Alroy
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Benjamin Disraeli >> Alroy
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'I have no thought but for thy service, Prince.'
'Call me not Prince, call me thine own Alroy. My life spared! 'Tis
wonderful! When may I go? Let no one see me. Manage that, Honain. Thou
canst manage all things. I am for Egypt. Thou hast been to Egypt, hast
thou not, Honain?'
'A very wondrous land, 'twill please thee much.'
'When may I go? Tell me when I may go. When may I quit this dark and
noisome cell? 'Tis worse than all their tortures, dear Honain. Air and
light, and I really think my spirit never would break, but this
horrible dungeon---- I scarce can look upon thy face, sweet friend. 'Tis
serious.'
'Wouldst thou have me gay?'
'Yes! if we are free.'
'Alroy! thou art a great spirit, the greatest that I e'er knew, have
ever read of. I never knew thy like, and never shall.'
'Tush, tush, sweet friend, I am a broken reed, but still I am free. This
is no time for courtly phrases. Let's go, and go at once.'
'A moment, dear Alroy. I am no flatterer. What I said came from my
heart, and doth concern us much and instantly. I was saying thou hast no
common mind, Alroy; indeed thou hast a mind unlike all others. Listen,
my Prince. Thou hast read mankind deeply and truly. Few have seen more
than thyself, and none have so rare a spring of that intuitive knowledge
of thy race, which is a gem to which experience is but a jeweller, and
without which no action can befriend us.'
'Well, well!'
'A moment's calmness. Thou hast entered Bagdad in triumph, and thou hast
entered the same city with every contumely which the base spirit of our
race could cast upon its victim. 'Twas a great lesson.'
'I feel it so.'
'And teaches us how vile and valueless is the opinion of our
fellow-men.'
'Alas! 'tis true.'
'I am glad to see thee in this wholesome temper. 'Tis full of wisdom.'
'The miserable are often wise.'
'But to believe is nothing unless we act. Speculation should only
sharpen practice. The time hath come to prove thy lusty faith in this
philosophy. I told thee we could make terms. I have made them. To-morrow
it was doomed Alroy should die--and what a death! A death of infinite
torture! Hast ever seen a man impaled?'[81]
'Hah!'
'To view it is alone a doom.'
'God of Heaven!'
'It is so horrible, that 'tis ever marked, that when this direful
ceremony occurs, the average deaths in cities greatly increase. 'Tis
from the turning of the blood in the spectators, who yet from some
ungovernable madness cannot refrain from hurrying to the scene. I speak
with some authority. I speak as a physician.'
'Speak no more, I cannot endure it.'
'To-morrow this doom awaited thee. As for Schirene----'
'Not for her, oh! surely not for her?'
'No, they were merciful. She is a Caliph's daughter. 'Tis not forgotten.
The axe would close her life. Her fair neck would give slight trouble to
the headsman's art. But for thy sister, but for Miriam, she is a witch,
a Jewish witch! They would have burnt her alive!'
'I'll not believe it, no, no, I'll not believe it: damnable, bloody
demons! When I had power I spared all, all but----ah, me! ah, me! why
did I live?'
'Thou dost forget thyself; I speak of that which was to have been,
not of that which is to be. I have stepped in and communed with the
conqueror. I have made terms.'
'What are they, what can they be?'
'Easy. To a philosopher like Alroy an idle ceremony.'
'Be brief, be brief.'
'Thou seest thy career is a great scandal to the Moslemin. I mark their
weakness, and I have worked upon it. Thy mere defeat or death will not
blot out the stain upon their standard and their faith. The public mind
is wild with fantasies since Alroy rose. Men's opinions flit to and fro
with that fearful change that bodes no stable settlement of states.
None know what to cling to, or where to place their trust. Creeds are
doubted, authority disputed. They would gladly account for thy success
by other than human means, yet must deny thy mission. There also is the
fame of a fair and mighty Princess, a daughter of their Caliphs, which
they would gladly clear. I mark all this, observe and work upon it. So,
could we devise some means by which thy lingering followers could be for
ever silenced, this great scandal fairly erased, and the public frame
brought to a sounder and more tranquil pulse, why, they would concede
much, much, very much.'
