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

sarcastic astonishment,—“What a fool thou hast made of thyself, good comrade! … By my soul, how shall thy condition be explained to these open-mouthed starers below! See how they gape upon thee! … thou art most assuredly a noticeable spectacle! … and yon maniac Prophet doth evidently judge thee as one of his craft, a fellow professional howler of marvels, else he would scarcely deign to fix his eyes so obstinately on thy countenance! Nay, verily thou dost outrival him in the strangeness of thy language! … What moved thee to such frenzied utterance?

Surely thou hast a stroke of the sun!—thy words were most absolutely devoid of reason! … as senseless as the jabber of an idiot to his own shadow on the wall!”

 

Theos was mute,—he had no defense to offer. The crowd still stared upon him,—and his heart beat fast with a mingled sense of fear and pride—fear of his present surroundings,—pride that he had spoken out his conviction boldly, reckless of all consequences. And this pride was a most curious thing to analyze, because it did not so much consist in the fact of his having openly confessed his inward thought, as that he felt he had gained some special victory in thus ACKNOWLEDGING HIS BELIEF IN THE

POSITIVE EXISTENCE OF THE “Saviour” who formed the subject of Khosrul’s prophecy. Full of a singular sort of self-congratulation which yet had nothing to do with selfishness, he became so absorbed in his own reflections that he started like a man brusquely aroused from sleep when the Prophet’s strong grave voice apostrophized him personally over the heads of the throng: “Who and what art thou, that dost speak of the FUTURE as though it were the PAST? Hast thou held converse with the Angels, and is Past and Future ONE with thee in the dream of the departing Present? Answer me, thou stranger to the city of Al-Kyris! … Has God taught THEE the way to Everlasting Life?”

 

Again that awful silence made itself felt like a deadly chill on the sunlit air,—the quiet, patient crowds seemed waiting in hushed suspense for some reply which should be as a flash of spiritual enlightenment to leap from one to the other with kindling heat and radiance, and vivify them all into a new and happier existence. But now, when Theos most strongly desired to speak, he remained dumb as stone! … vainly he struggled against and contended with the invisible, mysterious, and relentless despotism that smote him on the mouth as it were, and deprived him of all power of utterance, … his tongue was stiff and frozen, … his very lips were sealed! Trembling violently, he gazed beseechingly at Sahluma, who held his arm in a firm and friendly grasp, and who, apparently quickly perceiving that he was distressed and embarrassed, undertook himself to furnish forth what he evidently considered a fitting response to Khosrul’s adjuration.

 

“Most venerable Seer!” he cried mockingly, his bright face radiant with mirth and his dark eyes flashing a careless contempt as he spoke—“Thou art as short-sighted as thine own auguries if thou canst not at once comprehend the drift of my friend’s humor! He hath caught the infection of thy fanatic eloquence, and, like thee, knows naught of what he says: moreover he hath good wine and sunlight mingled in his blood, whereby he hath been doubtless moved to play a jest upon thee. I pray thee heed him not! He is as free to declare thy Prophecy is of the PAST, as thou art to insist on its being of the FUTURE,—in both ways ‘tis a most foolish fallacy! Nevertheless, continue thy entertaining discourse, Sir Graybeard! … and if thou must needs address thyself to any one soul in particular, why let it be me,—for though, thanks to mine own excellent good sense, I have no faith in angels nor crosses, nor everlasting life, nor any of the strange riddles wherewith thou seekest to perplex and bewilder the brains of the ignorant, still am I Laureate of the realm, and ready to hold argument with thee,—yea!—until such time as these dumfounded soldiers and citizens of Al-Kyris shall remember their duty sufficiently to seize and take thee captive in the King’s great name!”

 

As he ceased a deep sigh ran, like the first sound of a rising wind among trees, through the heretofore motionless multitude,—a faint, dawning, yet doubtful smile reflected itself on their faces,—and the old familiar shout broke feebly from their lips: “Hail, Sahluma! Let us hear Sahluma!”

 

Sahluma looked down upon them all in airy derision.

 

“O fickle, terror-stricken fools!” he exclaimed—“O thankless and disloyal people! What!—ye WILL see me now? … ye WILL hear me?

… Aye! but who shall answer for your obedience to my words! Nay, is it possible that I, your country’s chosen Chief Minstrel, should have stood so long among ye disregarded! How comes it your dull eyes and ears were fixed so fast upon yon dotard miscreant whose days are numbered? Methought t’was but Sahluma’s voice that could persuade ye to assemble thus in such locust-like swarms..

since when have the Poet and the People of Al-Kyris ceased to be as one?”

 

A vague, muttering sound answered him, whether of shame or dissatisfaction it was difficult to tell. Khosrul’s vibrating accent struck sharply across that muffled murmur.

 

“The Poet and the People of Al-Kyris are further asunder than light and darkness!” he cried vehemently—“For the Poet has been false to his high vocation, and the People trust in him no more!”

 

There was an instant’s hush, … a hush as it seemed of grieved acquiescence on the part of the populace,—and during that brief pause Theos’s heart gave a fierce bound against his ribs as though some one had suddenly shot at him with a poisoned arrow. He glanced quickly at Sahluma,—but Sahluma stood calmly unmoved, his handsome head thrown back, a cynical smile on his lips and his eyes darker than ever with an intensity of unutterable scorn.

