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

unquenchable longing to unravel the dismal tangle of its own bygone deeds, . . the striving forever in vain to steadfastly establish the wavering mystery of its own existence!

 

“O God! … God!—what hast Thou made of me!” he groaned inwardly, as he endeavored to calm the tempest of his unutterable despair,—

“Who am I? … Who WAS I in that far Past which, like the pale spirit of a murdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so threateningly! Surely the gift of Poesy was mine! … surely I too could weave the harmony of words and thoughts into a sweet and fitting music, . . how comes it then that all Sahluma’s work is but the reflex of my own? O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma! …

when shall it be unraveled? ‘Nourhalma!’ ‘Twas the name of what I deemed my masterpiece! … O silly masterpiece, if it prove thus easy of imitation! … Yet stay.. let me be patient! … titles are often copied unconsciously by different authors in different lands, . . and it may chance that Sahluma’s poem is after all his own,—not mine. Not mine, as were the ballads and the love-ode he chanted to the King last night! … O Destiny! … inscrutable, pitiless Destiny! … rescue my tortured soul from chaos! …

declare unto me who,—WHO is the plagiarist and thief of Song..

MYSELF or SAH-LUMA?”

 

The more he perplexed his mind with such questions, the deeper grew the darkness of the inexplicable dilemma, to which a fresh obscurity was now added in his suddenly distinct and distressful remembrance of the “Pass of Dariel.” Where was this place, he wondered wearily?—When had he seen it? whom had he met there?—

and how had he come to Al-Kyris from thence? No answer could his vexed brain shape to these demands, . . he recollected the “Pass of Dariel” just as he recollected the “Field of Ardath”—without the least idea as to what connection existed between them and his own personal adventures. Presently controlling himself, he raised his head and ventured to look up,—Sahluma stood beside him, his fine face expressive of an amiable solicitude.

 

“Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou didst thus bury thine eyes in thy pillow?” he inquired … “Pardon my discourteous lack of consideration for thy comfort! … I love the sun myself so well that methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noonday and yet take pleasure in the warmth of such a golden smile!

But thou perchance art unaccustomed to the light of Eastern lands,—wherefore thy brows must not be permitted to ache on, uncared for. See!—I have lowered the awnings, . . they give a pleasant shade,—and in very truth, the heat to-day is greater far than ordinary; one would think the gods had kindled some new fire in heaven!”

 

And as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and waved it to and fro with an exquisitely graceful movement of wrist and arm, while Theos gazing at him in mute admiration, forgot his own griefs for the time in the subtle, strange, and absorbing spell exercised upon him by his host’s irresistible influence. Just then, too, Sahluma appeared handsomer than ever in the half-subdued tints of radiance that flickered through the lowered pale-blue silken awnings: the effect of the room thus shadowed was as of a soft azure mountain mist lit sideways by the sun,—a mist through which the white-garmented, symmetrical figure of the Laureate stood forth in curiously brilliant outlines, as though every curve of supple shoulder and proud throat was traced with a pencil of pure light. Scarcely a breath of air made its way through the wide-open casements—the gentle dashing noise of the fountains in the court alone disturbed the deep, warm stillness of the morning, or the occasional sweeping rustle of peacocks’ plumes as these stately birds strutted majestically up and down, up and down, on the marble terrace outside.

 

Soothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, the delirium of Theos’s bewildering affliction gradually abated,—his tempest-tossed mind regained to a certain extent its equilibrium,—and falling into easy converse with his fascinating companion, he was soon himself again,—that is, as much himself as his peculiar condition permitted him to be. Yet he was not altogether free from a certain eager and decidedly painful suspense with regard to the “Nourhalma” problem,—and he was conscious of what he in his own opinion considered an absurd and unnecessary degree of excitement, when the door of the apartment presently opened to admit Zabastes, who entered, carrying several sheets of papyrus and other material for writing.

 

The old Critic’s countenance was expressively glum and ironical,—

he, however, was compelled, like all the other paid servants of the household, to make a low and respectful obeisance as soon as he found himself in Sahluma’s presence,—an act of homage which, he performed awkwardly, and with evident ill-will. His master nodded condescendingly in response to his reluctant salute, and signed to him to take his place at a richly carved writing-table adorned with the climbing figures of winged cupids exquisitely wrought in ivory. He obeyed, shuffling thither uneasily, and sniffing the rose-fragrant air as he went like an ill-conditioned cur scenting a foe,—and seating himself in a high-backed chair, he arranged his garments fussily about him, rolled up his long embroidered sleeves to the elbow, and spread his writing implements all over the desk in front of him with much mock-solemn ostentation. Then, rubbing his lean hands together, he gave a stealthy glance of covert derision round at Sahluma and Theos,—a glance which Theos saw and in his heart resented, but which Sahluma, absorbed in his own reflections, apparently failed to notice.