'Thy meaning, not thy means, are evident.'
'They are in thy power.'
'In mine? 'Tis a deep riddle. Pr'ythee solve it.'
'Thou wilt be summoned at to-morrow's noon before this Arslan. There
in the presence of the assembled people who are now with him as much as
they were with thee, thou wilt be accused of magic, and of intercourse
with the infernal powers. Plead guilty.'
'Well! is there more?'
'Some trifle. They will then examine thee about the Princess. It is
not difficult to confess that Alroy won the Caliph's daughter by an
irresistible spell, and now 'tis broken.'
'So, so. Is that all?'
'The chief. Thou canst then address some phrases to the Hebrew
prisoners, denying thy Divine mission, and so forth, to settle the
public mind, observe, upon this point for ever.'
'Ay, ay, and then----?'
'No more, except for form. (Upon the completion of the conditions,
mind, you will be conveyed to what land you please, with such amount of
treasure as you choose.) There is no more, except, I say, for form, I
would, if I were you ('twill be expected), I would just publicly affect
to renounce our faith, and bow before their Prophet.'
'Hah! Art thou there? Is this thy freedom? Get thee behind me, tempter!
Never, never, never! Not a jot, not a jot: I'll not yield a jot. Were
my doom one everlasting torture, I'd spurn thy terms! Is this thy high
contempt of our poor kind, to outrage my God! to prove myself the vilest
of the vile, and baser than the basest? Rare philosophy! O Honain! would
we had never met!'
'Or never parted. True. Had my word been taken, Alroy would ne'er have
been betrayed.'
'No more; I pray thee, sir, no more. Leave me.'
'Were this a palace, I would. Harsh words are softened by a friendly
ear, when spoken in affliction.'
'Say what they will, I am the Lord's anointed. As such I should have
lived, as such at least I'll die.'
'And Miriam?'
'The Lord will not desert her: she ne'er deserted Him.'
'Schirene?'
'Schirene! why! for her sake alone I will die a hero. Shall it be said
she loved a craven slave, a base impostor, a vile renegade, a villainous
dealer in drugs and charms? Oh! no, no, no! if only for her sake, her
sweet, sweet sake, my end shall be like my great life. As the sun I
rose, like him I set. Still the world is warm with my bright fame, and
my last hour shall not disgrace my noon, stormy indeed, but glorious!'
Honain took the torch from the niche, and advanced to the grate. It
was not fastened: he drew it gently open, and led forward a veiled and
female figure. The veiled and female figure threw herself at the feet of
Alroy, who seemed lost to what was passing. A soft lip pressed his hand.
He started, his chains clanked.
'Alroy!' softly murmured the kneeling female.
'What voice is that?' wildly exclaimed the Prince of the Captivity. 'It
falls upon my ear like long-forgotten music. I'll not believe it. No!
I'll not believe it. Art thou Schirene?'
'I am that wretched thing they called thy bride.'
'Oh! this indeed is torture! What impalement can equal this sharp
moment? Look not on me, let not our eyes meet! They have met before,
like to the confluence of two shining rivers blending in one great
stream of rushing light. Bear off that torch, sir. Let impenetrable
darkness cover our darker fortunes.'
'Alroy.'
'She speaks again. Is she mad, as I am, that thus she plays with agony?'
'Sire,' said Honain advancing, and laying his hand gently on the arm of
the captive, 'I pray thee moderate this passion. Thou hast some faithful
friends here, who would fain commune in calmness for thy lasting
welfare.'
'Welfare! He mocks me.'
'I beseech, thee, Sire, be calm. If, indeed, I speak unto that great
Alroy whom all men fear and still may fear, I pray remember, 'tis not
in palaces or in the battle-field alone that the heroic soul can conquer
and command. Scenes like these are the great proof of a superior soul.
