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

line of his, . . no, not his, but Sahluma’s poem, . . the lovely, gracious, delicate, entrancing poem he remembered so well! And by and by, as each mellifluous stanza sounded softly on his ears, a strangely solemn tranquillity swept over him,—a most soothing halcyon calm, as though some passing angel’s hand had touched his brow in benediction.

 

He looked at Sahluma, not enviously now but all admiringly,—it seemed to him that he had never heard a sweeter, tenderer music than the story of “Nourhalma” as recited by his friend. And so to that friend he silently awarded his own wished-for glory, praise, and everlasting fame!—that glory, praise, and fame which had formerly allured his fancy as being the best of all the world could offer, but which he now entirely and willingly relinquished in favor of this more deserving and dear comrade, whose superior genius he submissively acknowledged!

 

There was a great quietness everywhere,—the rising and falling inflections of Sahluma’s soft, rich voice rather, deepened than disturbed the stillness,—the pen of Zabastes glided noiselessly over the slips of papyrus,—and the small sounds of the outer air, such as the monotonous hum of bees among the masses of lily-bloom that towered in white clusters between the festooned awnings, the thirsty twitterimg of birds hiding under the long palm leaves to shelter themselves from the heat, and the incessant splash of the fountains, … all seemed to be, as it were, mere appendages to enhance the breathless hush of nature. Presently Sahluma paused, —and Zabastes, heaving a sigh of relief, looked up from his writing, and laid down his pen.

 

‘The work is finished, most illustrious?” he demanded, a curious smile playing on his thin, satirical lips.

 

“Finished?” echoed Sahluma disdainfully—“Nay,—‘tis but the end of the First Canto”

 

The scribe gave vent to a dismal groan.

 

“Ye gods!” he exclaimed—“Is there more to come of this bombastic ranting and vile torturing of phrases unheard of and altogether unnatural! O Sahluma!—marvellous Sahluma! twaddler Sahluma!

what a brain box is thine! … How full of dislocated word-puzzles and similes gone mad! Now, as I live, expect no mercy from me this time!”.. and he shook his head threateningly,—“For if the public news sheet will serve me as mine anvil, I will so pound thee in pieces with the sledge-hammer of my criticism, that, by the Ship of the Sun! … for once Al-Kyns shall be moved to laughter at thee! Mark me, good tuner-up of tinkling foolishness! … I will so choose out and handle thy feeblest lines that they shall seem but the doggerel of a street ballad monger! I will give so bald an epitome of this sickly love-tale that it shall appeal to all who read my commentary the veriest trash that ever poet penned! …

Moreover, I can most admirably misquote thee, and distort thy meanings with such excellent bitter jesting, that thou thyself shall scarcely recognize thine own production! By Nagaya’s Shrine!

what a feast ‘twill be for my delectation!”—and he rubbed his hands gleefully—“With what a weight of withering analysis I can pulverize this idol of ‘Nourhalma’ into the dust and ashes of a common sense contempt!”

 

While Zabastes thus spoke, Sahluma had helped himself, by way of refreshment, to two ripe figs, in whose luscious crimson pulp his white teeth met, with all the enjoying zest of a child’s healthy appetite. He now held up the rind and stalks of these devoured delicacies, and smiled.

 

‘Thus wilt thou swallow up my poem in thy glib clumsiness, Zabastes!” he said lightly—“And thus wilt them hold up the most tasteless portions of the whole for the judgment of the public!

‘Tis the manner of thy craft,—yet see!”—and with a dexterous movement of his arm he threw the fruit-peel through the window far out into the garden beyond—“There goes thy famous criticism!” and he laughed.. “And those that taste the fruit itself at first hand will not soon forget its flavor! Nevertheless I hope indeed that thou wilt strive to slaughter me with thy blunt paper sword! I do most mirthfully relish the one-sided combat, in which I stand in silence to receive thy blows, myself unhurt and tranquil as a marble god whom ruffians rail upon! Do I not pay thee to abuse me?

… here, thou crusty soul!—drink and be content!”—And with a charming condescension he handed a full goblet of wine to his cantankerous Critic, who accepted it ungraciously, muttering in his beard the necessary words of thanks for his master’s consideration,—then, turning to Theos, the Laureate continued: “And thou, my friend, what dost thou think of ‘Nourhalma’ so far?

Hath it not a certain exquisite smoothness of rhythm like the ripple of a woodland stream clear-winding through the reeds? …

and is there not a tender witchery in the delineation of my maiden-heroine, so warmly fair, so wildly passionate? Methinks she doth resemble some rich flower of our tropic fields, blooming at sunset and dead at moonrise!”

 

Theos waited a moment before replying. Truth to tell, he was inwardly overcome with shame to remember how wantonly he had copied the description of this same Nourhalma! … and plaintively he wondered how he could have unconsciously committed so flagrant a theft! Summoning up all his self-possession, however, he answered bravely.

 

“Thy work, Sahluma, is worthy of thyself! … need I say more?

… Thou hast most aptly proved thy claim upon, the whole world’s gratitude, … such lofty thoughts, . . such noble discourse upon love,—such high philosophy, wherein the deepest, dearest dreams of life are grandly pictured in enduring colors,—these things are gifts to poor humanity whereby it MUST become enriched and proud!

