Ardath by Marie Corelli (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕

in a vast auditorium where the curtain had just risen on the first scene of the play He was dubiously considering in his own perplexed mind, whether such princely living were the privilege, or right, or custom of poets in general, when Sahluma spoke again, waving his hand toward one of the busts near him—a massive, frowning head, magnificently sculptured.

 

“There is the glorious Orazel!” he said—“The father, as we all must own, of the Art of Poesy, and indeed of all true literature!

Yet there be some who swear he never lived at all—aye! though his poems have come down to us,—and many are the arguments I have had with so-called wise men like Zabastes, concerning his style and method of versification. Everything he has written bears the impress of the same master-touch,—nevertheless garrulous controversialists hold that his famous work the ‘Ruva-Kalama’

descended by oral tradition from mouth to mouth till it came to us in its ‘improved’ present condition. ‘Improved!’” and Sahluma laughed disdainfully,—“As if the mumbling of an epic poem from grandsire to grandson could possibly improve it! … it would rather be deteriorated, if not altogether changed into the merest doggerel! Nay, nay!—the ‘Ruva-Kalama,’ is the achievement of one great mind,—not twenty Oruzels were born in succession to write it,—there was, there could be only one, and he, by right supreme, is chief of the Bards Immortal! As well might fools hereafter wrangle together and say there were many Sahlumas! … only I have taken good heed posterity shall know there was only ONE,—

unmatched for love-impassioned singing throughout the length and breadth of the world!”

 

He sprang up from his recumbent posture and attracted Theos’s attention to another bust even finer than the last,—it was placed on a pedestal wreathed at the summit and at the base with laurel.

 

“The divine Hyspiros!” he exclaimed pointing to it in a sort of ecstasy—“The Master from whom it may be I have caught the perfect entrancement of my own verse-melody! His fame, as thou knowest, is unrivalled and universal—yet—canst thou believe it! … there has been of late an ass found in Al-Kyris who hath chosen him as a subject for his braying—and other asses join in the uneuphonius chorus. The marvellous Plays of Hyspiros! … the grandest tragedies, the airiest comedies, the tenderest fantasies, ever created by human brain, have been called in question by these thistle-eating animals!—and one most untractable mule-head hath made pretence to discover therein a passage of secret writing which shall, so the fool thinks, prove that Hyspiros was not the author of his own works, but only a literary cheat, and forger of another and lesser man’s inspiration! By the gods!—one’s sides would split with laughter at the silly brute, were he not altogether too contemptible to provoke even derision! Hyspiros a traitor to the art he served and glorified? … Hyspiros a literary juggler and trickster? … By the Serpent’s Head! they may as well seek to prove the fiery Sun in Heaven a common oil-lamp, as strive to lessen by one iota the transcendent glory of the noblest poet the centuries have ever seen!”

 

Warmed by enthusiasm, with his eyes flashing and the impetuous words coursing from his lips, his head thrown back, his hand uplifted, Sahluma looked magnificent,—and Theos, to whose misty brain the names of Oruzel and Hyspiros carried no positively distinct meaning, was nevertheless struck by a certain suggestiveness in his remarks that seemed to bear on some discussion in the literary world that had taken place quite recently. He was puzzled and tried to fix the precise point round which his thoughts strayed so hesitatingly, but he could arrive at no definite conclusion. The brilliant, meteor-like Sahluma meantime flashed hither and thither about the room, selecting certain volumes from his loaded book-stands, and bringing them in a pile, he set them on a small table by his visitor’s side.

 

“These are some of the earliest editions of the plays of Hyspiros”—he went on, talking in that rapid, fluent way of his that was as musical as a bird’s song—“They are rare and curious.

See you!—the names of the scribes and the dates of issue are all distinct. Ah!—the treasures of poetry enshrined within these pages! … was ever papyrus so gemmed with pearls of thought and wisdom?—If there were a next world, my friend,”—and here he placed his hand familiarly on his guest’s shoulder, while the bright, steel-gray undergleam sparkled in his splendid eyes—

“‘twould be worth dwelling in for the sake of Hyspiros,—as grand a god as any of the Thunderers in the empyrean!”

 

“Surely there is a next world”—murmured Theos, scarcely knowing what he said—“A world where thou and I, Sahluma, and all the masters and servants of song shall meet and hold high festival!”

 

Sahluma laughed again, a little sadly this time, and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Believe it not!” he said, and there was a touch of melancholy in his rich voice—“We are midges in a sunbeam,—emmets on a sand-hill…no more! Is there a next world, thinkest thou, for the bees who die of surfeit in the nilica-cups?—for the whirling drift of brilliant butterflies that sleepily float with the wind unknowing whither, till met by the icy blast of the north, they fall like broken and colorless leaves in the dust of the high-road? Is there a next world for this?”—and he took from a tall vase near at hand a delicate flower, lily-shaped and deliciously odorous, . . “The expression of its soul or mind is in its fragrance,—even as the expression of ours finds vent in thought and aspiration,—have we more right to live again than this most innocently fair blossom, unsmirched by deeds of evil? Nay!—I would more easily believe in a heaven for birds and flowers, than for women and men!”

