exercised upon him by his host's irresistible influence. Just then, too, Sah-luma appeared handsomer than ever in the half-subdued tints of radiance that flickered through the lowered pale-blue silken awnings: the effect of the room thus shadowed was as of a soft azure mountain mist lit sideways by the sun,--a mist through which the white-garmented, symmetrical figure of the Laureate stood forth in curiously brilliant outlines, as though every curve of supple shoulder and proud throat was traced with a pencil of pure light. Scarcely a breath of air made its way through the wide-open cas.e.m.e.nts--the gentle dashing noise of the fountains in the court alone disturbed the deep, warm stillness of the morning, or the occasional sweeping rustle of peac.o.c.ks' plumes as these stately birds strutted majestically up and down, up and down, on the marble terrace outside.

Soothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, the delirium of Theos's bewildering affliction gradually abated,--his tempest-tossed mind regained to a certain extent its equilibrium,--and falling into easy converse with his fascinating companion, he was soon himself again,--that is, as much himself as his peculiar condition permitted him to be. Yet he was not altogether free from a certain eager and decidedly painful suspense with regard to the "Nourhalma" problem,--and he was conscious of what he in his own opinion considered an absurd and unnecessary degree of excitement, when the door of the apartment presently opened to admit Zabastes, who entered, carrying several sheets of papyrus and other material for writing.

The old Critic's countenance was expressively glum and ironical,--he, however, was compelled, like all the other paid servants of the household, to make a low and respectful obeisance as soon as he found himself in Sah-luma's presence,--an act of homage which, he performed awkwardly, and with evident ill-will. His master nodded condescendingly in response to his reluctant salute, and signed to him to take his place at a richly carved writing-table adorned with the climbing figures of winged cupids exquisitely wrought in ivory. He obeyed, shuffling thither uneasily, and sniffing the rose-fragrant air as he went like an ill-conditioned cur scenting a foe,--and seating himself in a high-backed chair, he arranged his garments fussily about him, rolled up his long embroidered sleeves to the elbow, and spread his writing implements all over the desk in front of him with much mock-solemn ostentation. Then, rubbing his lean hands together, he gave a stealthy glance of covert derision round at Sah-luma and Theos,--a glance which Theos saw and in his heart resented, but which Sah-luma, absorbed in his own reflections, apparently failed to notice.

"All is in readiness, my lord!" he announced in his disagreeable croaking tones,--"Here are the clean and harmless slips of river-reed waiting to be soiled and spotted with my lord's indelible thoughts,--here also are the innocent quills of the white heron, as yet unstained by colored writing-fluid whether black, red, gold, silver, or purple! Mark you, most ill.u.s.trious bard, the touching helplessness and purity of these meek servants of a scribbler's fancy! ... Blank papyrus and empty quills! Bethink you seriously whether it were not better to leave them thus unblemished, the simple products of unfaulty Nature, than use them to indite the wondrous things of my lord's imagination, whereof, all wondrous though they seem, no man shall ever be the wiser!"

And he chuckled, stroking his stubbly gray beard the while with a blandly suggestive, yet malign look directed at Sah-luma, who met it with a slight, cold smile of faintly amused contempt.

"Peace, fool!" he said,--"That barbarous tongue of thine is like the imperfect clapper of a broken bell that strikes forth harsh and undesired sounds suggesting nothing! Thy present duty is to hear, and not to speak,--therefore listen discerningly and write with exact.i.tude, so shall thy poor blank scrolls of reed grow rich with gems, . . gems of high poesy that the whole world shall h.o.a.rd and cherish miser-like when the poet who created their bright splendor is no more!"

He sighed--a short, troubled sigh,--and stood for a moment silent in an att.i.tude of pensive thought. Theos watched him yearningly,--waiting in almost breathless suspense till he should dictate aloud the first line of his poem. Zabastes meanwhile settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and taking up one of the long quills with which he was provided, dipped it in a reddish-purple liquid which at once stained its point to a deep roseate hue, so that when the light flickered upon it from time to time, it appeared as though it were tipped with fire. How intense the heat was, thought Theos!--as with one hand he pushed his cl.u.s.tering hair from his brow, not without noticing that his action was imitated almost at once by Sah-luma, who also seemed to feel the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. And what a blaze of blue pervaded the room! ...

delicate ethereal blue as of shimmering lakes and summer skies melted together into one luminous radiance, ... radiance that, while filmy, was yet perfectly transparent, and in which the Laureate's cla.s.sic form appeared to be gloriously enveloped like that of some new descended G.o.d!

Theos rubbed his eyes to cure them of their dazzled ache, . . what a marvellous scene it was to look upon, he mused! ... would he,--could he ever forget it? Ah no!--never, never! not till his dying day would he be able to obliterate it from his memory,--and who could tell whether even after death he might not still recall it! Just then Sah-luma raised his hand by way of signal to Zabastes, . . his face became earnest, pathetic, even grand in the fervent concentration of his thoughts, ... he was about to begin his dictation, ... now ... now! ...

and Theos leaned forward nervously, his heart beating with apprehensive expectation ... Hush! ... the delicious, suave melody of his friend's voice penetrated the silence like the sweet harmonic of a harp-string..

"Write--" said he slowly.. "write first the t.i.tle of my poem thus: 'Nourhalma: A Love-Legend of the Past.'"

