Books: Ardath

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"I shall set out for Babylon to-morrow," he said quietly. "As well
go there as anywhere! ... and on the result of my journey I shall
stake my future! In the mean time--" He hesitated, then suddenly
extending his hand with a frank grace that became him well," In
spite of my brusquerie last night, I trust we are friends?"

"Why, most assuredly we are!" returned Heliobas, heartily pressing
the proffered palm. "You had your doubts of me and you have them
still; but what of that! I take no offence at unbelief. I pity
those who suffer from its destroying influence too profoundly to
find room in my heart for anger. Moreover, I never try to convert
anybody. ... it is so much more satisfactory when sceptics convert
themselves, as you are unconsciously doing! Come, ... shall we
join the brethren?"

Over Alwyn's face flitted a transient shade of uneasiness and
hauteur.

"I would rather they knew nothing about all this," he began.

"Make your mind quite easy on that score," rejoined Heliobas.
"None of my companions here are aware of your recent departure,
except my very old personal friend Hilarion, who, with myself, saw
your body while in its state of temporary death. But he is one of
those remarkably rare wise men who know when it is best to be
silent; then again, he is ignorant as to the results of your soul-
transmigration, and will, as far as I am concerned, remain in
ignorance. Your confidence I assure you is perfectly safe with me
--as safe as though it had been received under the sacred seal of
confession."

With this understanding Alwyn seemed relieved and satisfied, and
thereupon they left the apartment together.

CHAPTER VI.

"NOURHALMA" AND THE ORIGINAL ESDRAS.

Later on in the afternoon of the same day, when the sun, poised
above the western mountain-range, appeared to be lazily looking
about him with a drowsy, golden smile of farewell before
descending to his rest, Alwyn was once more alone in the library.
Twilight shadows were already gathering in the corners of the
long, low room, but he had moved the writing-table to the window,
in order to enjoy the magnificence of the surrounding scenery, and
sat where the light fell full upon his face as he leaned back in
his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, in an attitude
of pleased, half-meditative indolence. He had just finished
reading from beginning to end the poem he had composed in his
trance ... there was not a line in it he could have wished
altered,--not a word that would have been better omitted,--the
only thing it lacked was a title, and this was the question on
which he now pondered. The subject of the poem itself was not new
to him--it was a story he had known from boyhood, ... an old
Eastern love-legend, fantastically beautiful as many such legends
are, full of grace and passionate fervor--a theme fitted for the
nightingale-utterance of a singer like the Persian Hafiz--though
even Hafiz would have found it difficult to match the exquisitely
choice language and delicately ringing rhythm in which this quaint
idyll of long past ages was now most perfectly set like a jewel in
fine gold. Alwyn himself entirely realized the splendid literary
value of the composition--he knew that nothing more artistic in
conception or more finished in treatment had appeared since the
St. Agnes Eve of Keats--and as he thought of this, he yielded to a
growing sense of self-complacent satisfaction which gradually
destroyed all the deeply devout humility he had at first felt
concerning the high and mysterious origin of his inspiration. The
old inherent pride of his nature reasserted itself--he reviewed
all the circumstances of his "trance" in the most practical
manner--and calling to mind how the poet Coleridge had improvised
the delicious fragment of Kubla Khan in a dream, he began to see
nothing so very remarkable in his own unconscious production of a
complete poem while under mesmeric or magnetic influences.

"After all," he mused, "the matter is simple enough when one
reasons it out. I have been unable to write anything worth writing
for a long time, and I told Heliobas as much. He, knowing my
apathetic condition of brain, employed his force accordingly,
though he denies having done so, ... and this poem is evidently
the result of my long pent-up thoughts that struggled for
utterance yet could not before find vent in words. The only
mysterious part of the affair is this 'Field of Ardath,' ... how
its name haunts me! ... and how HER face shines before the eyes of
my memory! That SHE should be a phantom of my own creation seems
impossible--for when have I, even in my wildest freaks of fancy,
ever imagined a creature half so fair!"

His gaze rested dreamily on the opposite snow-clad peaks, above
which large fleecy clouds, themselves like moving mountains, were
slowly passing, their edges glowing with purple and gold as they
neared the sinking sun. Presently rousing himself, he took up a
pen and first of all addressing an envelope to

"THE HONBLE. FRANCIS VILLIERS,
"Constitutional Club,
"LONDON"

he rapidly wrote off the following letter:

"MONASTERY OF LARS,
"PASS OF DARIEL, CAUCASUS."

