Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

“The Phallus! The Phallus! The Phallus!” the maddened priests were crying in an ecstasy. “Where is thy Phallus, O radiant god? Come, fecundate the goddess! Her bosom languishes with desire! Her womb is like a desert in the sultry months of summer!”

And now a fearful, insane, piercing scream for an instant drowned all sound of the chorus. The priests quickly parted, and all those in the temple beheld the anchorite of Lebanon, utterly nude, horrible with his tall, gaunt, yellow body. The high priest held out the knife to him. The temple grew unbearably still. And he, quickly stooping, made some motion, straightened up, and with a wail of pain and rapture suddenly cast at the feet of the goddess a formless, bloody piece of flesh.

He was tottering. The high priest carefully supported him, putting his arm around his back; led him up to the image of Isis, painstakingly covered him with the black pall, and left him thus for a few moments, in order that in secret, unseen of the others, he might imprint his kiss upon the lips of the impregnated goddess.

Immediately thereafter he was laid upon a stretcher and borne from the altar. The priest who kept the gates went outside the temple. He struck an enormous copper disc with a wooden mallet, proclaiming to all the universe that the great mystery of the fecundation of the goddess had been consummated. And the high, singing sound of the copper floated away over Jerusalem.⁠ ⁠…

Queen Astis, her body still quivering without cease, threw back Eliab’s head. Her eyes were aflame with an intense, red fire. And she spake slowly, word by word:

“Eliab, wouldst have me make thee king over Judaea and Israel? Wouldst thou be sovereign over all Syria and Mesopotamia, over Phoenicia and Babylon?”

“Nay, queen, I desire thee alone.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yea, thou shalt be my lord. All my nights shall belong to thee. My every word, my every glance, my every breath shall be thine. Thou knowest the shibboleth. Thou shalt go this day into the palace and slay them. Thou shalt slay them both! Thou shalt slay them both!”

Eliab was fain to speak. But the queen drew him to her, and her burning lips and tongue clung to his mouth. This lasted excruciatingly long. Then, suddenly tearing the youth away from her, she said curtly and imperiously:

“Go!”

“I go,” answered Eliab, submissively.

And it was the seventh night of Solomon’s great love.

Strangely quiet and deeply tender were the caresses of the king and Sulamith on this night. Some pensive melancholy, some cautious timidity, some distant premonition, seemed to have cast a slight shadow over their words, their kisses and embraces.

Gazing through the window at the sky, where night was already vanquishing the sinking flame of the evening, Sulamith let her eyes rest upon a bright, bluish star that trembled meekly and tenderly.

“What is that star called, my beloved?” she asked.

“That is the star Sopdit,” answered the king. “It is a sacred star. Assyrian magi tell us that the souls of all men dwell upon it after the death of the body.”

“Dost thou believe it, my king?”

Solomon made no reply. His right hand was under Sulamith’s head, and his left did embrace her; and she felt his aromatic breath upon her⁠—upon her hair, upon her temple.

“Mayhap we shall see each other there, my king, after we have died?” asked Sulamith uneasily.

The king again kept silence.

“Give me some answer, beloved,” timidly implored Sulamith.

Whereupon the king said:

“Brief is the life of man, but time is without end, and matter hath no death. Man dieth and maketh the earth fertile with the corruption of his body; the earth nourisheth the blade; the blade bringeth forth grain; man consumeth bread, and feedeth his body therewith. Multitudes, and multitudes upon multitudes, of ages shall pass; all things in the universe repeat themselves⁠—men, beasts, stones, plants⁠—all repeat themselves. In the multiform vortex of time and matter we, too, are repeated, my beloved. It is just as true as that, if thou and I were to fill a large bag up to the top with sea gravel, and were to cast therein but one precious sapphire⁠—though we were to take pebbles out of the bag many, many times, we still would, sooner or later, draw out the precious stone as well. Thou and I will meet, Sulamith, nor shall we know each other; but our hearts, with rapture and yearning, will strive to meet, for thou and I have already met⁠—my meek, my fair Sulamith⁠—though we remember it not.”

“Nay, my king, nay! I remember. When thou didst stand beneath the window and didst call to me: ‘My fair, come out, for my locks are filled with the drops of the night!’ I knew thee, I remembered thee; and fear and joy possessed my heart. Tell me, my king⁠—tell me, Solomon: if I were, say, to die on the morrow, wouldst thou recall thy swarthy maiden of the vineyard, thy Sulamith?”

And the king, pressing her to his breast, whispered in emotion:

“Never speak thus.⁠ ⁠… Speak not thus, O Sulamith! Thou art chosen of God, thou art the veritable one, thou art the queen of my soul.⁠ ⁠… Death shall not touch thee.⁠ ⁠…”

The strident sound of brass suddenly soared over Jerusalem. For long it trembled mournfully and wavered in the air, and when it had grown silent its quavering echoes still floated on for a long while.

“This marks the ending of the mystery in the temple of Isis,” said the king.

“I am afraid, my comely one,” whispered Sulamith. “A dark terror has penetrated into my soul.⁠ ⁠… I do not want to die.⁠ ⁠… I have not yet had time to enjoy my fill of thy embraces.⁠ ⁠… Embrace me.⁠ ⁠… Press me closer to thee.⁠ ⁠… Set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon thy arm!⁠ ⁠…”

“Fear not death, Sulamith! For love is strong as death.⁠ ⁠… Drive sad thoughts from thee.⁠ ⁠… Wouldst have me tell thee of the wars of David,