Ardath by Marie Corelli (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

whirled round and danced in the warm sunset-glow like flecks of gold in amber wine,—while here and there the distant glimmer of tossing fountains, or the soft emerald sheen of a prattling brook that wound in and out the grounds, amongst banks of moss and drooping fern, gave a pleasant touch of coolness and refreshment to the brilliant verdure of the luxuriant landscape.

 

“Speaking of creeds, Sahluma”—said Theos at last, looking down with a curious sense of compassion and protection at his companion’s slight, graceful form—“What religion is it that dominates this city and people? To-day, through want of knowledge, it seems I committed a nearly unpardonable offence by gazing at the beauty of the Virgin Priestess when I should have knelt face-hidden to her benediction,—thou must tell me something of the common laws of worship, that I err not thus blindly again.”

 

Sahluma smiled.

 

“The common laws of worship are the common laws of custom,”—he replied—“No more,—no less. And in this we are much like other nations. We believe in no actual Creed,—who does? We accept a certain given definition of a supposititious Divinity, together with the suitable maxims and code of morals accompanying that definition, … we call this Religion, . . and we wear it as we wear our clothing for the sake of necessity and decency, though truly we are not half so concerned about it as about the far more interesting details of taste in attire. Still, we have grown used to our doctrine, and some of us will fight with each other for the difference of a word respecting it,—and as it contains within itself many seeds of discord and contradiction, such dissensions are frequent, especially among the priests, who, were they but true to their professed vocation, should be able to find ways of smoothing over all apparent inconsistencies and maintaining peace and order. Of course we, in union with all civilized communities, worship the Sun, even as thou must do,—in this one leading principle at least, our faith is universal!”

 

Theos bent his head in assent. He was scarcely conscious of the action, but at that moment he felt, with Sahluma, that there was no other form of Divinity acknowledged in the world than the refulgent Orb that gladdens and illumines earth, and visibly controls the seasons.

 

“And yet—” went on Sahluma thoughtfully,—“the well-instructed know through our scientists and astronomers (many of whom are now languishing in prison for the boldness of their researches and discoveries) that the Sun is no divinity at all, hut simply a huge planet,—a dense body surrounded by a luminous, flame-darting atmosphere,—neither self-acting nor omnipotent, but only one of many similar orbs moving in strict obedience to fixed mathematical laws. Nevertheless this knowledge is wisely kept back as much as possible from the multitude,—for, were science to unveil her marvels too openly to semi-educated and vulgarly constituted minds, the result would be, first Atheism, next Republicanism, and finally Anarchy and Ruin. If these evils,—which like birds of prey continually hover about all great kingdoms,—are to be averted, we must, for the welfare of the country and people, hold fast to some stated form and outward observance of religious belief.”

 

He paused. Theos gave him a quick, searching glance.

 

“Even if such a belief should have no shadow of a true foundation?” he inquired—“Can it be well for men to cling superstitiously to a false doctrine?”

 

Sahluma appeared to consider this question in his own mind for some minutes before replying.

 

“My friend, it is difficult to decide what is false and what is true—“he said at last with a little shrug of his shoulders—“But I think that even a false religion is better for the masses than none at all. Men are closely allied to brutes, . . if the moral sense ceases to restrain them they at once leap the boundary line and give as much rein to their desires and appetites as the hyenas and tigers. And in some natures the moral sense is only kept alive by fear,—fear of offending some despotic, invisible Force that pervades the Universe, and whose chief and most terrible attribute is not so much creative as destructive power. To propitiate and pacify an unseen Supreme Destroyer is the aim of all religions,—

and it is for this reason we add to our worship of the Sun that of the White Serpent, Nagaya the Mediator. Nagaya is the favorite object of the people’s adoration,—they may forget to pay their vows to the Sun, but never to Nagaya, who is looked upon as the emblem of Eternal Wisdom, the only pleader whose persuasions avail to soften the tyrannic humor of the Invincible Devourer of all things. We know how men hate Wisdom and cannot endure to be instructed, and yet they prostrate themselves in abject crowds before Wisdom’s symbol every day in the Sacred Temple yonder,—

though I much doubt whether such constant devotional attendance is not more for the sake of Lysia than the Deified Worm!”

 

He laughed with a little undercurrent of scorn in his laughter,—

and Theos saw as it were, the lightning of an angry or disdainful thought flashing through the sombre splendor of his eyes.

 

“And Lysia is..—?” began Theos suggestively.

 

“The High Priestess of Nagaya,” responded Sahluma slowly—

“Charmer of the god, as well as of the hearts of men! The hot passion of love is to her a toy, clasped and unclasped so! in the pink hollow of her hand…” and as he spoke he closed his fingers softly on the air and unclosed them again with an expressive gesture—“And so long as she retains the magic of her beauty, so long will Nagaya worship hold Al-Kyris in check. Otherwise … who knows!—there have been many disturbances of late,—the teachings of the Philosophers have aroused a certain discontent,—and there are those who are weary of perpetual sacrifices and the shedding of innocent blood. Moreover this mad Khosrul of whom Niphrata spoke lately, thunders angry denunciations of Lysia and Nagaya in the open streets, with so much fervid eloquence that they who pass by cannot choose but hear, . . he hath a strange craze,—a doctrine of the future which he most furiously proclaims in the language prophets use. He holds that far away in the centre of a Circle of pure Light, the true God exists,—a vast all glorious Being who with exceeding marvellous love controls and guides Creation toward some majestic end—even as a musician doth melodize his thought from small sweet notes to perfect chord-woven harmonies.