"MY DEAR VILLIERS:--Start not at the above address! I am not yet
vowed to perpetual seclusion, silence or celibacy! That I of all
men in the world should be in a Monastery will seem to you, who
know my prejudices, in the last degree absurd--nevertheless here I
am,--though here I do not remain, as it is my fixed intention to-
morrow at daybreak to depart straightway from hence en route for
the supposed site and ruins of Babylon. Yes,--Babylon! why not?
Perished greatness has always been a more interesting subject of
contemplation to me than existing littleness--and I dare say I
shall wander among the tumuli of the ancient fallen city with more
satisfaction than in the hot, humanity-packed streets of London,
Paris, or Vienna--all destined to become tumuli in their turn.
Moreover. I am on the track of an adventure,--on the search for a
new sensation, having tried nearly all the old ones and found them
NIL. You know my nomadic and restless disposition ... perhaps
there is something of the Greek gipsy about me--a craving for
constant change of scene and surroundings,--however, as my absence
from you and England is likely to be somewhat prolonged, I send
you in the mean time a Poem--there! 'Season your admiration for a
while,' and hear me out patiently. I am perfectly aware of all you
would say concerning the utter folly and uselessness of writing
poetry at all in this present age of milk-and-watery-literature,
shilling sensationals, and lascivious society dramas,--and I have
a very keen recollection too of the way in which my last book was
maltreated by the entire press--good heavens! how the critics
yelped like dogs about my heels, snapping, sniffing, and snarling!
I could have wept then like the sensitive fool I was. ... I can
laugh now! In brief, my friend--for you ARE my friend and the
best of all possible good fellows--I have made up my mind to
conquer those that have risen against me--to break through the
ranks of pedantic and pre-conceived opinions--and to climb the
heights of fame, regardless of the little popular pipers of tame
verso that obstruct my path and blow their tin whistles in the
public ears to drown, if possible, my song. I WILL be heard! ...
and to this end I pin my faith on the work I now transmit to your
care. Have it published immediately and in the best style--I will
cover all expenses. Advertise sufficiently, yet with becoming
modesty, for 'puffery' is a thing I heartily despise,--and were
the whole press to turn round and applaud me as much as it has
hitherto abused and ridiculed me, I would not have one of its
penny lines of condescendingly ignorant approval quoted in
connection with what must be a perfectly unostentatious and simple
announcement of this new production from my pen. The manuscript is
exceptionally clear, even for me who do not as a male write a very
bad scrawl--so that you can scarcely have much bother with the
proof-correcting--though even were this the case, and the printers
turned out to be incorrigible blockheads and blunderers, I know
you would grudge neither time nor trouble expended in my service.
Good Frank Villiers! how much I owe you!--and yet I willingly
incur another debt of gratitude by placing this matter in your
hands, and am content to borrow more of your friendship, but only
believe me, in order to repay it again with the truest interest!
By the way, do you remember when we visited the last Paris Salon
together, how fascinated we were by one picture--the head of a
monk whose eyes looked out like a veritable illumination from
under the folds of a drooping white cowl? ... and on referring to
our catalogues we found it described as the portrait of one
'Heliobas,' an Eastern mystic, a psychist formerly well known in
Paris, but since retired into monastic life? Well! I have
discovered him here; he is apparently the Superior or chief of
this Order--though what Order it is and when founded is more than
I can tell. There are fifteen monks altogether, living contentedly
in this old, half-ruined habitation among the barren steeps of the
frozen Caucasus,--splendid, princely looking fellows all of them,
Heliobas himself being an exceptionally fine specimen of his race.
I have just dined with the whole community, and have been fairly
astonished by the fluent brilliancy and wit of their conversation.
They speak all languages. English included, and no subject comes
amiss to them, for they are familiar with the latest political
situations in all countries,--they know all about the newest
scientific discoveries (which, by-the-by, they smile at blandly,
as though these last were mere child's play), and they discuss our
modern social problems and theories with a Socratic-like
incisiveness and composure such as our parliamentary howlers would
do well to imitate. Their doctrine is.. but I will not bore you by
a theological disquisition,--enough to say it is founded on
Christianity, and that at present I don't quite know what to make
of it! And now, my dear Villiers, farewell! An answer to this is
unnecessary; besides I can give you no address, as it is uncertain
where I shall be for the next two or three months. If I don't get
as much pleasure as I anticipate from the contemplation of the
Babylonian ruins, I shall probably take up my abode in Bagdad for
a time and try to fancy myself back in the days of 'good Haroun
Alrascheed'. At any rate, whatever becomes of me, I know I have
entrusted my Poem to safe hands--and all I ask of you is that it
may be brought out with the least possible delay,--for its
IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION seems to me just now the most vitally
important thing in the world, except ... except the adventure on
which I am at present engaged, of which more hereafter, ... when
we meet. Until then think as well of me as you can, and believe me
"Ever and most truly your friend,
"THEOS ALWYN."

