And breathless with this extraordinary outburst, he struck his staff loudly on the floor, and straightway fell into such a violent fit of coughing that his whole lean body shook with the paroxysm.
Sah-luma laughed heartily, — laughter in which he was joined by all the assembled maidens, including the gentle, pensive-eyed Niphrata. Standing erect in his glistening princely attire, with one hand resting familiarly on Theos’s arm, and the sparkle of mirth lighting up his handsome features, he formed the greatest contrast imaginable to the little shrunken old personage, who, clinging convulsively to his staff, was entirely absorbed in his efforts to control and overcome his sudden and unpleasant attack of threatened suffocation.
“Theos, my friend,” — he said, still laughing— “Thou must know the admirable Zabastes, — a man of vast importance in his own opinion! Have done with thy wheezing,” — he continued, vehemently thumping the struggling old gentleman on the back— “Here is another one of the minstrel craft thou hatest, — hast aught of bitterness in thy barbed tongue wherewith to welcome him as guest to mine abode?”
Thus adjured, the old man peered up at Theos inquisitively, wiping away the tears that coughing had brought into his eyes, and after a minute or two began also to laugh in a smothered, chuckling way, — a laugh that resembled the croaking of frogs in a marshy pool.
“Another one of the minstrel-craft,” he echoed derisively— “Aye, aye! … Like meets like, and fools consorts with fool. The guest of Sah-luma, . . Hearken, young man,—” and he drew closer, the malign grin widening on his furrowed face,— “Thou shalt learn enough trash here to stock thee with idiot-songs for a century. Thou shalt gather up such fragments of stupidity, as shall provide thee with food for all the puling love-sick girls of a nation! Dost thou write follies also? … thou shalt not write them here, thou shalt not even think them! — for here Sah-luma, — the great, the unrivalled Sah-luma, — is sole Lord of the land of Poesy. Poesy, — by all the gods! — I would the accursed art had never been invented … so might the world have been spared many long-drawn nothings, enwoofed in obscure and distracting phraseology! … THOU a would-be Poet? — go to! — make brick, mend sandals, dig entrenchments, fight for thy country, — and leave the idle stringing of words, and the tinkling of rhyme, to children like Sah-luma, who play with life instead of living it.”
And with this, he hobbled off uneasily, grunting and grumbling as he went, and waving his staff magisterially right and left to warn the smiling maidens out of his way, — and once more Sah-luma’s laughter, clear and joyous, pealed through the vaulted vestibule.
“Poor Zabastes!” he said in a tone of good-humored tolerance— “He has the most caustic wit of any man in Al-Kyris! He is a positive marvel of perverseness and ill-humor, well worth the four hundred golden pieces I pay him yearly for his task of being my scribe and critic. Like all of us he must live, eat and wear decent clothing, — and that his only literary skill lies in the abuse of better men than himself is his misfortune, rather than his fault. Yes! … he is my paid Critic, paid to rail against me on all occasions public or private, for the merriment of those who care to listen to the mutterings of his discontent, — and, by the Sacred Veil! … I cannot choose but laugh myself whenever I think of him. He deems his words carry weight with the people, — alas, poor soul! his scorn but adds to my glory, — his derision to my fame! Nay, of a truth I need him, — even as the King needs the court fool, — to make mirth for me in vacant moments, — for there is something grotesque in the contemplation of his cankered clownishness, that sees nought in life but the eating, the sleeping, the building, and the bargaining. Such men as he can never bear to know that there are others, gifted by heaven, for whom all common things take radiant shape and meaning, — for whom the flowers reveal their fragrant secrets, — for whom birds not only sing, but speak in most melodious utterance — for whose dreaming eyes, the very sunbeams spin bright fantasies in mid-air more lasting than the kingdoms of the world! Blind and unhappy Zabastes! … he is ignorant as a stone, and for him the mysteries of Nature are forever veiled. The triumphal hero-march of the stars, — the brief, bright rhyme of the flashing comet, — the canticle of the rose as she bears her crimson heart to the smile of the sun, — the chorus of green leaves chanting orisons to the wind — the never completed epic of heaven’s lofty solitudes where the white moon paces, wandering like a maiden in search of love, — all these and other unnumbered joys he has lost — joys that Sah-luma, child of the high gods and favorite of Destiny drinks in with the light and the air.”
His eyes softened with a dreamy, intense lustre that gave them a new and almost pathetic beauty, while Theos, listening to each word he uttered, wondered whether there were ever any sounds sweeter than the rise and fall of his exquisite voice, — a voice as deliciously clear and mellow as a golden flute tenderly played.
“Yes! — though we must laugh at Zabastes we should also pity him,” — he resumed in gayer accents— “His fate is not enviable. He is nothing but a Critic — he could not well be a lesser man, — one who, unable himself to do any great work, takes refuge in finding fault with the works of others. And those who abhor true Poesy are in time themselves abhorred, — the balance of Justice never errs in these things. The Poet wins the whole world’s love, and immortal fame, — his adverse Critic, brief contempt, and measureless oblivion. Come,” — he added, addressing Theos— “we will leave these maidens to their duties and pastimes, — Niphrata!” here his dazzling smile flashed like a beam of sunlight over his face— “thou wilt bring us fruit and wine yonder, — we shall pass the afternoon together within doors. Bid my steward prepare the Rose Chamber for my guest, and let Athazel and Zimra attend there to wait upon him.”