Furthermore, that thousands of years hence, this God will embody a portion of his own Existence in human form and will send hither a wondrous creature, half-God, half-Man, to live our life, die our death, and teach us by precept and example, the surest way to eternal happiness. ‘Tis a theory both strange and wild!—hast ever heard of it before?”

 

He put the question indifferently, but Theos was mute. That horrible sense of a straining desire to speak when speech was forbidden again oppressed him,—he felt as though he were being strangled with his own unfalling tears. What a crushing weight of unutterable thoughts burdened his brain!—he gazed up at the serenely glowing sky in aching, dumb despair,—till slowly …

very slowly, words came at last like dull throbs of pain beating between his lips …

 

“I think … I fancy … I have heard a rumor of such doctrine …

but I know as little of it as … as THOU, Sahluma! … I can tell thee no more … than THOU hast said! …” He paused and gaining more firmness of tone went on—“It seems to me a not altogether impossible conception of Divine Benevolence,—for if God lives at all, He must be capable of manifesting Himself in many ways both small and great, common and miraculous, though of a truth there are no miracles beyond what APPEAR as such to our limited sight and restricted intelligence. But tell me”—and here his voice had a ring of suppressed anxiety within it—“tell me, Sahluma, thine own thought concerning it!”

 

“I?—I think naught of it!” replied Sahluma with airy contempt—

“Such a creed may find followers in time to come,—but now, of what avail to warn us of things that do not concern our present modes of life? Moreover in the face of all religion, my own opinion should not alter,—I have studied science sufficiently well to know that there is NO God!—and I am too honest to worship an unproved and merely supposititious identity!”

 

A shudder, as of extreme cold, ran through Theos’s veins, and as if impelled on by some invisible monitor he said almost mournfully:

 

“Art thou sure, Sahluma, thou dost not instinctively feel that there is a Higher Power hidden behind the veil of visible Nature?

—and that in the Far Beyond there may be an Eternity of Joy where thou shalt find all thy grandest aspirations at last fulfilled?”

 

Sahluma laughed,—a clear, vibrating laugh as mellow as the note of a thrush in spring-time.

 

“Thou solemn soul!” he exclaimed mirthfully—“My aspirations ARE

fulfilled!—I aspire to no more than fame,—and that I hold,—that I shall keep so long as this world is lighted by the sun!”

 

“And what use is Fame to thee in Death!” demanded Theos with sudden and emphatic earnestness.

 

Sahluma stood still,—over his beautiful face came a shadow of intense melancholy,—he raised his brilliant eyes full of wistful pathos and pleading.

 

“I pray thee do not make me sad, my friend!” he murmured tremulously—“These thoughts are like muttering thunder in my heaven! Death!”.. and a quick sigh escaped him—“‘Twill be the breaking of my harp and heart! … the last note of my failing voice and eversilenced song!”

 

A moisture as of tears glistened on the silky fringe of his eyelids,—his lips quivered,—he had the look of a Narcissus regretfully bewailing his own perishable loveliness. On a swift impulse of affection Theos threw one arm round, his neck in the fashion of a confiding school-boy walking with his favorite companion.

 

“Nay, thou shalt never die, Sahluma!” he said with a sort of passionate eagerness,—“Thy bright soul shall live forever in a sunshine sweeter than that of earth’s fairest midsummer noon! Thy song can never be silenced while heaven pulsates with the unwritten music of the spheres,—and even were the crown of immortality denied to lesser men, it is, it must be the heritage of the poet! For to him all crowns belong, all kingdoms are thrown open, all barriers broken down,—even those that divide us from the Unseen,—and God Himself has surely a smile to spare for His Singers who have made the sad world joyful if only for an hour!”

 

Sahluma looked up with a pleased yet wondering glance.

 

“Thou hast a silvery and persuasive tongue!” he said gently—“And thou speakest of God as if thou knewest one akin to Him. Would I could believe all thou sayest! … but alas!—I cannot. We have progressed too far in knowledge, my friend, for faith. … yet…”

He hesitated a moment, then with a touch of caressing entreaty in his tone went on. … “Thinkest thou in very truth that I shall live again? For I confess to thee, it seems beyond all things strange and terrible to feel that this genius of mine,—this spirit of melody which inhabits my frame, should perish utterly without further scope for its abilities. There have been moments when my soul, ravished by inspiration, has, as it were, seized Earth like a full goblet of wine, and quaffed its beauties, its pleasures, its loves, its glories all in one burning draught of song! … when I have stood in thought on the shadowy peaks of time, waiting for other worlds to string like beads on my thread of