This letter finished, folded, and sealed, Alwyn once more took up
his manuscript and meditated anew concerning its title. Stay! ...
why not call it by the name of the ideal heroine whose heart-
passion and sorrow formed the nucleus of the legend? ... a name
that he in very truth was all unconscious of having chosen, but
which occurred frequently with musical persistence throughout the
entire poem. "NOURHALMA!" ... it had a soft sound ... it seemed to
breathe of Eastern languor and love-singing,--it was surely the
best title he could have. Straightway deciding thereon, he wrote
it clearly at the top of the first page, thus: "Nourhalma; A Love
Legend of the Past," ... then turning to the end, he signed his
own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his indisputable
right to the authorship of what was not only destined to be the
most famous poetical masterpiece of the day, but was also to prove
the most astonishing, complex, and humiliating problem ever
suggested to his brain. Carefully numbering the pages, he folded
them in a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed--then
addressing it to his friend, he put letter and packet together,
and eyed them both somewhat wistfully, feeling that with them went
his great chance of immortal Fame. Immortal Fame!--what a grand
vista of fair possibilities those words unveiled to his
imagination! Lost in pleasant musings, he looked out again on the
landscape. The sun had sunk behind the mountains so far, that
nothing was left of his glowing presence but a golden rim from
which great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted lances
poised against the purple and roseate clouds. A slight click
caused by the opening of the door disturbed his reverie,--he
turned round in his chair, and half rose from it as Heliobas
entered, carrying a small richly chased silver casket.

"Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last," he said with a smile.
"I began to think you were never coming. My correspondence is
finished,--and, as you see, my poem is addressed to England--where
I pray it may meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended
my efforts!"

"You PRAY?" queried Heliobas, meaningly, "or you HOPE? There is a
difference between the two."

"I suppose there is," he returned nonchalantly. "And certainly--to
be correct--I should have said I HOPE, for I never pray. What have
you there?"--this as Heliobas set the casket he carried down on
the table before him. "A reliquary? And is it supposed to contain
a fragment of the true cross? Alas! I cannot believe in these
fragments,--there are too many of them!"

Heliobas laughed gently.

"You are right! Moreover, not a single splinter of the true cross
is in existence. It was, like other crosses then in general use,
thrown aside as lumber,--and had rotted away into the earth long
before the Empress Helena started on her piously crazed
wanderings. No, I have nothing of that sort in here,"--and taking
a key from a small chain that hung at his girdle he unlocked the
casket. "This has been in the possession of the various members of
our Order for ages,--it is our chief treasure, and is seldom, I
may say never, shown to strangers,--but the mystic mandate you
have received concerning the 'field of Ardath' entitles you to see
what I think must needs prove interesting to you under the
circumstances." And opening the box he lifted out a small square
volume bound in massive silver and double-clasped. "This," he went
on, "is the original text of a portion of the 'Visions of Esdras,'
and dates from the thirteenth year after the downfall of Babylon's
commercial prosperity."

Alwyn uttered an exclamation of incredulous amazement. "Not
possible!" he cried. ... then he added eagerly, "May I look at
it?"

Silently Heliobas placed it in his outstretched hand. As he undid
the clasps a faint odor like that of long dead rose-leaves came
like a breath on the air, ... he opened it, and saw that its pages
consisted of twelve moderately thick sheets of ivory, which were
covered all over with curious small characters finely engraved
thereon by some evidently sharp and well-pointed instrument. These
letters were utterly unknown to Alwyn: he had seen nothing like
them in any of the ancient tongues, and he examined them
perplexedly.

"What language is this?" he asked at last, looking up. "It is not
Hebrew--nor yet Sanskrit--nor does it resemble any of the
discovered forms of hieroglyphic writing. Can YOU understand it?"