While we live, our body is a temple where our genius pours forth its
godlike inspiration, and while the altar is not overthrown, the deity
may still work marvels. Then rouse thyself, great Sire; bethink thee
that, a Caliph or a captive, there is no man within this breathing world
like to Alroy. Shall such a being fall without a struggle, like some
poor felon, who has naught to trust to but the dull shuffling accident
of Chance? I, too, am a prophet, and I feel thou still wilt conquer.'
'Give me my sceptre, then, give me the sceptre! I speak to the wrong
brother! It was not thou, it was not thou that gavest it me.'
'Gain it once more. The Lord deserted David for a time; still he
pardoned him, and still he died a king.'
'A woman worked his fall.'
'But thee a woman raises. This great Princess, has she not suffered too?
Yet her spirit is still unbroken. List to her counsel: it is deep and
fond.'
'So was our love.'
'And is, my Alroy!' exclaimed the Princess. 'Be calm, I pray thee! For
my sake be calm; I am calm for thine. Thou hast listened to all Honain
has told thee, that wise man, my Alroy, who never erred.
'Tis but a word he counsels, an empty word, a most unmeaning form. But
speak it, and thou art free, and Alroy and Schirene may blend again
their glorious careers and lives of sweet fruition. Dost thou not
remember when, walking in the garden of our joy, and palled with empire,
how often hast thou sighed for some sweet isle unknown to man, where
thou mightst pass thy days with no companion but my faithful self, and
no adventures but our constant loves? O my beloved, that life may still
be thine! And dost thou falter? Dost call thyself forlorn with such
fidelity, and deem thyself a wretch, when Paradise with all its
beauteous gates but woos thy entrance? Oh! no, no, no, no! thou hast
forgot Schirene: I fear me much, thy over-fond Schirene, who doats upon
thy image in thy chains more than she did when those sweet hands of
thine were bound with gems and played with her bright locks!'
'She speaks of another world. I do remember something. Who has sent this
music to a dungeon? My spirit softens with her melting words. My
eyes are moist. I weep! 'Tis pleasant. Sorrow is joy compared with my
despair. I never thought to shed a tear again. My brain is cooler.'
'Weep, weep, I pray thee weep; but let me kiss away thy tears, my soul!
Didst think thy Schirene had deserted thee? Ah! that was it that made
my bird so sad. It shall be free, and fly in a sweet sky, and feed on
flowers with its faithful mate. Ah me! I am once more happy with my boy.
There was no misery but thy absence, sweet! Methinks this dungeon is our
bright kiosk! Is that the sunbeam, or thy smile, my love, that makes the
walls so joyful?'
'Did I smile? I'll not believe it.'
'Indeed you did. Ah! see he smiles again. Why this is freedom! There is
no such thing as sorrow. Tis a lie to frighten fools!'
'Why, Honain, what's this? 'Twould seem I am really joyful. There's
inspiration in her very breath. I am another being. Nay! waste not
kisses on those ugly fetters.'
'Methinks they are gold.'
They were silent. Schirene drew Alroy to his rough seat, and gently
placing herself on his knees, threw her arms round his neck, and buried
her face in his breast. After a few minutes she raised her head, and
whispered in his ear in irresistible accents of sweet exultation, 'We
shall be free to-morrow!'
'To-morrow! is the trial so near?' exclaimed the captive, with an
agitated voice and changing countenance. 'To-morrow!' He threw Schirene
aside somewhat hastily, and sprang from his seat. 'To-morrow! would it
were over! To-morrow! Methinks there is within that single word the fate
of ages! Shall it be said to-morrow that Alroy---- Hah! what art thou
that risest now before me? Dread, mighty spirit, thou hast come in time
to save me from perdition. Take me to thy bosom, 'tis not stabbed. They
did not stab thee. Thou seest me here communing with thy murderers. What
then? I am innocent. Ask them, dread ghost, and call upon their fiendish
souls to say I am pure. They would make me dark as themselves, but shall
not.'