There was a pause, during which the pen of Zabastes traveled quickly over the papyrus for a moment, then stopped. Theos, almost suffocated with anxiety, could hardly maintain even the appearance of calmness,--the t.i.tle proclaimed, with its second appendage, was precisely the same as that of his own work--but this did not now affect him so much. What he waited for with such painfully strained attention was the first line of the poem. If it was his line he knew it already!--it ran thus:

"A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!--"

Scarcely had he repeated this to himself inwardly, than Sah-luma, with majestic grace and sweetness of utterance, dictated aloud:

"A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!"

"Ah G.o.d!"

The sharp cry, half fierce, half despairing, broke from Theos's quivering lips in spite of all the efforts he made to control his agitation, and the Laureate turned toward him with a surprised and somewhat irritated movement that plainly evinced annoyance at the interruption.

"Pardon, Sah-luma!" he murmured hastily. "'Twas a slight pang at the heart troubled me,--a mere nothing!--I take shame to myself to have cried out for such a pin's p.r.i.c.k! Speak on!--thy first line is as soft as honey dew,--as suggestive as the light of dawn on sleeping flowers!"

And, leaning dizzily back on his couch, he closed his eyes to shut in the hot and bitter tears that welled up rebelliously and threatened to fall, notwithstanding his endeavor to restrain them. His head throbbed and burned as though a chaplet of fiery thorns encircled it, instead of the once desired crown of Fame he had so fondly dreamed of winning!

Fame? ... Alas! that bright, delusive vision had fled forever,--there were no glory-laurels left growing for him in the fields of poetic art and aspiration,--Sah-luma, the fortunate Sah-luma, had gathered and possessed them all! Taking everything into serious consideration, he came at last to the deeply mortifying conclusion that it must be himself who was the plagiarist,--the unconscious imitator of Sah-luma's ideas and methods, . . and the worst of it was that his imitation was so terribly EXACT!

Oh, how heartily he despised himself for his poor and pitiful lack of originality! Down to the very depths of humiliation he sternly abased his complaining, struggling, wounded, and sorely resentful spirit, . .

he then and there became the merciless executioner of his own claims to literary honor,--and deliberately crushing all his past ambition, mutinous discontent and uncompliant desires with a strong master-hand he lay quiet...as patiently unmoved as is a dead man to the wrongs inflicted on his memory...and forced himself to listen resignedly to every glowing line of his, . . no, not his, but Sah-luma's poem, . .

the lovely, gracious, delicate, entrancing poem he remembered so well!

And by and by, as each mellifluous stanza sounded softly on his ears, a strangely solemn tranquillity swept over him,--a most soothing halcyon calm, as though some pa.s.sing angel's hand had touched his brow in benediction.

He looked at Sah-luma, not enviously now but all admiringly,--it seemed to him that he had never heard a sweeter, tenderer music than the story of "Nourhalma" as recited by his friend. And so to that friend he silently awarded his own wished-for glory, praise, and everlasting fame!--that glory, praise, and fame which had formerly allured his fancy as being the best of all the world could offer, but which he now entirely and willingly relinquished in favor of this more deserving and dear comrade, whose superior genius he submissively acknowledged!

There was a great quietness everywhere,--the rising and falling inflections of Sah-luma's soft, rich voice rather, deepened than disturbed the stillness,--the pen of Zabastes glided noiselessly over the slips of papyrus,--and the small sounds of the outer air, such as the monotonous hum of bees among the ma.s.ses of lily-bloom that towered in white cl.u.s.ters between the festooned awnings, the thirsty twitterimg of birds hiding under the long palm leaves to shelter themselves from the heat, and the incessant splash of the fountains, ... all seemed to be, as it were, mere appendages to enhance the breathless hush of nature. Presently Sah-luma paused,--and Zabastes, heaving a sigh of relief, looked up from his writing, and laid down his pen.

'The work is finished, most ill.u.s.trious?" he demanded, a curious smile playing on his thin, satirical lips.

"Finished?" echoed Sah-luma disdainfully--"Nay,--'tis but the end of the First Canto"

The scribe gave vent to a dismal groan.

"Ye G.o.ds!" he exclaimed--"Is there more to come of this bombastic ranting and vile torturing of phrases unheard of and altogether unnatural! O Sah-luma!--marvellous Sah-luma! twaddler Sah-luma! what a brain box is thine! ... How full of dislocated word-puzzles and similes gone mad! Now, as I live, expect no mercy from me this time!".. and he shook his head threateningly,--"For if the public news sheet will serve me as mine anvil, I will so pound thee in pieces with the sledge-hammer of my criticism, that, by the Ship of the Sun! ... for once Al-Kyns shall be moved to laughter at thee! Mark me, good tuner-up of tinkling foolishness! ... I will so choose out and handle thy feeblest lines that they shall seem but the doggerel of a street ballad monger! I will give so bald an epitome of this sickly love-tale that it shall appeal to all who read my commentary the veriest trash that ever poet penned!

... Moreover, I can most admirably misquote thee, and distort thy meanings with such excellent bitter jesting, that thou thyself shall scarcely recognize thine own production! By Nagaya's Shrine! what a feast 'twill be for my delectation!"--and he rubbed his hands gleefully--"With what a weight of withering a.n.a.lysis I can pulverize this idol of 'Nourhalma' into the dust and ashes of a common sense contempt!"

While Zabastes thus spoke, Sah-luma had helped himself, by way of refreshment, to two ripe figs, in whose luscious crimson pulp his white teeth met, with all the enjoying zest of a child's healthy appet.i.te. He now held up the rind and stalks of these devoured delicacies, and smiled.

'Thus wilt thou swallow up my poem in thy glib clumsiness, Zabastes!"