"Perfectly!" returned Heliobas. "If I could not, then much of the
wisdom and science of past ages would be closed to my researches.
It is the language once commonly spoken by certain great nations
which existed long before the foundations of Babylon were laid.
Little by little it fell into disuse, till it was only kept up
among scholars and sages, and in time became known only as 'the
language of prophecy.' When Esdras wrote his Visions they were
originally divided into two hundred and four books,--and, as you
will see by referring to what is now called the
Apocrypha,[Footnote: Vide 2 Esdras xiv.44-48.] he was commanded to
publish them all openly to the 'worthy and unworthy' all except
the 'seventy last,' which were to be delivered solely to such as
were 'wise among the people.' Thus one hundred and thirty-four
were written in the vulgar tongue,--the remaining seventy in the
'language of prophecy,' for the use of deeply learned and
scientific men alone. The volume you hold is one of those
seventy."

"How did you come by it?" asked Alwyn, curiously turning the book
over and over.

"How did our Order come by it, you mean," said Heliobas. "Very
simply. Chaldean fraternities existed in the time of Esdras, and
to the supreme Chief of these, Esdras himself delivered it. You
look dubious, but I assure you it is quite authentic,--we have its
entire history up to date."

"Then are you all Chaldeans here?"

"Not all--but most of us. Three of the brethren are Egyptians, and
two are natives of Damascus. The rest are, like myself,
descendants of a race supposed to have perished from off the face
of the earth, yet still powerful to a degree undreamed of by the
men of this puny age."

Alwyn gave an upward glance at the speaker's regal form--a glance
of genuine admiration.

"As far as that goes," he said, with a frank laugh, "I'm quite
willing to believe you and your companions are kings in disguise,
--you all have that appearance! But regarding this book,"--and
again he turned over the silver-bound relic--"if its authenticity
can be proved, as you say, why, the British Museum would give, ah!
... let me see!--it would give ..."

"Nothing!" declared Heliobas quietly, "believe me, nothing! The
British Government would no doubt accept it as a gift, just as it
would with equal alacrity accept the veritable signature of Homer,
which we also possess in another retreat of ours on the Isle of
Lemnos. But our treasures are neither for giving nor selling, and
with respect to this original 'Esdras,' it will certainly never
pass out of our hands."

"And what of the other missing sixty-nine books?" asked Alwyn.

"They may possibly be somewhere in the world,--two of them, I
know, were buried in the coffin of one of the last princes of
Chaldea,--perhaps they will be unearthed some day. There is also a
rumor to the effect that Esdras engraved his 'Last Prophecy' on a
small oval tablet of pure jasper, which he himself secreted, no
one knows where. But to come to the point of immediate issue, ...
shall I find out and translate for you the allusions to the 'field
of Ardath' contained in this present volume?"

"Do!" said Alwyn, eagerly, at once returning the book to Heliobas,
who, seating himself at the table, began carefully looking over
its ivory pages--"I am all impatience! Even without the vision I
have had, I should still feel a desire to see this mysterious
Field for its own sake,--it must have some very strange
associations to be worth specifying in such a particular manner!"

Heliobas answered nothing--he was entirely occupied in examining
the small, closely engraved characters in which the ancient record
was written; the crimson afterglow of the now descended sun flared
through the window and sent a straight, rosy ray on his bent head
and white robes, lighting to a more lustrous brilliancy the golden
cross and jeweled star on his breast, and flashing round the
silver clasps of the time-honored relic before him. Presently he
looked up...

"Here we have it!" and he placed his finger on one especial
passage--it reads as follows:

"'And the Angel bade me enter a waste field, and the field was
barren and dry save of herbs, and the name of the field was
ARDATH.

"'And I wandered therein through the hours of the long night, and
the silver eyes of the field did open before me and I saw signs
and wonders:

"'And I heard a voice crying aloud, Esdras, Esdras.

"'And I arose and stood on my feet and listened and refrained not
till I heard the voice again.

"'Which said unto me, Behold the field thou thoughtest barren, how
great a glory hath the moon unveiled!

"'And I beheld and was sore amazed: for I was no longer myself but
another.

"'And the sword of death was in that other's soul, and yet that
other was but myself in pain;

"'And I knew not those things that were once familiar,--and my
heart failed within me for very fear.

"'And the voice cried aloud again saying: Hide thee from the
perils of the past and the perils of the future, for a great and
terrible thing is come upon thee, against which thy strength is as
a reed in the wind and thy thoughts as flying sand ...