 

A shadow of pain darkened his handsome face as he spoke, . . and Theos, gazing full at him, became suddenly filled with pity and anxiety,—he passionately longed to assure him that there was in very truth a future higher and happier existence,—he, Theos, would vouch for the fact! But how? … and why? … What could he say? … what could he prove? …

 

His throat ached,—his eyeballs burned, he was, as it were, forbidden to speak, notwithstanding the yearning desire he felt to impart to the soul of his new-found friend something of that indescribable sense of EVERLASTINGNESS which he himself was now conscious of, even as one set free of prison is conscious of liberty. Mute, and with a feeling as of hot, unshed tears welling up from his very heart, he turned over the volumes of Hyspiros almost mechanically,—they were formed of sheets of papyrus artistically bound in loose leather coverings and tied together with gold-colored ribbon.

 

The Kyrisian language was, as has been before stated, perfectly familiar to him, though he could not tell how he had acquired the knowledge of it,—and he was able to see at a glance that Sahluma had good cause to be enthusiastic in his praise of the author whose genius he so fervently admired. There was a ringing richness in the rush of the verse,—a wealth of simile combined with a simplicity and directness of utterance that charmed the ear while influencing the mind, and he was beginning to read in sotto-voce the opening lines of a spirited battle-challenge running thus: “I tell thee, O thou pride enthroned King That from these peaceful fields, these harvest lands, Strange crops shall spring, not sown by thee or thine!

Arm’d millions, bristling weapons, helmed men Dreadfully plum’d and eager for the fray, Steel crested myrmidons, toss’d spears, wild steeds, Uplifted flags and pennons, horrid swords, Death gleaming eyes, stern hands to grasp and tear Life from beseeching life, till all the heavens Strike havoc to the terror-trembling stars”…

 

when the two small, black pages lately dispatched in such haste by Sahluma returned, each one bearing a huge gilded bowl filled with rose water, together with fine cloths, lace-fringed, and soft as satin.

 

Kneeling humbly down, one before Theos, the other before Sahluma, they lifted these great, shining bowls on their heads, and remained motionless. Sahluma dipped his face and hands in the cool, fragrant fluid,—Theos followed his example,—and when these light ablutions were completed, the pages disappeared, coming back almost immediately with baskets of loose rose-leaves, white and red, which they scattered profusely about the room. A delightful odor subtly sweet, and yet not faint, began to freshen the already perfumed air,—and Sahluma, flinging himself again on his couch, motioned Theos to take a similar resting-place opposite.

 

He at once obeyed, yielding anew to the sense of indolent luxury and voluptuous ease his surroundings engendered,—and presently the aroma of rising incense mingled itself with the scent of the strewn rose-petals,—the pages had replenished the incense-burner, and now, these duties done so far, they brought each a broad, long stalked palm-leaf, and placing themselves in proper position, began to fan the two young men slowly and with measured gentleness, standing as mute as little black statues, the only movement about them being the occasional rolling of their white eyeballs and the swaying to and fro of their shiny arms as they wielded the graceful, bending leaves.

 

“This is the way a poet should ever live!” murmured Theos, glancing up from the soft cushions among which he reclined, to Sahluma, who lay with his eyes half-closed and a musing smile on his beautiful mouth—“Self centered in a circle of beauty,—with naught but fair suggestions and sweet thoughts to break the charm of solitude. A kingdom of happy fancies should be his, with gates shut last against unwelcome intruders,—gates that should never open save to the conquering touch of woman’s kiss! … for the master-key of love must unlock all doors, even the doors of a minstrel’s dreaming!”

 

“Thinkest thou so?” said Sahluma lazily, turning his dark, delicate head slightly round on his glistening, pale-rose satin pillow—“Nay, of a truth there are times when I could bar out women from my thoughts as mere disturbers of the translucent element of poesy in which my spirit bathes. There is fatigue in love, . . whose pretty human butterflies too oft weary the flower whose honey they seek to drain. Nevertheless the passion of love hath a certain tingling pleasure in it, . . I yield to it when it touches me, even as I yield to all other pleasant things,—but there are some who unwisely carry desire too far, and make of love a misery instead of a pastime. Many will die for love,—fools are they all! To die for fame, . . for glory, . . that I can understand, . .

but for love! …” he laughed, and taking up a crushed rose-petal he flipped it into the air with his finger and thumb—“I would as soon die for sake of that perished leaf as for sake of a woman’s transient beauty!”

 

As he uttered these words Niphrata entered, carrying a golden salver on which were placed a tall flagon, two goblets, and a basket of fruit. She approached Theos first, and he, raising himself on his elbow, surveyed her with fresh admiration and interest while he poured out the wine from the flagon into one of those glistening cups, which he noticed were rough with the quantity of small gems used in their outer ornamentation.

 

He was struck by her fair and melancholy style of loveliness, and as she stood before him with lowered eyes, the color alternately flushing and paling on her cheeks, and her bosom heaving restlessly beneath the loosely drawn folds of her prim rose-hued gown, an inexplicable emotion of pity smote him, as if he had suddenly been made aware of some inward sorrow of hers which he was utterly powerless to console. He would have spoken,