All the maidens saluted, touching their heads with their hands in token of obedience, and Sah-luma leading the way, courteously beckoned Theos to follow. He did so, conscious as he went of two distinct impressions, — first, that the mysterious mental agitation he had suffered from when he had found himself so unexpectedly in a strange city, was not completely dispelled, — and secondly, that he felt as though he must have known Sah-luma all his life! His memory still remained a blank as regarded his past career, — but this fact had ceased to trouble him, and he was perfectly tranquil, and altogether satisfied with his present surroundings. In short, to be in Al-Kyris, seemed to him quite in keeping with the necessary course of events, — while to be the friend and companion of Sah-luma was more natural and familiar to his mind, than all once natural and familiar things.
CHAPTER XIII.
A POET’S PALACE.
Gliding along with that graceful, almost phantom-like swiftness of movement that was so much a part of his manner, Sah-luma escorted his visitor to the further end of the great hall. There, — throwing aside a curtain of rich azure silk which partially draped two large folding-doors, — he ushered him into a magnificent apartment opening out upon the terrace and garden beyond, — a garden filled with such a marvellous profusion of foliage and flowers, that looking at it from between the glistening marble columns surrounding the palace, it seemed as though the very sky above rested edge-wise on towering pyramids of red and white bloom. Awnings of pale blue stretched from the windows across the entire width of the spacious outer colonnade, and here two small boys, half nude, and black as polished ebony, were huddled together on the mosaic pavement, watching the arrogant deportment of a superb peacock that strutted majestically to and fro with boastfully spreading tail and glittering crest as brilliant as the gleam of the hot sun on the silver fringe of the azure canopies.
“Up, lazy rascals!” cried Sah-luma imperiously, as with the extreme point of his sandaled foot he touched the dimpled, shiny back of the nearest boy— “Up, and away! … Fetch rose-water and sweet perfumes hither! By the gods! ye have let the incense in yonder burner smoulder!” — and he pointed to a massive brazen vessel, gorgeously ornamented, from whence rose but the very faintest blue whiff of fragrant smoke— “Off with ye bo
th, ye basking blackamoors! bring fresh frankincense, — and palm-leaves wherewith to stir this heated air — hence and back again like a lightning-flash! … or out of my sight forever!”
While he spoke, the little fellows stood trembling and ducking their woolly heads, as though they half expected to be seized by their irate master and flung, like black balls, out into the wilderness of flowers, but glancing timidly up and perceiving that even in the midst of his petulance he smiled, they took courage, and as soon as he had ceased they darted off with the swiftness of flying arrows, each striving to outstrip the other in a race across the terrace and garden. Sah-luma laughed as he watched them disappear, — and then stepping back into the interior of the apartment he turned to Theos and bade him be seated. Theos sank unresistingly into a low, velvet-cushioned chair richly carved and inlaid with ivory, and stretching his limbs indolently therein, surveyed with new and ever-growing admiration the supple, elegant figure of his host, who, throwing himself full length on a couch covered with leopard-skins, folded his arms behind his head, and eyed his guest with a complacent smile of vanity and self-approval.
“’Tis not an altogether unfitting retreat for a poet’s musings” — he said, assuming an air of indifference, as he glanced round his luxurious, almost royally appointed room— “I have heard of worse! — But truly it needs the highest art of all known nations to worthily deck a habitation wherein the divine Muse may daily dwell, … nevertheless, air, light, and flowers are not lacking, and on these methinks I could subsist, were I deprived of all other things!”
Theos sat silent, looking about him wistfully. Was ever poet, king, or even emperor, housed more sumptuously than this, he thought? … as his eyes wandered to the domed ceiling, wreathed with carved clusters of grapes and pomegranates, — the walls, frescoed with glowing scenes of love and song-tournament, — the groups of superb statuary that gleamed whitely out of dusky, velvet-draped corners, — the quaintly shaped book-cases, overflowing with books, and made so as to revolve round and round at a touch, or move to and fro on noiseless wheels, — the grand busts, both in bronze and marble, that stood on tall pedestals or projecting bracket; and, — while he dimly noted all these splendid evidences of unlimited wealth and luxury, — the perfume and lustre of the place, the glitter of gold and azure, silver and scarlet, the oriental languor pervading the very air, and above all the rich amber and azure-tinted light that bathed every object in a dream-like and fairy radiance, plunged his senses into a delicious confusion, — a throbbing fever of delight to which he could give no name, but which permeated every fibre of his being.
He felt half blinded with the brilliancy of the scene, — the dazzling glow of color, — the sheen of deep and delicate hues cunningly intermixed and contrasted, — the gorgeous lavishness of waving blossoms that seemed to surge up like a sea to the very windows, — and though many thoughts flitted hazily through his brain, he could not shape them into utterance. He stared vaguely at the floor, — it was paved with variegated mosaic and strewn with the soft, dark, furry skins of wild animals, — at a little distance from where he sat there was a huge bronze lectern supported by a sculptured griffin with horns, — horns which curving over at the top, turned upward again in the form of candelabra, — the harp-bearer had brought in the harp, and it now stood in a conspicuous position decked with myrtle, some of the garlands woven by the maidens being no doubt used for this purpose.
Yet there was something mirage-like and fantastic in the splendor that everywhere surrounded him, — he felt as though he were one of the spectators 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma 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 Sah-lumas! … 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, Sah-luma 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 Sah-luma 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 under-gleam 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, Sah-luma, and all the masters and servants of song shall meet and hold high festival!”
Sah-luma 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 150