"' [Footnote: See 2 Esdras x. 30-32.] And, lo, I lay as one that
had been dead and mine understanding was taken from me. And he
(the Angel) took me by the right hand and comforted me and set me
upon my feet and said unto me:

"'What aileth thee? and why art thou so disquieted? and why is
thine understanding troubled and the thoughts of thine heart?

"'And I said, Because thou hast forsaken me and yet I did
according to thy words, and I went into the field and lo! I have
seen and yet see that I am not able to express.'"

Here Heliobas paused, having read the last sentence with
peculiarly impressive emphasis.

"That is all"--he said--"I see no more allusions to the name of
Ardath. The last three verses are the same as those in the
accepted Apocrypha."

CHAPTER VII.

AN UNDESIRED BLESSING.

Alwyn had listened with an absorbed yet somewhat mystified air of
attention.

"The venerable Esdras was certainly a poet in his own way!" he
remarked lightly. "There is something very fascinating about the
rhythm of his lines, though I confess I don't grasp their meaning.
Still, I should like to have them all the same,--will you let me
write them out just as you have translated them?"

Willingly assenting to this, Heliobas read the extract over again,
Alwyn taking down the words from his dictation.

"Perhaps," he then added musingly, "perhaps it would be as well to
copy a few passages from the Apocrypha also."

Whereupon the Bible was brought into requisition, and the desired
quotations made, consisting of verses xxiv. to xxvi. in the
[Footnote: The reader is requested to refer to the parts of
"Esdras" here indicated.] ninth chapter of the Second Book of
Esdras, and verses xxv. to xxvi. in the tenth chapter of the same.
This done, Heliobas closed and clasped the original text of the
Prophet's work and returned it to its casket; then addressing his
guest in a kindly, yet serious tone, he said: "You are quite
resolved to undertake this journey, Mr. Alwyn?"

Alwyn looked dreamily out of the window at the flame of the sunset
hues reflected from the glowing sky on the white summit of the
mountains.

"Yes, ... I ... I think so!" The answer had a touch of indecision
in it.

"In that case," resumed Heliobas, "I have prepared a letter of
introduction for you to one of our Order known as Elzear of
Melyana,--he is a recluse, and his hermitage is situated close to
the Babylonian ruins. You will find rest and shelter there after
the fatigues of travel. I have also traced out a map of the
district, and the exact position of the field you seek, . . here it
is," and he laid a square piece of parchment on the table; "you
can easily perceive at a glance how the land lies. There are a few
directions written at the back, so I think you will have no
difficulty. This is the letter to Elzear,"--here he held out a
folded paper--"will you take it now?"

Alwyn received it with a dubious smile, and eyed the donor as if
he rather suspected the sincerity of his intentions.

"Thanks very much!" he murmured listlessly. "You are exceedingly
good to make it all such plain sailing for me,--and yet ... to be
quite frank with you, I can't help thinking I am going on a fool's
errand!"

"If that is your opinion, why go at all?" queried Heliobas, with a
slight disdain in his accents. "Return to England instead--forget
the name of 'Ardath,' and forget also the one who bade you meet
her there, and who has waited for you 'these many thousand days!'"

Alwyn started as if he had been stung.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "If I could be certain of seeing her again!
... if ... good God! the idea seems absurd! ... if that Flower-
Crowned Wonder of my dream should actually fulfill her promise and
keep her tryst ..."

"Well!" demanded Heliobas--"If so, what then?"

"Well then I will believe in anything!" he cried--"No miracle will
seem miraculous.. no impossibility impossible!"

Heliobas sighed, and regarded him thoughtfully.

"You THINK you will believe!" he said somewhat sadly--"But doubts
such as yours are not easily dispelled. Angels have ere now
descended to men, men have neither received nor recognized them.
Angels walk by our side through crowded cities and lonely
woodlands,--they watch us when we sleep, they hear us when we
pray, ... and yet the human eye sees nothing save the material
objects within reach of its vision, and is not very sure of those,
while it can no more discern the spiritual presences than it can
without a microscope discern the lovely living creatures contained
in a drop of dew or a ray of sunshine. Our earthly sight is very
limited--it can neither perceive the infinitely little nor the
infinitely great. And it is possible,--nay, it is most probable,
that even as Peter of old denied his Divine Master, so you, if
brought face to face with the Angel of your last night's
experience, would deny and endeavor to disprove her identity."