To yield repose to the wearied Agib, cushions of the most downy luxuriousness and brilliant embroidery were arranged, in an apartment encrusted with jewels, and ornamented with lamps of moonlight lustre. Perfumes at once the richest and most delicate, floated in the air; and viands that created hunger were offered in a service of dazzling splendor. Flowers that seemed too beautiful to be of the earth, bloomed around him as if in their native atmosphere; and fairies, each lovely as an Houri, with snowy wings extended, and small and rapid feet, gleamed through the dance which the white hands of others animated with the sounds of musical instruments, or subdued to a slower gracefulness, by the lingering softness of prolonged and pathetic notes. A fountain of sparkling water fell dewily into an alabaster basin, where flowers, birds and insects were so beautifully carved, that they seemed naturally to seek and share the coolness and moisture of the fount. The conversation of the fairy queen heightened the felicity of Agib, and the prospects which the dangers of the day had interrupted—his merchandize, of which he had at present no information, even his beautiful and distant Zarah were, in the intoxication of the present, entirely forgotten. Repose, slumber, and morning came. Evening succeeded to the flush of noon. Another day, and yet another—weeks flew on, the moon had often changed her face, yet Agib was still in the palace of the fairy. He had never asked to be restored to Zarah. He still enjoyed the pleasures of his entertainer’s fair domain, still watched the dances, or hung upon the songs of her attendants. Nor did the fairy seem weary of amusing him, and with her attentions there mingled an implied deference and tenderness, to which the merchant could not be insensible. Sometimes, in a pearly car, conducted by winged jays through the moonlight air, she conveyed him to the rose gardens of Iran, and there they wandered, during the night hours, amidst scenes of bloom where the soft dew drew from the bosoms of the sleeping flowers their richest odors. At other times they floated in a light bark on the lake of Kashmere, while long streams of moonlight met the reflection of their snowy sails, and with silence around them, and love filling their hearts with unuttered feelings, they admitted no thought beyond the present, and were unconscious of all but bliss, intoxicated with the joy of being beloved by such a being—pride, ambition, all his luxurious fancies crowned beyond his wildest dream—Agib glided easily into forgetfulness of his fond expectant in Aleppo, and in the fulness of contentment, thought not of the past.
So flowed the current of delight, and Agib was reckless of the pleasures it bore away upon its bosom, for he exultingly believed it could only sweep to his feet others of more enchanting freshness. But alas for the pride of human hope! When the heart throbs highest with the sense of pleasure in possession, and joy in prospect, it is ever the nearest to a change—a shadow—something to urge memory to regret and pain.
It was with a careless heart and easy smile that Agib learned one morning from the fairy, that the favorite of the Persian shah had become the mother of a son of surpassing loveliness; and when she added that the lady was under her own especial protection, and that it was her purpose to visit her this day, with the design of bestowing some gift upon the child, he did not oppose her temporary absence. When she had departed, Agib wandered from hall to hall, but found no longer the charm that had hitherto lighted his hours. The presence of the beloved one is to our existence as the sun to the world; and when it no longer illuminates our sphere, all that surrounds us is sad and gloomy. Agib issued from the palace, idly seeking the enjoyment which he usually found, and wearily counting the moments which slowly lessened the time of separation. He sauntered listlessly to the side of the rivulet beside which he had first beheld the fairy. A beautiful attendant of his queen was there. Often before had he remarked this girl. She was, as he knew, like himself a mortal, and her pure and varying complexion, and deep blue eyes, differed from those of her companions. Of all the inhabitants of the bright oasis, she only, as Agib had observed, was always sad. He had noted the glitter of tears upon her eye-lashes, even when she mingled in the dance, and when she touched the lute, or sung, a melancholy and heart-touching pathos ever distinguished her performance. Interested by these recollections, which at this unoccupied moment crowded upon his idle mind, Agib drew near to the maiden, who sat beside the stream, weaving of the white lilies that floated on its surface, what appeared to be a garland.