'Honain, Honain!' exclaimed the Princess in a terrible whisper as she
flew to the Physician. 'He is wild again. Calm him, calm him. Mark! how
he stands with his extended arms, and fixed vacant eyes, muttering most
awful words! My spirit fails me. It is too fearful.'
The Physician advanced and stood by the side of Alroy, but in vain
attempted to catch his attention. He ventured to touch his arm. The
Prince started, turned round, and recognising him, exclaimed in a
shrieking voice, 'Off, fratricide!'
Honain recoiled, pale and quivering. Schirene sprang to his arm. 'What
said he, Honain? Thou dost not speak. I never saw thee pale before. Art
thou, too, mad?'
'Would I were!'
'All men are growing wild. I am sure he said something. I pray thee tell
me what was it?'
'Ask him.'
'I dare not. Tell me, tell me, Honain!'
'That I dare not.'
'Was it a word?'
'Ay! a word to wake the dead. Let us begone.'
'Without our end? Coward! I'll speak to him. My own Alroy,' sweetly
whispered the Princess, as she advanced before him.
'What, has the fox left the tigress! Is't so, eh? Are there no
judgments? Are the innocent only haunted? I am innocent! I did not
strangle thee! He said rightly, "Beware, beware! they who did this may
do even feller deeds." And here they are quick at their damned work.
Thy body suffered, great Jabaster, but me they would strangle body and
soul!'
The Princess shrieked, and fell into the arms of the advancing Honain,
who bore her out of the dungeon.
After the fall of Hamadan, Bostenay and Miriam had been carried
prisoners to Bagdad. Through the interference of Honain, their
imprisonment had been exempted from the usual hardships, but they
were still confined to their chambers in the citadel. Hitherto all the
endeavours of Miriam to visit her brother had been fruitless. Honain
was the only person to whom she could apply for assistance, and he, in
answer to her importunities, only regretted his want of power to aid
her. In vain had she attempted, by the offer of some remaining jewels,
to secure the co-operation of her guards, with whom her loveliness and
the softness of her manners had already ingratiated her. She had not
succeeded even in communicating with Alroy. But after the unsuccessful
mission of Honain to the dungeon, the late Vizier visited the sister of
the captive, and, breaking to her with delicate skill the intelligence
of the impending catastrophe, he announced that he had at length
succeeded in obtaining for her the desired permission to visit her
brother; and, while she shuddered at the proximity of an event for
which she had long attempted to prepare herself, Honain, with some
modifications, whispered the means by which he flattered himself that it
might yet be averted. Miriam listened to him in silence, nor could
he, with all his consummate art, succeed in extracting from her the
slightest indication of her own opinion as to their expediency. They
parted, Honain as sanguine as the wicked ever are.
As Miriam dreaded, both for herself and for Alroy, the shock of an
unexpected meeting, she availed herself of the influence of Honain
to send Caleb to her brother, to prepare him for her presence, and to
consult him as to the desirable moment. Caleb found his late master
lying exhausted on the floor of his dungeon. At first he would not speak
or even raise his head, nor did he for a long time apparently recognise
the faithful retainer of his uncle. But at length he grew milder, and
when he fully comprehended who the messenger was, and the object of his
mission, he at first seemed altogether disinclined to see his sister,
but in the end postponed their meeting for the present, and, pleading
great exhaustion, fixed for that sad interview the first hour of dawn.
The venerable Bostenay had scarcely ever spoken since the fall of his
nephew; indeed it was but too evident that his faculties, even if they
had not entirely deserted him, were at least greatly impaired. He never
quitted his couch; he took no notice of what occurred. He evinced no
curiosity, scarcely any feeling. If indeed he occasionally did mutter an
observation, it was generally of an irritable character, nor truly did
he appear satisfied if anyone approached him, save Miriam, from
whom alone he would accept the scanty viands which he ever appeared
disinclined to touch. But his devoted niece, amid all her harrowing
affliction, could ever spare to the protector of her youth a placid
countenance, a watchful eye, a gentle voice, and a ready hand. Her
religion and her virtue, the strength of her faith, and the inspiration
of her innocence, supported this pure and hapless lady amid all her
undeserved and unparalleled sorrows.