 

“All is in readiness, my lord!” he announced in his disagreeable croaking tones,—“Here are the clean and harmless slips of river-reed waiting to be soiled and spotted with my lord’s indelible thoughts,—here also are the innocent quills of the white heron, as yet unstained by colored writing-fluid whether black, red, gold, silver, or purple! Mark you, most illustrious bard, the touching helplessness and purity of these meek servants of a scribbler’s fancy! … Blank papyrus and empty quills! Bethink you seriously whether it were not better to leave them thus unblemished, the simple products of unfaulty Nature, than use them to indite the wondrous things of my lord’s imagination, whereof, all wondrous though they seem, no man shall ever be the wiser!”

 

And he chuckled, stroking his stubbly gray beard the while with a blandly suggestive, yet malign look directed at Sahluma, who met it with a slight, cold smile of faintly amused contempt.

 

“Peace, fool!” he said,—“That barbarous tongue of thine is like the imperfect clapper of a broken bell that strikes forth harsh and undesired sounds suggesting nothing! Thy present duty is to hear, and not to speak,—therefore listen discerningly and write with exactitude, so shall thy poor blank scrolls of reed grow rich with gems, . . gems of high poesy that the whole world shall hoard and cherish miser-like when the poet who created their bright splendor is no more!”

 

He sighed—a short, troubled sigh,—and stood for a moment silent in an attitude of pensive thought. Theos watched him yearningly,—

waiting in almost breathless suspense till he should dictate aloud the first line of his poem. Zabastes meanwhile settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and taking up one of the long quills with which he was provided, dipped it in a reddish-purple liquid which at once stained its point to a deep roseate hue, so that when the light flickered upon it from time to time, it appeared as though it were tipped with fire. How intense the heat was, thought Theos!—as with one hand he pushed his clustering hair from his brow, not without noticing that his action was imitated almost at once by Sahluma, who also seemed to feel the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. And what a blaze of blue pervaded the room! … delicate ethereal blue as of shimmering lakes and summer skies melted together into one luminous radiance, … radiance that, while filmy, was yet perfectly transparent, and in which the Laureate’s classic form appeared to be gloriously enveloped like that of some new descended god!

 

Theos rubbed his eyes to cure them of their dazzled ache, . . what a marvellous scene it was to look upon, he mused! … would he,—

could he ever forget it? Ah no!—never, never! not till his dying day would he be able to obliterate it from his memory,—and who could tell whether even after death he might not still recall it!

Just then Sahluma raised his hand by way of signal to Zabastes, . .

his face became earnest, pathetic, even grand in the fervent concentration of his thoughts, … he was about to begin his dictation, … now … now! … and Theos leaned forward nervously, his heart beating with apprehensive expectation …

Hush! … the delicious, suave melody of his friend’s voice penetrated the silence like the sweet harmonic of a harp-string..

 

“Write—” said he slowly.. “write first the title of my poem thus: ‘Nourhalma: A Love-Legend of the Past.’”

 

There was a pause, during which the pen of Zabastes traveled quickly over the papyrus for a moment, then stopped. Theos, almost suffocated with anxiety, could hardly maintain even the appearance of calmness,—the title proclaimed, with its second appendage, was precisely the same as that of his own work—but this did not now affect him so much. What he waited for with such painfully strained attention was the first line of the poem. If it was his line he knew it already!—it ran thus:

 

“A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!—”

 

Scarcely had he repeated this to himself inwardly, than Sahluma, with majestic grace and sweetness of utterance, dictated aloud: “A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!”

 

“Ah GOD!”

 

The sharp cry, half fierce, half despairing, broke from Theos’s quivering lips in spite of all the efforts he made to control his agitation, and the Laureate turned toward him with a surprised and somewhat irritated movement that plainly evinced annoyance at the interruption.

 

“Pardon, Sahluma!” he murmured hastily. “‘Twas a slight pang at the heart troubled me,—a mere nothing!—I take shame to myself to have cried out for such a pin’s prick! Speak on!—thy first line is as soft as honey dew,—as suggestive as the light of dawn on sleeping flowers!”

 

And, leaning dizzily back on his couch, he closed his eyes to shut in the hot and bitter tears that welled up rebelliously and threatened to fall, notwithstanding his endeavor to restrain them.

His head throbbed and burned as though a chaplet of fiery thorns encircled it, instead of the once desired crown of Fame he had so fondly dreamed of winning!

 

Fame? … Alas! that bright, delusive vision had fled forever,—

there were no glory-laurels left growing for him in the fields of poetic art and aspiration,—Sahluma, the fortunate Sahluma, had gathered and possessed them all! Taking everything into serious consideration, he came at last to the deeply mortifying conclusion that it must be himself who was the plagiarist,—the unconscious imitator of Sahluma’s ideas and methods, . . and the worst of it was that his imitation was so terribly EXACT!

 

Oh, how heartily he despised himself for his poor and pitiful lack of originality! Down to the very depths of humiliation he sternly abased his complaining, struggling, wounded, and sorely resentful spirit, . . he then and there became the merciless executioner of his own claims to literary honor,—and deliberately crushing all his past ambition, mutinous discontent and uncompliant desires with a strong master-hand he lay quiet…as patiently unmoved as is a dead man to the wrongs inflicted on his memory…and forced himself to listen resignedly to every glowing