Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Not exempt — no!” interposed Sah-luma thoughtfully … “But, as yet, — I have never really suffered!”

  “Never really suffered!”.. Theos dropped the hand he held, and an invisible barrier seemed to rise slowly up between him and his beautiful companion. Never really suffered! … then he was no true poet after all, if he was ignorant of sorrow! If he could not spiritually enter into the pathos of speechless griefs and unshed tears, — if he could not absorb into his own being the prayers and plaints of all Creation, and utter them aloud in burning and immortal language, his calling was in vain, his election futile! This thought smote Theos with the strength of a sudden blow, — he sat silent, and weighed with a dreary feeling of disappointment to which he was unable to give any fitting expression.

  “I have never really suffered …” repeated Sah-luma slowly: . . “But — I have IMAGINED suffering! That is enough for me! The passions, the tortures, the despairs of imagination are greater far than the seeming REAL, petty afflictions with which human beings daily perplex themselves; indeed, I have often wondered.. “here his eyes grew more earnest and reflective …” whether this busy working of the brain called ‘Imagination’ may not perhaps be a special phase or supreme effort of MEMORY, and that therefore we do not IMAGINE so much as we remember. For instance, — if we have ever lived before, our present recollection may, in certain exalted states of the mind, serve to bring back the shadow-pictures of things long gone by, . . good or evil deeds, . . scenes of love and strife, . . ethereal and divine events, in which we have possibly enacted each our different parts as unwittingly as we enact them here!”.. He sighed and seemed somewhat troubled, but presently continued in a lighter tone.. “Yet, after all, it is not necessary for the poet to personally experience the emotions whereof he writes. The divine Hyspiros depicts murderers, cowards, and slaves in his sublime Tragedies, — but thinkest thou it was essential for him to become a murderer, coward, and slave himself in order to delineate these characters? And I … I write of Love, — love spiritual, love eternal, — love fitted for the angels I have dreamt of — but not for such animals as men, — and what matters it that I know naught of such love, . . unless perchance I knew it years ago in some far-off fairer sphere! … For me the only charm of worth in woman is beauty! … Beauty! … to its entrancing sway my senses all make swift surrender …”

  “Oh, too swift and too degrading a surrender!” interrupted Theos suddenly with reproachful vehemence … “Thy words do madden patience! — Better a thousand times that thou shouldst perish, Sah-lama, now in the full plenitude of thy poet-glory, than thus confess thyself a prey to thine own passions, — a credulous victim of Lysia’s treachery!”

  For one second the Laureate stood amazed, . . the next, he sprang upon his guest and grasping him fiercely by the throat.

  “Treachery?” he muttered with white lips.. “Treachery? … Darest thou speak of treachery and Lysia in the same breath? … O thou rash fool! dost thou blaspheme my lady’s name and yet not fear to die?”

  And his lithe brown fingers tightened their clutch. But Theos cared nothing for his own life, — some inward excitation of feeling kept him resolute and perfectly controlled.

  “Kill me, Sah-luma!” he gasped— “Kill me, friend whom I love! … death will be easy at thy hands! Deprive me of my sad existence, . . ’tis better so, than that I should have slain THEE last night at Lysia’s bidding!”

  At this, Sah-luma suddenly released his hold and started backward with a sharp cry of anguish, . . his face was pale, and his beautiful eyes grew strained and piteous.

  “Slain ME! … Me! … at Lysia’s bidding!” he murmured wildly.. “O ye gods, the world grows dark! is the sun quenched in heaven? … At Lysia’s bidding! ..Nay, . . by my soul, my sight is dimmed! … I see naught but flaring red in the air, . . Why! …” and he laughed discordantly.. “thou poor Theos, thou shalt use no dagger’s point, — for lo! … I am dead already! … Thy words have killed me! Go, . . tell her how well her cruel mission hath sped, — my very soul is slain…at her bidding! Hasten to her, wilt thou!”.. and his accents trembled with pathetic plaintiveness! … “Say I am gone! … lost! drawn into a night of everlasting blackness like a taper blown swiftly out by the wind, . . tell her that Sah-luma, — the poet Sah-luma, the foolish-credulous Sah-luma who loved her so madly is no more!”

  His voice broke, . . his head drooped, . . while Theos, whose every nerve throbbed in responsive sympathy with the passion of his despair, strove to think of some word of comfort, that like soothing balm might temper the bitterness of his chafed and wounded spirit, but could find none. For it was a case in which the truth must be told, . . and truth is always hard to bear if it destroys, or attempts to destroy, any one of our cherished self-delusions!

  “My friend, my friend!” he said presently with gentle earnestness,— “Control this fury of thy heart! … Why such unmanly sorrow for one who is not worthy of thee?”

  Sah-luma looked up, — his black, silky lashes were wet with tears.