It was long past midnight; the young widow of Abner reposed upon a couch
in a soft slumber. The amiable Beruna and the beautiful Bathsheba, the
curtains drawn, watched the progress of the night.
'Shall I wake her?' said the beautiful Bathsheba. 'Methinks the stars
are paler! She bade me rouse her long before the dawn.'
'Her sleep is too benign! Let us not wake her,' replied the amiable
Beruna. 'We rouse her only to sorrow.'
'May her dreams at least be happy;' rejoined the beautiful Bathsheba.
'She sleeps tranquilly, as a flower.'
'The veil has fallen from her head,' said the amiable Beruna. 'I will
replace it lightly on her brow. Is that well, my Bathsheba?'
'It is well, sweet Beruna. Her face shrouded by the shawl is like a
pearl in its shell. See! she moves!'
'Bathsheba!'
'I am here, sweet lady.'
'Is it near dawn?'
'Not yet, sweet lady; it is yet night. It is long past the noon of
night, sweet lady; methinks I scent the rising breath of morn; but still
'tis night, and the young moon shines like a sickle in the heavenly
field, amid the starry harvest.'
'Beruna, gentle girl, give me thy arm. I'll rise.'
The maidens advanced, and gently raising their mistress, supported her
to the window.
'Since our calamities,' said Miriam, 'I have never enjoyed such tranquil
slumber. My dreams were slight, but soothing. I saw him, but he smiled.
Have I slept long, sweet girls? Ye are very watchful.'
'Dear lady, let me bring thy shawl. The air is fresh----'
'But sweet; I thank thee, no. My brow is not so cool as to need a
covering. 'Tis a fair night!'
Miriam gazed upon the wide prospect of the moonlit capital. The elevated
position of the citadel afforded an extensive view of the mighty groups
of buildings-each in itself a city, broken only by some vast and hooded
cupola, the tall, slender, white minarets of the mosques, or the black
and spiral form of some lonely cypress--through which the rushing
Tigris, flooded with light, sent forth its broad and brilliant torrent.
All was silent; not a single boat floated on the fleet river, not a
solitary voice broke the stillness of slumbering millions. She gazed
and, as she gazed, she could not refrain from contrasting the present
scene, which seemed the sepulchre of all the passions of our race,
with the unrivalled excitement of that stirring spectacle which Bagdad
exhibited on the celebration of the marriage of Alroy. How different
then, too, was her position from her present, and how happy! The only
sister of a devoted brother, the lord and conqueror of Asia, the bride
of his most victorious captain, one worthy of all her virtues, and whose
youthful valour had encircled her brow with a diadem. To Miriam, exalted
station had brought neither cares nor crimes. It had, as it were, only
rendered her charity universal, and her benevolence omnipotent. She
could not accuse herself, this blessed woman--she could not accuse
herself, even in this searching hour of self-knowledge--she could not
accuse herself, with all her meekness, and modesty, and humility, of
having for a moment forgotten her dependence on her God, or her duty to
her neighbour.
But when her thoughts recurred to that being from whom they were indeed
scarcely ever absent; and when she remembered him, and all his life,
and all the thousand incidents of his youth, mysteries to the world, and
known only to her, but which were indeed the prescience of his fame, and
thought of all his surpassing qualities and all his sweet affection,
his unrivalled glory and his impending fate, the tears, in silent agony,
forced their way down her pale and pensive cheek. She bowed her head
upon Bathsheba's shoulder, and sweet Beruna pressed her quivering hand.
The moon set, the stars grew white and ghastly, and vanished one by one.
Over the distant plain of the Tigris, the scene of the marriage pomp,
the dark purple horizon shivered into a rich streak of white and orange.
