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

in their depths? … Methinks thou dost resemble these,—and that at a touch, the flames would leap forth uncontrolled!”

 

Her magical low voice, more melodious in tone than the sound of harps played by moonlight on the water, thrilled in his ears and set his pulses beating madly,—with an effort he checked the torrent of love-words that rushed to his lips, and looked at her in a sort of wildly wondering appeal. Her laughter rang out in silvery sweet ripples, and throwing herself lazily back in her throne, she called..

 

“Aizif! … Aizif!”

 

The great tigress instantly bounded forward like an obedient hound, and placed its fore-paws on her knees, while she playfully held a sugared comfit high above its head.

 

“Up, Aizif! up!” she cried mirthfully.. “Up! and be like a man for once! … snatch thy pleasure at all hazards!”

 

With a roar, the savage brute leaped and sprang, its sharp white teeth fully displayed, its sly green eyes glisteningly prominent, —and again Lysia’s rich laughter pealed forth, mingling with the impatient snarls of her terrific favorite. Still she held the tempting morsel in her little snowy hand that glittered all over with rare gems,—and still the tigress continued to make impotent attempts to reach it, growing more and more ferocious with every fresh effort,—till all at once she shut her palm upon the dainty so that it could not be seen, and lightly catching the irritated beast by the throat brought its eyes on a level with her own. The effect was instantaneous, … a strong shudder passed through its frame—and it cowered and crouched lower and lower, in abject fear,—the sweat broke out, and stood in large drops on its sleek hide, and panting heavily, as the firm grasp its mistress slowly relaxed, it sank down prone, in trembling abasement on the second step of the dais, still looking up into those densely brilliant gazelle eyes that were full of such deadly fascination and merciless tyranny.

 

“Good Aizif!” said Lysia then, in that languid, soft voice, that while so sweet, suggested hidden treachery.. “Gentle fondling! …

Thou hast fairly earned thy reward! … Here! … take it!”—and unclosing her roseate palm, she showed the desired bonne-bouche, and offered it with a pretty coaxing air,—but the tigress now refused to touch it, and lay as still as an animal of painted stone.

 

“What a true philosopher she is, my sweet Aizif!” she went on amusedly stroking the creature’s head,—“Her feminine wit teaches her what the dull brains of men can never grasp, . . namely, that pleasures, no matter how sweet, turn to ashes and wormwood when once obtained,—and that the only happiness in this world is the charm of DESIRE! There is a subject for thee, Sahluma! … write an immortal Ode on the mysteries, the delights, the never-ending ravishment of Desire! … but carry not thy fancy on to desire’s fulfilment, for there thou shalt find infinite bitterness! The soul that wilfully gratifies its dearest wish, has stripped life of its supremest joy, and stands thereafter in an emptied sphere, sorrowful and alone,—with nothing left to hope for, nothing to look forward to, save death, the end of all ambition!”

 

“Nay, fair lady,”—said Theos suddenly,—“We who deem ourselves the children of the high gods, and the offspring of a Spirit Eternal, may surely aspire to something beyond this death, that, like a black seal, closes up the brief scroll of our merely human existence! And to us, therefore, ambition should be ceaseless,—

for if we master the world, there are yet more worlds to win: and if we find one heaven, we do but accept it as a pledge of other heavens beyond it! The aspirations of Man are limitless,—hence his best assurance of immortality, … else why should he perpetually long for things that here are impossible of attainment? … things that like faint, floating clouds rimmed with light, suggest without declaring a glory unperceived?”

 

Lysia looked at him steadfastly, an undergleam of malice shining in her slumbrous eyes.

 

“Why? … Because, good sir, the gods love mirth! … and the wanton Immortals are never more thoroughly diverted, than, when leaning downward from their clear empyrean, they behold Man, their Insect-Toy, arrogating to himself a share in their imperishable Essence! To keep up the Eternal Jest, they torture him with vain delusions, and prick him on with hopes never to be realized; aye!

and the whole vast Heaven may well shake with thunderous laughter at the pride with which he doth put forth his puny claim to be elected to another and fairer state of existence! What hath he done? … what does he do, to merit a future life? … Are his deeds so noble? … is his wisdom so great? … is his mind so stainless? He, the oppressor of all Nature and of his brother man,—he, the insolent, self-opinionated tyrant, yet bound slave of the Earth on which he dwells … why should he live again and carry his ignoble presence into the splendors of an Eternity too vast for him to comprehend? ..Nay, nay! … I perceive thou art one of the credulous, for whom a reasonless worship to an unproved Deity is, for the sake of state-policy, maintained, . . I had thought thee wiser! … but no matter! thou shalt pay thy vows to the shrine of Nagaya tomorrow, and see with what glorious pomp and panoply we impose on the faithful, who like thee believe in their own deathless and divinely constituted natures, and enjoy to the full the grand Conceit that persuades them of their right to Immortality!”

 

Her words carried with them a certain practical positiveness of meaning, and Theos was somewhat impressed by their seeming truth.