 

“Sahluma! … Sahluma!” and the piercing, reproachful voice of the Prophet penetrated every part of the spacious square like a sonorous bell ringing over a still landscape: “O divine Spirit of Song pent up in gross clay, was ever mortal more gifted than thou!

In thee was kindled the white fire of Heaven,—to thee were confided the memories of vanished worlds, . . for thee God bade His Nature wear a thousand shapes of varied meaning,—the sun, the moon, the stars were appointed as thy servants,—for thou wert born POET, the mystically chosen Teacher and Consoler of Mankind!

What hast thou done, Sahluma, . . what hast thou done with the treasures bestowed upon thee by the all-endowing Angels? … How hast thou used the talisman of thy genius? To comfort the afflicted? … to dethrone and destroy the oppressor? … to uphold the cause of Justice? … to rouse the noblest instincts of thy race? … to elevate and purify the world? … Alas, alas!—

thou hast made Thyself the idol of thy muse, and thou being but perishable, thy fame shall perish with thee! Thou hast drowsed away thy manhood in the lap of vice, . . thou hast slept and dreamed when thou should have been awake and vigilant! Not I, but THOU

shouldst have warned the people of their coming doom! … not I, but THOU shouldst have marked the threatening signs of the pregnant hour,—not I, but THOU shouldst have perceived the first faint glimmer of God’s future scheme of glad salvation,—not I, but THOU shouldst have taught and pleaded, and swayed by thy matchless sceptre of sweet song, the passions of thy countrymen!

Hadst thou been true to that first flame of Thought within thee, O

Sahluma, how thy glory would have dwarfed the power of kings!

Empires might have fallen, cities decayed, and nations been absorbed in ruin,—and yet thy clear-convincing voice, rendered imperishable by its faithfulness should have sounded forth in triumph above the foundering wrecks of Time! O Poet unworthy of thy calling! … How thou hast wantoned with the sacred Muse! …

how thou hast led her stainless feet into the mire of sensual hypocrisies, and decked her with the trumpery gew-gaws of a meaningless fair speech!—How thou hast caught her by the virginal hair and made her chastity the screen for all thine own licentiousness! … Thou shouldst have humbly sought her benediction,—thou shouldst have handled her with gentle reverence and patient ardor,—from her wise lips thou shouldst have learned how best to PRACTICE those virtues whose praise thou didst evasively proclaim, … thou shouldst have shrined her, throned her, worshiped her, and served her, . . yea! … even as a sinful man may serve an Angel who loves him!”

 

Ah, what a strange, cold thrill ran through Theos as he heard these last words! ‘As a sinful man may serve an Angel who loves him!’ How happy the man thus loved! … how fortunate the sinner thus permitted to serve! … WHO WAS HE? … Could there be any one so marvellously privileged? He wondered dimly,—and a dull, aching pain throbbed heavily in his brows. It was a very singular thing too, that he should find himself strongly and personally affected by Khosrul’s address to Sahluma, yet such was the case, … so much so, indeed, that he accepted all the Prophet’s reproaches as though they applied solely TO HIS OWN PAST LIFE! He could not understand his emotion, … nevertheless he kept on dreamily regretting that things WERE as Khosrul had said, … that he had NOT fulfilled his vocation,—and that he had neither been humble enough nor devout enough nor unselfish enough to deserve the high and imperial name of POET.

 

Round and round like a flying mote this troublesome idea circled in his brain, … he must do better in future, he resolved, supposing that any future remained to Him in which to work, . . HE

MUST REDEEM THE PAST! … Here he roused his mental faculties with a start and forced himself to realize that it was SAH-LUMA to whom the Prophet spoke, . . Sahluma, ONLY Sahluma,—not himself!

 

Then straightway he became indignant on his friend’s behalf,—why should Sahluma be blamed? … Sahluma was a glorious poet!—a master-singer of singers! … his fume must and should endure forever! … Thus thinking, he regained his composure by degrees, and strove to assume the same air of easy indifference as that exhibited by his companion, when again Khosrul’s declamatory tones thundered forth with an absoluteness of emphasis that was both startling and convincing:

 

“Hear me, Sahluma, Chief Minstrel of Al-Kyris!—hear me, thou who hast willfully wasted the golden moments of never-returning time!

THOU ART MARKED OUT FOR DEATH!—death sudden and fierce as the leap of the desert panther on its prey! … death that shall come to thee through the traitorous speech of the evil woman whose beauty has sapped thy strength and rendered thy glory inglorious!…

death that for thee, alas! shall be mournful and utter oblivion!

Naught shall it avail to thee that thy musical weaving of words hath been graven seven times over, on tablets of stone and agate and ivory, of gold and white silex and porphyry, and the unbreakable rose-adamant,—none of these shall suffice to keep thy name in remembrance,—for what cannot be broken shall be melted with flame, and what cannot be erased shall be buried miles deep in the bosom of earth, whence it never again shall be lifted into the light of day! Aye! thou shalt be FORGOTTEN!—forgotten as though thou hadst never sung,—other poets shall chant in the world, yet maybe none so well as thou!—other laurel and myrtle wreaths shall be given by countries and kings to bards unworthy, of whom none perchance shall have thy sweetness! … but thou,—

thou the most