“You are weaving a chaplet to wear in the dance tonight, pretty Zorayda!” asked the merchant, pausing to look at her employment.
“To wear in the dance!” echoed the girl. “No! Oh! no.” And she sighed heavily as she answered him.
“Why, what have you, or any of the inhabitants of this Eden, to do with sorrow, Zorayda?” asked the merchant. “I had hoped that here, at least, every one was happy. Yet you, I have noted, are often in tears, and the smile is a rare visitant of your lips.”
“Rare—rare, indeed,” replied the maiden sadly.
“And why are you alone miserable.”
“I, perhaps, alone have to REMEMBER,” said Zorayda, raising her eyes to his face with an expression that probed his heart, though he endeavored to stifle the reflections it aroused.
“And what is your sorrowful remembrance, maiden?” said the merchant compassionately. “Is it that you, like myself, are mortal, and must one day forego your present joys?”
“That I am mortal!” repeated Zorayda, in a tone of calm yet melancholy sweetness. “No, stranger. Listen, and I will tell you what are my recollections. I remember the cottage in Georgia where I was born. I remember my parents—my youth—my wild and joyous youth—with its budding pleasures, and crowding hopes—the hopes that visit us in that sweet time, as the singing birds come to my own dear land, to tell of spring. I remember these, and, above all, can I forget thee, Kaled, my betrothed!” Her voice faltered, and for some moments she was silent.
“And why did you leave them, my poor Zorayda?”
“It was the whim of the fairy,” replied the girl. “It is not unusual with beings of her order to conceive a fancy for human attendants, especially if they be beautiful or young. But this companionship can only result in misery to the mortals, whose souls may suffer pangs inconceivable to their patrons. Long did I beseech—earnestly resist—but her sway is limitless, and her will invincible; and here, during years, have I languished, and the sole blessing of my wayward fate has been occasionally to behold again the forms, the scenes I love, in the faithful visions shed by these potent lilies on my heart!”
“Are they indeed so powerful?” said Agib with curiosity.
“Try them,” said the Georgian, unconsciously touching a jarring chord. “If you have ever loved—if there is any one who loves you, this wreath may reveal to you all that has chanced since you parted. But you have no regret, you have left nothing in your country to lament you!”
“Whence this conclusion?” said the merchant; and his glance fell.
“Has sadness ever a place upon your brow? Do you not watch the dance, and enjoy the song? Do you not gaze upon the fairy queen, and apply to her all that is tender in language, or music? Unlike mine, and brighter is your fate. You have left nothing in your country to regret you. You are a willing, an adoring captive. No faithful bosom languishes for you, and, even whilst ignorant of your fate, forbears to doubt you. No one struggles against wretchedness in the faint but treasured hope of your return!”
“Spare me!” cried Agib, unable to withstand the torrent of reproachful reminiscences conjured up by the Georgian’s words.
She looked upon him with an expression of sorrowful surprise.
“Give me the chaplet,” said Agib hurriedly. “Let me behold her! Let me know at least that I have not slain her!”
The Georgian gave the wreath into his hand.
“Thou needest them more than I,” she said compassionately, “for at my heart there is at least no remorse.”
And as the garland rested upon his brow, the merchant fell into a profound slumber, and the Georgian girl withdrew from the scene of his unquiet sleep.
