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

smile. Just then Zephoranim’s fiery glance swept over him with a curious expression of wonder and commiseration.

 

“By the gods, yon stranger weeps!” said the monarch in a half-bantering tone…then with more gentleness he added.. “Yet ‘tis not the first time Sahluma’s voice hath unsealed a fountain of tears! No greater triumph can minstrel have than this,—to move the strong man’s heart to woman’s tenderness! We have heard tell of poets, who singing of death have persuaded many straightway to die,—but when they sing of sweeter themes, of lover’s vows, of passion-frenzies, and languorous desires, cold is the blood that will not warm and thrill to their divinely eloquent allurements.

Come hither, fair sir!” and he beckoned to Theos, who mechanically advanced in obedience to the command—“Thou hast thoughts of thine own, doubtless, concerning Love, and Love’s fervor of delight, . .

hast aught new to tell us of its bewildering spells whereby the most dauntless heroes in every age have been caught, conquered, and bound by no stronger chain than a tress of hair, or a kiss more luscious than all the honey hidden in lotus-flowers?”

 

Theos looked up dreamily…his eyes wandered from the King to Sahluma as though in wistful search for some missing thing, . . his lips were parched and burning and his brows ached with a heavy weight of pain, . . but he made an effort to speak and succeeded, though his words came slowly and without any previous reflection on his own part.

 

“Alas, most potent Sovereign!” he murmured.. “I am a man of sad memories, whose soul is like the desert, barren of all beauty! I may have sung of love in my time, but my songs were never new,—

never worthy to last one little hour! And whatsoever of faith, passion, or heart-ecstasy my fancy could with devious dreams devise, Sahluma knows, . . and in Sahluma’s song all my best thoughts are said!”

 

There was a ring of intense pathos in his voice as he spoke,—and the King eyed him compassionately.

 

“Of a truth thou seemest to have suffered!” he observed in gentle accents.. “Thou hast a look as of one bereft of joy. Hast lost some maiden love of thine? … and dost thou mourn her still?”

 

A pang bitter as death shot through Theos’s heart, . . had the monarch suddenly pierced him with his great sword he could scarcely have endured more anguish! For the knowledge rushed upon him that he had indeed lost a love so faithful, so unfathomable, so pure and perfect, that all the world weighed in the balance against it would have seemed but a grain of dust compared to its inestimable value! … but what that love was, and from whom it emanated, he could no more tell than the tide can tell in syllabled language the secret of its attraction to the moon.

Therefore he made no answer, . . only a deep, half-smothered sigh broke from him, and Zephoranim apparently touched by his dejection continued good-naturedly:

 

“Nay, nay!—we will not seek to pry into the cause of thy spirit’s heaviness…Enough! think no more of our thoughtless question,—

there is a sacredness in sorrow! Nevertheless we shall strive to make thee in part forget thy grief ere thou leavest our court and city, . . meanwhile sit thou there”—and he pointed to the lower step of the dais, . . “And thou, Sahluma, sing again, and this time let thy song he set to a less plaintive key.”

 

He leaned hack in his throne, and Theos sat wearily down among the flowers at the foot of the dais as commanded. He was possessed by a strange, inward dread,—the dread of altogether losing the consciousness of his own identity,—and while he strove to keep a firm grasp on his mental faculties he at the same time abandoned all hope of ever extricating himself from the perplexing enigma in which he was so darkly involved. Forcing himself by degrees into comparative calmness, he determined to resign himself to his fate,—and the idea he had just had of boldly claiming the ballad sung by Sahluma as his own, completely passed out of his mind.

 

How could he speak against this friend whom he loved, ..aye!—more than he had ever loved any living thing!—besides what could he prove? To begin with, in his present condition ho could give no satisfactory account of himself,—if he were asked questions concerning his nation or birth-place he could not answer them, . .

he did not even know where he had come from, save that his memory persistently furnished him with the name of a place called “ARDATH.” But what was this “Ardath” to him, he mused?—What did it signify? … what had it to do with his immediate position?

Nothing, so far as he could tell! His intellect seemed to be divided into two parts—one a total blank, . . the other filled with crowding images that while novel were yet curiously familiar. And how could he accuse Sahluma of literary theft, when he had none of his own dated manuscripts to bear out his case? Of course he could easily repeat his boyhood’s verses word for word, … but what of that? He, a stranger in the city, befriended and protected by the Laureate, would certainly be considered by the people of Al-Kyris as far more likely to steal Sahluma’s thoughts than that Sahluma should steal his!

 

No!—there was no help for it,—as matters stood he could say nothing,—he could only feel as though he were the sorrowful ghost of some long-ago dead author returned to earth to hear others claiming his works and passing them off as original compositions.

And thus he was scarcely moved to any fresh surprise when Sahluma, giving back the harp to his attendant, rose up, and standing erect in an attitude unequalled for grace and dignity, began to recite a poem he remembered to have written when he was about twenty years of age,—a poem daringly planned, which when published had aroused the bitterest animosity of the press critics on account of what they called its “forced sublimity.” The sublimity was by no means “forced”—it was the spontaneous outcome of a fresh and ardent nature full of enthusiasm and high-soaring aspiration, but the critics cared nothing for this, . . all they saw was a young man presuming to be original, and down they came upon him accordingly.

 

He recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had endured through that illfated and cruelly condemned composition,—and now he was listlessly amazed at the breathless rapture and excitement it evoked here in this marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where everything seemed more strange and weird than the strangest dream!

It was a story of the gods before the world was made,—of love deep buried in far eternities of light, . . of vast celestial shapes whose wanderings through the blue deep of space were tracked by the birth of stars and suns and wonder-spheres of beauty, . . a fanciful legend of transcendent heavenly passion, telling how all created worlds throbbed amorously in the purple seas of pure ether, and how Love and Love alone was the dominant cloud of the triumphal march of the Universe…And with what matchless eloquence Sahluma spoke the glowing lines! ..with what clear and rounded tenderness of accent! … how exquisitely his voice rose and fell in a rhythmic rush like the wind surging through many leaves, . . while ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely entrancing joy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly art infused a touch of minor pathos,—a suggestion of the eternal complaint of Nature which even in the happiest moments asserts itself in mournful undertones. The effect of his splendid declamation was heightened by a few soft, running passages dexterously played on the harp by his attendant harpist and introduced just at the right moments; and Theos, notwithstanding the peculiar position in which he was placed, listened to every well-remembered word of his own work thus recited with a gradually deepening sense of peace,—he knew not why, for the verses, in themselves, were strangely passionate and wild. The various impressions produced on the hearers were curious to witness—the King moved restlessly, his bronzed cheeks alternately flushing and paling, his hand now grasping his sword, now toying with the innumerable jewels that blazed on his breast—the women’s eyes at one moment sparkled with delight and at the next grew humid with tears,—the assembled courtiers pressed forward, awed, eager, and attentive,—the very soldiers on guard seemed entranced, and not even a small side-whisper disturbed the harmonious fall and flow of dulcet speech that rippled from the Laureate’s lips.

 

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 Sahluma,—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 Sahluma…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 Sahluma 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 god 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 Sahluma rehearse,—but never in all my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he given utterance to such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse-jargon as tonight! 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