Books: Ardath

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CHAPTER XXIII.

"NOURHALMA."

His first emotion on making this new mental rediscovery was, as it
had been before in the King's audience-hall, one of absolute
TERROR, ... feverish, mad terror which for a few moments possessed
him so utterly that, turning away, he buried his aching head among
the cushion where he reclined, in order to hide from his
companion's eyes any outward sign that might betray his desperate
misery. Clenching his hands convulsively, he silently, and with
all his strength, combated the awful horror of himself that grew
up spectrally within him,--the dreadful, distracting uncertainty
of his own identity that again confused his brain and paralyzed
his reason.

At last, he thought wildly, at last he knew the meaning of Hell!
... the frightful spiritual torment of a baffled intelligence set
adrift among the wrecks and shadows of things that had formerly
been its pride and glory! What was any physical suffering compared
to such a frenzy of mind-agony? Nothing! ... less than nothing!
This was the everlasting thirst and fire spoken of so vaguely by
prophets and preachers,--the thirst and fire of the Soul's
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 Sah-luma'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 Sah-luma'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,--Sah-luma 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 noon-
day 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, Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma'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 Sah-luma and Theos,--a
glance which Theos saw and in his heart resented, but which Sah-
luma, 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 Sah-luma, 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 Sah-luma, 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma,
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, Sah-luma!" 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,--Sah-luma, the fortunate Sah-luma, 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 Sah-luma'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 line of his, . . no,
not his, but Sah-luma'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 Sah-luma, 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 Sah-luma'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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma!--marvellous Sah-luma! twaddler Sah-luma!
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, Sah-luma 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, Sah-luma, 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, Sah-luma!
... 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
Sah-luma'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 Sah-luma--"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 life-time
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, Sah-luma!" he said suddenly--
"Methinks I could listen to thee all day and never tire!"

"I' faith, so could not I!" interposed Zabastes grimly. "For when
a bard begins to gabble goose-like platitudes which merely concern
his own vocation, the gods only know when he can be persuaded to
stop! Nay, 'tis more irksome far than the recitation of his
professional jingle--for to that there must in time come a
merciful fitting end, but, as I live, if 'twas my custom to say
prayers, I would pray to be delivered from the accursed volubility
of a versifier's tongue! And perchance it will not be considered
out of my line of duty if I venture to remind my most illustrious
and renowned MASTER--" this with a withering sneer,--"that if he
has any more remarkable nothings to dictate concerning this
particularly inane creation of his fancy 'Nourhalma,' 'twill be
well that we should proceed therewith, for the hours wax late and
the sun veereth toward his House of Noon."