  “Not worthy! … Oh, the old poor consolation!” he exclaimed, quickly dashing the drops from his eyes, . . “Not worthy? — No! … what mortal woman IS ever worthy of a poet’s love? — Not one in all the world! Nevertheless, worthy or unworthy, true or treacherous, naught can make Lysia otherwise than fair! Fair beyond all fairness! … and I — I was sole possessor of her beauty! — for me her eyes warmed into stars of fire, — for me her kisses ripened in their pearl and ruby nest, . . all — all for me! — and now! …” He flung himself desolately on his couch, and fixed his wistful gaze on his companion’s grave, pained countenance, — till all at once a hopeful light flashed across his features, . . a light that seemed to shine through him like an inwardly kindled flame.

  “Ah! what a querulous fool am I!” he cried, joyously, — so joyously that Theos knew not whether to be glad or sorry at his sudden and capricious change of mood.. “why should I thus bemoan myself for fancied wrong? — Good, noble Theos, thou hast been misled! — My Lysia’s words were but to try thy mettle! … to test thee to the core, and prove thee truly faithful as Sah-luma’s friend! She bade thee slay me! … Even so! — but hadst thou rashly undertaken such a deed, thine own life would have paid the forfeit! Now I begin to understand it all— ’tis plain!” — and his face grew brighter and brighter, as he cheated himself into the pleasing idea his own fancy had suggested.. “She tried thee, — she tempted thee, . . she found thee true and incorruptible.. Ah! ’twas a jest, my friend!” — and entirely recovering from his depression, he clapped his hand heartily on Theos’s shoulder—”’Twas all a jest! — and she the fair inquisitor will herself prove it so ere long, and make merry with our ill-omened fears! Why, I can laugh now at mine own despondency! — come, look thou also more cheerily, gentle Theos, — and pardon these uncivil fingers that so nearly gripped thee into silence!” — and he laughed— “Thou art the best and kindest of loyal comrades, and I will so assure Lysia of thy merit, that she shall institute no more torture-trials upon thy frank and trusting nature. Heigho!” — and stretching out his arms lazily, he heaved a sigh of tranquil satisfaction— “Methought I was wounded into death! but ’twas the mere fancied prick of an arrow after all, and I am well again! What, art thou still melancholy! … still sombre! … Nay, surely thou wilt not be a veritable kill-joy!”

  Theos stood mute and sorely perplexed. He saw at once how useless it was now to try and convince Sah luma of any danger threatening him through the instigation of the woman he loved, — he would never believe it! And yet … something must be done to put him on his guard. Taking up the scroll of the public news, where the account of the finding of the body of Nir-jalis was written with all that exaggerated attention to repulsive details which seems to be a special gift of the cheap re-porters, Theos pointed to it.

  “His was a cruel end!” — he said in a low, uncertain voice,— “Sah-luma, canst thou expect mercy from a woman who has once been so merciless?”

  “Bah!”
returned the Laureate lightly. “Who and what was Nir-jalis? A hewer of stone images — a no-body! — he will not be missed! Besides, he is only one of many who have perished thus.”

  “Only one of many!” ejaculated Theos with a shudder of aversion.. “And yet, . . O thou most reckless and misguided soul! … thou dost love this wanton murderess!”

  A warm flush tinted Sah-luma’s olive skin, — his hands clenched and unclenched slowly as though he held some struggling, prisoned thing, and raising his head he looked at his companion full and steady with a singularly solemn and reproving expression in his luminous eyes.

  “Hast THOU not loved her also?” he demanded, a faint, serious smile curving his lips as he spoke, . . “If only for the space of some few passing moments, was not thy soul ravished, thy heart enslaved, thy manhood conquered by her spell? … Aye! … Thou dost shrink at that!” And his smile deepened as Theos, suddenly conscience-stricken, avoided his friend’s too-scrutinizing gaze.. “Blame ME not, therefore, for THINE OWN weakness!”

  He paused.. then went on slowly with a meditative air.. “I love her, … yes! — as a man must always love the woman that baffles him, … the woman whose moods are complex and fluctuating as the winds on the sea, — and whose humor sways between the softness of the dove and the fierceness of the tiger. Nothing is more fatally fascinating to the masculine sense than such a creature, — more especially if to this temperament is united rare physical grace, combined with keen intellectual power. ’Tis vain to struggle against the irresistible witchery exercised over us by the commingling of beauty and ferocity, — we see it in the wild animals of the forest and the high-soaring birds of the air, — and we like nothing better than to hunt it, capture it, tame it.. or.. kill it — as suits our pleasure!”

  He paused again, — and again smiled, . . a grave, reluctant, doubting smile such as seemed to Theos oddly familiar, suggesting to his bewildered fancy that he must have seen it before, ON HIS OWN FACE, reflected in a mirror!

  “Even thus do I love Lysia!” continued Sah-luma— “She perplexes me, . . she opposes her will to mine, … the very irritation and ferment into which I am thrown by her presence adds fire to my genius, . . and but for the spur of this never-satiated passion, who knows whether I should sing so well!”

