Ardath - Marie Corelli (love story novels in english .txt) 📗

to the silly glibness of such inflated twaddle, such mawkish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such ranting verbosity…”

 

A burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh voice,—

laughter in which no one joined more heartily than Sahluma himself. He had resumed his seat in his ivory chair, and leaning back lazily, he surveyed his Critic with tolerant good-humor and complete amusement, while the King’s stentorian “Ha, ha, ha!”

resounded in ringing peals through the great audience-chamber.

 

“Thou droll knave!” cried Zephoranim at last, dashing away the drops his merriment had brought into his eyes—“Wilt kill me with thy bitter-mouthed jests? … of a truth my sides ache at thee!

What ails thee now? … Come,—we will have patience, if so be our mirth can be restrained,—speak!—what flaw canst thou find in our Sahluma’s pearl of poesy?—what spots on the sun of his divine inspiration? As the Serpent lives, thou art an excellent mountebank and well deservest thy master’s pay!”

 

He laughed again,—but Zabastes seemed in nowise disconcerted. His withered countenance appeared to harden itself into lines of impenetrable obstinacy,—tucking his long staff under his arm he put his fingers together in the manner of one who inwardly counts up certain numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he began: “Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty Zephoranim, I would in the first place say that the poem so greatly admired by your Majesty, is totally devoid of common sense. It is purely a caprice of the imagination,—and what is imagination? A mere aberration of the cerebral nerves,—a morbidity of brain in which the thoughts brood on the impossible, —on things that have never been, and never will be. Thus, Sahluma’s verse resembles the incoherent ravings of a moon-struck madman,—moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of FORCED

SUBLIMITY…” here Theos gave an involuntary start,—then, recollecting where he was, resumed his passive attitude—“which is in every way distasteful to the ears that love plain language. For instance, what warrant is there for this most foolish line: “‘The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.’

 

‘Tis vile, ‘tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars or any other stars chant? … who can prove that the heavenly bodies are given to the study of music? Hath Sahluma been present at their singing lesson?” Here the old critic chuckled, and warming with his subject, advanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on: “Hear yet another jarring simile:

 

“‘The wild winds moan for pity of the world.’

 

Was ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!—for the tales of shipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of winds,—and however much a verse-weaver may pretend to be in the confidence of Nature, he is after all but the dupe of his own frenetic dreams.

One couplet hath most discordantly annoyed my senses—‘tis the veriest doggerel:

 

“‘The sun with amorous clutch

Tears off the emerald girdle of the rose!’

 

O monstrous piece of extravagance!—for how can the Sun (his Deity set apart) ‘clutch’ without hands?—and as for ‘the emerald girdle of the rose’—I know not what it means, unless Sahluma considers the green calyx of the flower a ‘girdle,’ in which case his wits must be far gone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry in the common natural protection of a bud before it blooms! There was a phrase too concerning nightingales,—and the gods know we have heard enough and too much of those over-praised birds! …”

Here he was interrupted by one of his frequent attacks of coughing, and again the laughter of the whole court broke forth in joyous echoes.

 

“Laugh—laugh!” said Zabastes, recovering himself and eying the throng with a derisive smile—“Laugh, ye witless bantlings born of folly!—and cling as you will to the unsubstantial dreams your Laureate blows for you in the air like a child playing with soap-bubbles! Empty and perishable are they all,—they shine for a moment, then break and vanish,—and the colors wherewith they sparkled, colors deemed immortal in their beauty, shall pass away like a breath and be renewed no more!”

 

“Not so!” interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sahluma’s defence-“for the colors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in the soap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-equal with the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art and Poesy is but the constant reflex of these never-dying tints and sounds. Can a Critic enter more closely into the secrets of Nature than a Poet? … nay!—for he would undo all creation were he able, and find fault with its fairest productions! The critical mind dwells too persistently on the mere surface of things, ever to comprehend or probe the central deeps and well-springs of thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and passion? … Will he make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or stir our blood into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals of a lily and name its different sections, its way of growth and habitude,—

but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a perfect flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions? No!—

but Sahluma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,—not one world but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of his rhythmic splendor,—not one joy but a thousand joys, all quivering song-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined inspiration. The heart,—the human heart alone is the final touchstone of a poet’s genius,—and when that responds, who shall deny his deathless fame!”

 

Loud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward, clapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder: “Bravely spoken, sir stranger!” he exclaimed—“Thou hast well vindicated thy friend’s honor! And by my soul!—thou hast a musical tongue of thine own!—who knows but that thou also may be a poet yet in time to come!—And thou, Zabastes—” here he turned upon the old Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with much cynical disdain—“get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at fault, as usual! Thou art thyself a disappointed author—hence thy spleen! Thou art blind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,—for thee the very sun is a blot rather than a brightness,—thou couldst, in thine own opinion, have created a fairer luminary doubtless had the matter been left to thee! Aye, aye!—we know thee for a beauty hating fool,—and though we laugh at thee, we find thee wearisome!

Stand thou aside and be straightway forgotten!—we will entreat Sahluma for another song.”

 

The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an undertone,—and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now rested on Theos, his self constituted advocate, with an appreciative and almost tender regard, once more took up his harp, and striking a few rich, soft chords was about to sing again, when a great noise as of clanking armor was heard outside, mingled with a steadily increasing, sonorous hum of many voices and the increased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The doors were flung open,—the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and excitement, and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed: “O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul is taken!”

 

Zephoranim’s black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set his lips hard.

 

“So! For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!” he said half-scornfully—“Bring hither the captive,—an he chafes at his bonds we will ourselves release him…” and he touched his sword significantly—“to a wider freedom than is found on earth!”

 

A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the women shuddered and grew pale. Sahluma, irritated at the sudden interruption that had thus distracted the general attention from his own fair and flattered self, gave an expressively petulant glance toward Theos, who smiled back at him soothingly as one who seeks to coax a spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all eyes were turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience-chamber.

 

A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne—arrived at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man, with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous shadow of his bent and shelving brows,—a man whose aspect was so grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches. This was Khosrul,—the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the world,—the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,—the dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!

 

Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,—at his long, untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered, matted locks below his shoulders,—at his majestic form which in spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally grand and awe-inspiring about him, … something commanding as well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he confronted the King,—and for a moment or so a deep silence reigned,—silence apparently born of superstitious dread inspired by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim’s glance rested upon him with cold and supercilious indifference,—seated haughtily upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with the unquiet panting of his quickened breath.

 

“We give thee greeting, Khosrul!” he said slowly and with a sinister smile—“The Lion’s paw has struck thee down at last! Too long hast thou trifled with our patience,—thou must abjure thy heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom,—of judgment,—of the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? … wilt denounce the Faith?

… Wilt mislead the people? … Wilt curse the King? … Thou mad sorcerer!—devil bewitched and blasphemous! … What shall hinder me from at once slaying thee?” And he half drew his formidable sword from its sheath.

 

Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.

 

“Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim,” he replied, and his voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos’s heart with a strange, foreboding chill—“Nothing—save thine own scorn of cowardice!”

 

The monarch’s hand fell from his sword-hilt,—a flush of shame reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the captive—and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the old man’s bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compassion, for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with a gesture of authority …

 

“Unloose his fetters!” he commanded.

 

The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard aright.

 

Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.

 

“Unloose him, I say! … By the gods! must I repeat the same thing twice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their sovereign? … And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many and tight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron,—methinks ye might have tied him with thread and met with small resistance!

I have known many a muscular deserter from the army fastened less securely when captured!