/> Agib was now wrapped in the vision. He seemed to be transported to Aleppo, and to behold Zarah in the first hours that succeeded their separation. Pale and sad, she at first gave way to a grief of which the colder bosoms of less fiery climes can scarcely conceive the intensity. But days seemed to pass, and Agib could observe the influence of the first faint hope that arose to cheer her. He saw her gaze upon the road by which he should return, with tearful eyes, and at last when night arrived, scarcely touch the refreshments to which her anxious attendants would invite her, until they bade her for Agib’s sake preserve her health and beauty. Then she would retire to her couch, sighing for the morning light that would enable her to gaze again upon his homeward road. It was a clear love case, and, strange to say, a winged vanity fluttered about the merchant’s heart in spite of his remorse, when he perceived the feelings he had inspired. But months wore on, the period fixed for his return had passed, and the tender melancholy began to deepen. The tears were frequently in Zarah’s eyes, and it became necessary that her indulgent sire, the venerable Hussein, should relate to her tales of the length and fatigues of the journey to Yemen, and of the negotiations which might detain her lover there. Eagerly did she seize the faint hopes his words conveyed; but as time wore on, and her women began to whisper together of the inconstancy of men, she rejected with scorn the injurious insinuation. Patience grew weary, and no tidings of Agib. The women now began, with hesitation, to admit the dangers of the desert, and even the brow of old Hussein grew clouded. Zarah noted in silent alarm these ominous indications, and daily her cheek grew thinner and paler, and at last, with tearless eyes, and speechless anguish, she sat all day at the casement, heedless alike of consolation and advice. And Agib felt that her health was sinking, and her peace destroyed.
Remorse now struggled in the merchant’s heart with the passion he had conceived for the fairy of the oasis. Beloved by two creatures, each of so surpassing claims, he could not but feel his own importance; and he profoundly considered what course he should pursue.
Should he return to Aleppo?—restore to Zarah health and happiness? should he reward the deep faith, which could languish for his presence, yet forbear to doubt him—which could support all but the apprehension of danger to himself? Should he indeed become the true, the devoted, she imagined him, and, victorious over himself, claim from the grateful girl a life of delicate homage and obedience?
Alas! Love forbade it. Glory—pride—interest—even gratitude, with the semblance of a virtue, forbade the sacrifice! In his blind attachment to the fairy, whose beauty was invested with the farther attractions of splendor, power, respect, his heart had become indifferent to his betrothed; and, although compassion feebly pleaded her cause, love, bewildering, all-powerful love, uttered for his fairy queen eloquence that only breathed to be obeyed. And, through a long vista of delights, Agib foresaw a dazzling height to which the power of his beloved might elevate him. She had promised that he should rule among his own species with sway unlimited—that he should possess a name and riches to which the kings of the earth should yield a distant homage; and he felt, that unlike other aspirants, who depend upon the veering gales of popular favor, or tremble on the dizzy pinnacle of despotism, he would build his fortunes upon a foundation of adamant—the affections and the power of an immortal, in whose hands the great and the noble were but submissive tools. Then he thought with tender gratitude of the fairy’s devotion. She, lofty and reserved to all else, was to him most gentle and attached. She had preserved his life, she had bestowed on him her preference, and with these reflections glowing at his heart, he assured himself that he yielded to a virtue in admitting her influence, and obeying her will. He would suffer Zarah to believe him dead. The return of the caravan would confirm her fears—time would allay her grief, and permit the forming of new ties to engage her wishes. Thus he reasoned, and he turned from the contemplation of Zarah and her sorrows.
The dream proceeded. He seemed to meet his beloved on her return—to listen to the dearest words of affection from her beautiful lips;—he seemed to hang on the music of her voice, to utter the language of homage and devotion, and to forget, in giving her pleasure by such expressions, the suffering he inflicted on the distant Zarah. Then the long train of pleasures renewed their fascination. He again roamed with the beloved one through moonlight gardens, again pursued delight through all the beautiful mazes she threaded, again was wrapped in those exquisite spells, that left no thought for the future, no wish for the present. And he was happy, for love shed its deep illusions on his soul, and tinted the scenes and objects around him with its own peculiar hues; and the look and the voice of the enchantress were ever ready to charm away the past.