  He was silent for a little space — then he resumed in a more ordinary tone:

  “The wretched Nir-jalis, whose fate thou dost so persistently deplore, deserved his end for his presumption, … didst thou not hear his insolent insinuation concerning the King?”

  “I heard it — yes!” replied Theos— “And I saw no harm in the manner of his utterance.”

  “No harm!” exclaimed Sah-luma excitedly— “No harm! Nay, but I forget! … thou art a stranger in Al-Kyris, and therefore thou art ignorant of the last words spoken by the Sacred Oracle some hundred years or more ago. They are these:

  “‘When the High Priestess

  Is the King’s mistress

  Then fall Al-Kyris!’

  ’Tis absolute doggerel, and senseless withal, — nevertheless, it has caused the enactment of a Law, which is to the effect that the reigning monarch of Al-Kyris shall never, under any sort of pretext, confer with the High Priestess of the Temple on any business whatsoever, — and that, furthermore, he shall never be permitted to look upon her face except at times of public service and state ceremonials. Now dost thou not at once perceive how vile were the suggestions of Nir-jalis, . . and also how foolish was thy fancy last night with regard to the armed masquerader thou didst see in Lysia’s garden?”

  Theos made no reply, but sat absorbed in his own reflections. He began now to understand much that had before seemed doubtful and mysterious, — no wonder, he thought, that Zephoranim’s fury against the audacious Khosrul had been so excessive! For had not the crazed Prophet called Lysia an “unvirgined virgin and Queen-Courtesan”? … and, according to Sah-luma’s present explanation, nothing more dire and offensive in the way of open blasphemy could be uttered! Yet the question still remained — , was Khosrul right or wrong? This was a problem which Theos longed to investigate and yet recoiled from, — instinctively he felt that upon its answer hung the fate of Al-Kyris, — and also, what just then seemed more precious than anything else, — the life of Sah-luma. He could not decide with himself WHY this was so, — he simply accepted his own inward assurance that so it was. Presently he inquired:

  “How comes it, Sah-luma, that the corpse of Nir-jalis was found on the shores of the river? Did we not see it weighted with iron and laid elsewhere…?”

  “O simpleton!” laughed Sah-luma— “Thinkest thou Lysia’s lake of lilies is a common grave for criminals? The body of Nir-jalis sank therein, ’tis true, . . but was there no after-means of lifting it from thence, and placing it where best such carrion should be found? Hath not the High Priestess of Nagaya slaves enough to work her will? … Verily thou dost trouble thyself overmuch concerning these trivial every-day occurences, — I marvel at thee! — Hundreds have drained the Silver Nectar gladly for so fair a woman’s sake, — hundreds will drain it gladly still for the mere privilege of living some brief days in the presence of such peerless beauty! … But, — speaking of the river — didst thou remark it on thy way hither?”

  “Aye!” responded Theos dreamily—”’Twas red as blood”!”

  “Strange!” and Sah-luma looked thoughtful for an instant, then rousing himself, said lightly, “’Tis from some simple cause, no doubt — yet ‘twill create a silly panic in the city — and all the fanatics for Khosrul’s new creed will creep forth, shouting afresh their prognostications of death and doom. By my faith, ‘twill be a most desperate howling! … and I’ll not walk abroad till the terror hath abated. Moreover, I have work to do, — some lately budded thoughts of mine have ripened into glorious conclusion, — and Zabastes hath orders presently to attend me that he may take my lines down from mine own dictation. Thou shalt hear a most choice legend of love an thou wilt listen—” here he laid his hand affectionately on Theos’s shoulder— “a legend set about, methinks, with wondrous jewels of poetic splendor! … ’tis a rare privilege I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule Zabastes is my only auditor, — but I would swear thou art no plagiarist, and wouldst not dishonor thine own intelligence so far as to filch pearls of fancy from another minstrel! As well steal my garments as my thoughts! — for verily the thoughts are the garments of the poet’s soul, — and the common thief of things petty and material is no whit more contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas wherein to deck the bareness of his own poor wit! Come, place thyself at ease upon this cushioned couch, and give me thy attention, … I feel the fervor rising within me, … I will summon Zabastes, …” Here he pulled a small silken cord which at once set a clanging bell echoing loudly through the palace, … “And thou shalt freely hear, and freely judge, the last offspring of my fertile genius, — my lyrical romance ‘Nourhalma!’” Theos started violently, … he had the greatest difficulty to restrain the anguished cry that arose to his lips. “Nourhalma!” O memory! … slow-filtering, reluctant memory! … why, why was his brain thus tortured with these conflicting pang, of piteous recollection! Little by little, like sharp deep stabs of nervous suffering, there came back to him a few faint, fragmentary suggestions which gradually formed themselves into a distinct and comprehensive certainty, . . “Nourhalma” was the title of HIS OWN POEM, — the poem HE had written, surely not so very long ago, among the mountains of the Pass of Dariel!

  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 o
f 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.