After all, it WAS a curious and unfounded conceit of a man to imagine himself the possessor of an immortal soul,—and yet … if all things were the outcome of a divine Creative Influence, was it not unjust of that Creative Influence to endow all humanity with such a belief if it had no foundation whatever? And could injustice be associated with divine law? …

 

He, Theos, for instance, was certain of his own immortality,—so certain that, surrounded as he was by this brilliant company of evident atheists, he felt himself to be the only real and positive existing Being among an assembly of Shadow-figures,—but it was not the time or the place to enter into a theological discussion, especially with Lysia, . . and for the moment at least, he allowed her assertions to remain uncontradicted. He sat, however, in a somewhat stern silence, now and then glancing wistfully and anxiously at Sahluma, on whom the potent wines were beginning to take effect, and who had just thrown himself down on the dais at Lysia’s feet, close to the tigress that still lay couched there in immovable quiet. It was a picture worthy of the grandest painter’s brush, … that glistening throne black as jet, with the fair form of Lysia shining within it, like a white sea-nymph at rest in a grotto of ocean-stalactites, . . the fantastically attired negresses on each side, with their waving peacock-plumes,—the vivid carnation-color of the dais, against which the black and yellow stripes of the tigress showed up in strong and brilliant contrast, . . and the graceful, jewel-decked figure of the Poet Laureate, who, half sitting, half reclining on a black velvet cushion, leaned his handsome head indolently against the silvery folds of Lysia’s robe, and looked up at her with eyes in which burned the ardent admiration and scarcely restrained passion of a privileged lover.

 

Suddenly and quite involuntarily Theos thought of Niphrata, …

alas, poor maiden! how utterly her devotion to Sahluma was wasted! What did he care for her timid tenderness, . . her unselfish worship? Nothing? … less than nothing! He was entirely absorbed by the sovereign-peerless beauty of this wonderful High Priestess,—this witch-like weaver of spells more potent than those of Circe; and musing thereon, Theos was sorry for Niphrata, he knew not why. He felt that she had somehow been wronged,—that she suffered, … and that he, as well as Sahluma, was in some mysterious way to blame for this, though he could by no means account for his own share in the dimly suggested reproach. This peculiar, remorseful emotion was transitory, like all the vaguely incomplete ideas that travelled mistily through his perplexed brain, and he soon forgot it in the increasing animation and interest of the scene that immediately surrounded him.

 

The general conversation was becoming more and more noisy, and the laughter more and more boisterous,—several of the young men were now very much the worse for their frequent libations, and Nirjalis, particularly, began again to show marked symptoms of an inclination to break loose from all the bonds of prudent reserve.

He lay full length on his silk divan, his feet touching Theos, who sat upright,—and, singing little snatches of song to himself, he pulled the vine-wreath from his tumbled fair locks as though he found it too weighty, and flung it on the ground among the other debris of the feast. Then folding his arms lazily behind his head, he stared straight and fixedly before him at Lysia, seeming to note every jewel on her dress, every curve of her body, every slight gesture of her hand, every faint, cold smile that played on her lovely lips. One young man whom the others addressed as Ormaz, a haughty, handsome fellow enough, though with rather a sneering mouth just visible under his black mustache, was talking somewhat excitedly on the subject of Khosrul’s cunningly devised flight, . .

for it seemed to be universally understood that the venerable Prophet was one of the Circle of Mystics,—persons whose knowledge of science, especially in matters connected with electricity, enabled them to perform astonishing juggleries, that were frequently accepted by the uninitiated vulgar as almost divine miracles. Not very long ago, according to Ormaz, who was animatedly recalling the circumstance for the benefit of the company, the words “FALL, AL-KYRIS!” had appeared emblazoned in letters of fire on the sky at midnight, and the phenomenon had been accompanied by two tremendous volleys of thunder, to the infinite consternation of the multitude, who received it as a supernatural manifestation. But a member of the King’s Privy Council, a satirical skeptic and mistruster of everybody’s word but his own, undertook to sift the matter,—and adopting the dress of the Mystics, managed to introduce himself into one of their secret assemblies, where with considerable astonishment, he saw them make use of a small wire, by means of which they wrote in characters of azure flame on the whiteness of a blank wall,—

moreover, he discovered that they possessed a lofty turret, built secretly and securely in a deep, unfrequented grove of trees, from whence, with the aid of various curious instruments and reflectors, they could fling out any pattern or device they chose on the sky, so that it should seem to be written by the finger of Lightning. Having elucidated these mysteries, and become highly edified thereby, the learned Councillor returned to the King, and gave full information as to the result of his researches, whereupon forty Mystics were at once arrested and flung into prison for life, and their nefarious practices were made publicly known to all the inhabitants of the city. Since then, no so-called “spiritual” demonstrations had taken place till now, when on this very night Zephoranim’s Presence-Chamber had been suddenly enveloped in the thunderous and terrifying darkness which had so successfully covered Khosrul’s escape.

 

“The King should have slain him at once—” declared Ormaz emphatically, turning to Lysia as he spoke.. “I am surprised that His Majesty permitted so flagrant an impostor and trespasser of the law to speak one word, or live one moment