But again, with the fitful caprice of visions, he was placed beside the rivulet, and again the Georgian girl twined the mystic wreath upon his head. He felt the powerful lilies pressing his brows, and infusing into his heart the dream that he abhorred—the dream that he had stifled in pleasure, and hoped forever and ever to forget. He was again forced into the presence of Zarah, and a glance convinced him that the flower which had flourished on his bosom, could not survive the loss of its support. Zarah no longer looked from the casement. Extended in bitterness of spirit upon a couch, whence the refreshment of repose was banished, her beauty had grown delicately touching, her eye languid, her cheek without color. Her women spoke to her, but were unheard, or listened to in silence. At last they told her of a wonderful enchantress, who had recently come to the city, a woman who, by the exertion of surprising skill in magic, professed to reveal the secrets of the past, and to foretell the fortunes of the future. Eagerly did Zarah command them to summon the enchantress. Ah! could it be the Georgian? It was indeed the semblance of Zorayda. Entering the chamber of the deserted lady, she made a graceful inclination, and signified her readiness to gratify her wishes. Trembling even at their approaching accomplishment, Zarah could only motion to her to proceed.
With an incantation, slowly chanted, the Georgian lighted a small lamp, and scattered over the flame a fine blue powder. Volumes of fragrant smoke rose, and quivered in involved and rolling waves to the ceiling. Music floated in the air, and a solemn and twilight gloom pervaded the apartment. Gradually the obscurity cleared away, the vapor was dispelled, the music ceased, and the returning light fell upon a picture, which occupied one whole side of the apartment. Beautiful! beautiful! Can it be that scene in the oasis, where, by the descending glory of sunset, he had so often sat with the fairy—where, even as he gazes on the picture, he beholds her form, and his own, seated on the moss banks, with bloom and odors around them, and looks eloquent of the passion that pervades their hearts. The enchantress mutters a further incantation, and he hears with breathless amazement, and terror for the effect, that language which love, deep love, alone can utter, flow from the lips of his resemblance, and answered by those of the bright being he addresses. And Zarah hears them—but for a moment only. Pressing with her hands the organs which receive intelligence so fatal, she rushes from the apartment with screams of agony, and is received on the threshold into the arms of her father. Questions, kindness, consolation are in vain. They are poured upon the senses of an idle maniac.
Agib glares upon the Georgian with the ire of an infuriated fiend, but the beautiful outlines of her form fade into indistinctness, and the fatal picture is already gone. Words float to his ear—
“Truth shall triumph! Faith be rewarded! but woe! woe to thee, ungrateful Agib!”
Again, in his vision, he was with the fairy; and her fondness was exerted to soothe a melancholy which it could not banish. A sad tone of feeling now mingled with every enjoyment, and, when time and the intervention of other objects had lulled the scorpion at his heart, this pensive sentiment seemed to add a charm to his delights, and to hallow with softness pleasures before greeted in a more hilarious, but less enchanting spirit. He perceived that the Georgian was absent from the oasis, and from the fatal lilies he recoiled. Thus, he flattered himself he should, in time,
dispel the recollections that hung like shadows over his path.
But a new and unforeseen event disturbed his hopes, and overthrew his tranquillity. In a moonlight excursion to the gardens of Iran, the fairy train entered the grounds surrounding an Emir’s palace. Beside a fountain, lulled by nightingales, and watched by the moon, slept the Emir himself—a beautiful youth, upon whose face the dignity of manhood contended with the softer attractions of the boy. To divert the melancholy Agib, the queen proposed to transport him to the oasis, and to amuse themselves with his awakening surprise. This idea was immediately accomplished, and the Emir awoke to the warbling of jays, and the melodious murmurs of a thousand lutes; in a blaze of lamps, and a bewilderment of splendor.
Perhaps his amazement was at first amazing. But when the novelty of his situation was explained, Agib perceived that the young noble had a spirit present and equal to the occasion. He had a mastery of the lute, and had hung, like a bee upon flowers, on the luxurious fancies of the Persian love-poets. His beautiful eyes were fixed with the softest interest upon the queen, and when he sang, in a voice of the most manly richness, words which the fairy might easily apply, she listened to the song with enraptured attention, and ceased to look for approbation from Agib’s eyes.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 44