The solemn strain of the Muezzin sounded from the minarets. Some one
knocked at the door. It was Caleb.
'I am ready,' said Miriam; and for a moment she covered her face with
her right hand. 'Think of me, sweet maidens; pray for me!'
Leaning on Caleb, and lighted by a gaoler, bearing torches, Miriam
descended the damp and broken stairs that led to the dungeon. She
faltered as she arrived at the grate. She stopped, and leant against the
cold and gloomy wall. The gaoler and Caleb preceded her. She heard the
voice of Alroy. It was firm and sweet. Its accents reassured her. Caleb
came forth with a torch, and held it to her feet; and, as he bent down,
he said, 'My lord bade me beg you to be of good heart, for he is.'
The gaoler, having stuck his torch in the niche, withdrew. Miriam
desired Caleb to stay without. Then, summoning up all her energies, she
entered the dreadful abode. Alroy was standing to receive her. The
light fell full upon his countenance. It smiled. Miriam could no longer
restrain herself. She ran forward, and pressed him to her heart.
'O, my best, my long beloved,' whispered Alroy; 'such a meeting indeed
leads captivity captive!'
But the sister could not speak. She leant her head upon his shoulder,
and closed her eyes, that she might not weep.
'Courage, dear heart; courage, courage!' whispered the captive. 'Indeed
I am happy!'
'My brother, my brother!'
'Had we met yesterday, you would have found me perhaps a little vexed.
But to-day I am myself again. Since I crossed the Tigris, I know not
that I have felt such self-content. I have had sweet dreams, dear
Miriam, full of solace. And, more than dreams, the Lord has pardoned me,
I truly think.'
'O, my brother! your words are full of comfort; for, indeed, I too have
dreamed, and dreamed of consolation. My spirit, since our fall, has
never been more tranquil.'
'Indeed I am happy.'
'Say so again, my David; let me hear again these words of solace!'
'Indeed, 'tis very true, my faithful friend. It is not spoken in
kind mockery to make you joyous. For know, last eve, whether the Lord
repented of his wrath, or whether some dreadful trials, of which I will
not speak, and wish not to remember, had made atonement for my manifold
sins, but so it was, that, about the time my angel Miriam sent her
soothing message, a feeling of repose came over me, such as I long have
coveted. Anon, I fell into a slumber, deep and sweet, and, instead of
those wild and whirling images that of late have darted from my brain
when it should rest, glimpses of empire and conspiracy, snatches of
fierce wars and mocking loves, I stood beside our native fountain's
brink, and gathered flowers with my earliest friend. As I placed the
fragrant captives in your flowing locks, there came Jabaster, that
great, injured man, no longer stern and awful, but with benignant
looks, and full of love. And he said, "David, the Lord hath marked thy
faithfulness, in spite of the darkness of thy dungeon." So he vanished.
He spoke, my sister, of some strange temptations by heavenly aid
withstood. No more of that. I awoke. And lo! I heard my name still
called. Full of my morning dream, I thought it was you, and I answered,
"Dear sister, art thou here?" But no one answered; and then, reflecting,
my memory recognised those thrilling tones that summoned Alroy in
Jabaster's cave.' 'The Daughter of the Voice?' 'Even that sacred
messenger. I am full of faith. The Lord hath pardoned me. Be sure of
that.'
'I cannot doubt it, David. You have done great things for Israel; no one
in these latter days has risen like you. If you have fallen, you were
young, and strangely tempted.'
'Yet Israel, Israel! Did I not feel a worthier leader will yet arise, my
heart would crack. I have betrayed my country!'
'Oh no, no, no! You have shown what we can do and shall do. Your memory
alone is inspiration. A great career, although baulked of its end, is
still a landmark of human energy. Failure, when sublime, is not without
its purpose. Great deeds are great legacies, and work with wondrous
usury. By what Man has done, we learn what Man can do; and gauge the
power and prospects of our race.'
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