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

by Marie Corelli

  “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 bi
tter 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 hi
s 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!”