Thy name, bright soul, shall be as a quenchless star on the dark brows of melancholy Time, . . men gazing thereat shall wonder and adore,—and even I, the least among thy friends, may also win from thee a share of glory! For, simply to know thee,—to listen to thy heaven-inspired utterance, might bring the most renownless student some reflex of thine honor! Yes, thou art great, Sahluma!

… great as the greatest of earth’s gifted sons of song!—and with all my heart I offer thee my homage, and pride myself upon the splendor of thy fame!”

 

And as the eager, enthusiastic words came from his lips, he beheld Sahluma’s beautiful countenance brighten more and more, till it appeared mysteriously transfigured into a majestic Angel-face that for one brief moment startled him by the divine tenderness of its compassionate smile! This expression, however, was transitory,—it passed, and the dark eyes of the Laureate gleamed with a merely serene and affectionate complacency as he said: “I thank thee for thy praise, good Theos!—thou art indeed the friendliest of critics! Hadst thou THYSELF been the author of ‘Nourhalma’ thou couldst not have spoken with more ardent feeling!

Were Zabastes like thee, discerningly just and reasonable, he would be all unfit for his vocation,—for ‘tis an odd circumstance that praise in the public news-sheet does a writer more harm than good, while ill-conditioned and malicious abuse doth very materially increase and strengthen his reputation. Yet, after all, there is a certain sense in the argument,—for if much eulogy be penned by the cheap scribes, the reading populace at once imagine these fellows have been bribed to give their over-zealous approval, or that they are close friends and banquet-comrades of the author whom they arduously uphold, . . whereas, on the contrary, if they indulge in bitter invective, flippant gibing, or clumsy satire, like my amiable Zabsastes here…” and he made an airy gesture toward the silent yet evidently chafing Critic, ..”(and, mark you!-HE is not bribed, but merely paid fair wages to fulfil his chosen and professed calling)—why, thereupon the multitude exclaim—‘What! this poet hath such enemies?—nay, then, how great a genius he must be!”—and forthwith they clamor for his work, which, if it speak not for itself, is then and only then to be deemed faulty, and meriting oblivion. ‘Tis the People’s verdict which alone gives fame.”

 

“And yet the people are often ignorant of what is noblest and best in literature!” observed Theos musingly.

 

“Ignorant in some ways, yes!” agreed Sahluma—“But in many others, no! They may be ignorant as to WHY they admire a certain thing, yet they admire it all the same, because their natural instinct leads them so to do. And this is the special gift which endows the uncultured masses with an occasional sweeping advantage over the cultured few,—the superiority of their INSTINCT. As in cases of political revolution for example,—while the finely educated orator is endeavoring by all the force of artful rhetoric to prove that all is in order and as it should be, the mob, moved by one tremendous impulse, discover for themselves that everything is wrong, and moreover that nothing will come right, unless they rise up and take authority, . . accordingly, down go the thrones and the colleges, the palaces, the temples, and the law-assemblies, all like so many toys before the resistless instinct of the people, who revolt at injustice, and who feel and know when they are injured, though they are not clever enough to explain WHERE

their injury lies. And so, as they cannot talk about it coherently, any more than a lion struck by an arrow can give a learned dissertation on his wound, they act, . . and the heat and fury of their action upheaves dynasties! Again,—reverting to the question of taste and literature,—the mob, untaught and untrained in the subtilties of art, will applaud to the echo certain grand and convincing home-truths set forth in the plays of the divine Hyspiros,—simply because they instinctively FEEL them to be truths, no matter how far they themselves may be from acting up to the standard of morality therein contained. The more highly cultured will hear the same passages unmoved, because they, in the excess of artificially gained wisdom, have deadened their instincts so far, that while they listen to a truth pronounced, they already consider how best they can confute it, and prove the same a lie! Honest enthusiasm is impossible to the over-punctilious and pedantic scholar,—but on the other hand, I would have it plainly understood that a mere brief local popularity is not Fame, . . No! for the author who wins the first never secures the last. What I mean is, that a book or poem to be great, and keep its greatness hereafter, must be judged worthy by the natural instinct of PEOPLES. Their decision, I own, may be tardy,—their hesitation may be prolonged through a hundred or more years,—but their acceptance, whether it be declared in the author’s lifetime or ages after his death, must be considered final. I would add, moreover, that this world-wide decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism,—it is the responsive beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,—its great throbs are slow and solemnly measured,—yet if once it answers to a Poet’s touch, that Poet’s name is made glorious forever!”

 

He spoke with a rush of earnestness and eloquence that was both persuasive and powerful, and he now stood silent and absorbed, his dreamy eyes resting meditatively on the massive bust of the immortal personage he called Hyspiros, which smiled out in serene, cold whiteness from the velvet-shadowed shrine it occupied. Theos watched him with fascinated and fraternal fondness, . . did ever man possess so dulcet a voice, he thought? … so grave and rich and marvellously musical, yet thrilling with such heart-moving suggestions of mingled pride and plaintiveness?

 

“Thou art a most alluring orator, Sahluma!” he said suddenly—

“Methinks I could listen to thee all day and never tire!”

 

“I’ faith, so could not I!” interposed Zabastes grimly. “For