Fair Semblances: An Allegorical Fantasy (Chapter 17)

The beautiful Queen Isabella scrutinized Mishael for some seconds, and then, with an approving air that seemed warm with the most intimate familiarity, and at the same time distant and unobtainable in its royal magnificence, she addressed him:

“I have chosen you on the belief that you may be one in whom the consummate splendor of my kingdom might take on a natural and dignified air. That is the only use I have for you. If you please me, I offer you the world, and every conceivable amenity and pleasure that it has ever produced. But in exchange, your soul must be mine alone. You must be at once ineffably glorious and set apart, an ideal which everyone will strive to emulate; and at the same time, familiar and approachable. Your glory will be a reflection of my own glory, and the glory of the City of Lusk; and make no mistake, the greatness of Lusk is built primarily upon the impression of unruffled happiness that is to be found in unrivaled prosperity; and secondarily upon the impression that such a state of perfect joy is obtainable to him who strives for it. If Lusk is to grow more prosperous, and capture the attention of more seekers of the pleasures of extravagance, who will bring in their wealth to swell its own greatness, then you must be the embodiment of both those things, the pleasure of wealth and its ready availability to all who are of a proud and noble spirit.”

“If I am right, and you do indeed learn to wear unimaginable splendor as easily as an old, comfortable cloak, then your life will be surrounded by all the pomp and pleasure of the most celebrated dignitaries the world has ever known. But if you are unable, or if you betray me with the merest thought of your own autonomy in the privacy of your chamber at night, I will make you remember how base a slave you were when I found you, and your latter shame will rival your momentary magnificence. Do you understand my proposition?”

Mishael understood her precisely as she intended to be understood. The unquestioning and immutably loyal manner in which he must surrender to her his entire soul seemed a negligible thing almost, a mere side-effect of no importance at all, in comparison with the splendor she was offering in so bewitching a fashion. It seemed to him that she was the embodiment of everything a man could ever desire, and that to be her slave was to be blessed beyond measure, awash in unalloyed joy, the most enviable of creatures. In a moment he forgot Ariel, whose beauty seemed suddenly unrefined and half-formed, and felt none of that longing to see Lebben-Or, or renew his acquaintance with his friends, that had tortured him ever since they were torn apart. In a word, his soul was utterly and irremediably enslaved to this woman, as soon as she stepped into the room.

Already, Mishael was reflecting the aura of this captivating Queen; and as she finished her proposal, he responded with a simple bow and the words, “My Queen,” which reflected the same diversity of demeanor, indicating at once his slavish and passionate devotion to her, and the illusory appearance of being proud and noble, the master of his own soul. This bow, which embodied the deception that her “glory” consisted of, pleased the Queen immensely, and adding matter-of-factly, “Reuben, my house vizier, will explain your position more fully,” she left the room quite satisfied with her well-selected acquisition. Mishael remained sitting on the couch, with a very self-congratulatory look on his face, not considering at all that to have one’s will and soul enslaved is more demeaning by far than to be rotting in the deepest dungeon, in adamant chains of iron.

Very shortly after his meeting with the Queen, Mishael heard the sound of footsteps in the hall, and a stately old man with graying hair and a proud, erect appearance entered the parlor. “I am Reuben,” he introduced himself with a courteous bow; “I will personally assist you in your time of transition to your new position, and ensure that you have a satisfactory understanding of the dignified office you have entered into, and the manner and means most suitable for discharging your responsibilities. If you will follow me, please.”

“And I am Mishael,” our sadly manipulable hero responded in quite the same tone, capitalizing on the chameleon-like comportment that he already realized was the one non-negotiable quality that would give him success in his newfound position of prominence; “I will be glad to avail myself of your services.”

The vizier led Mishael through a bewildering complex of elegant rooms and hallways, indicating the name and purpose of each respective room, and finally brought him to an expansive suite, which he indicated would be for his personal use. After showing him around the suite, complete with its game room, library, sauna, master bedroom, snack bar, formal dining room, and guest rooms, he sat down with him in the suite’s largest room, the reception hall, and proceeded with his explanation of Mishael’s new position.

“As you are doubtless aware,” the old gentleman began, “you have been chosen for a very prominent and enviable office in the state of Lusk. Lusk is the most prosperous and civilized city in the history of the world, and the soul of Lusk is her Queen, Isabella. Without her presence, the city’s resplendent beauty would soon grow dull and lose its charm; but it is evident that she cannot be everywhere, and the charming social life of Lusk is at times a vexation to her; therefore, she has made the decision at all times to have an official proxy, who should be her personal representative, and appear in her stead at all the galas, festivals, carnivals, state functions, official receptions, and so on, that she does not wish to be at.”

“Your position as the personal proxy of the Queen will grant you autonomous power to make decisions and supply responses to petitioners, which will all carry royal authority. But ultimately, and much more importantly, you have the more subtle but vastly more influential authority to represent her dignity and the fashionable trends of her city’s culture; for all of Lusk, and indeed all the world, looks to Queen Isabella as the embodiment of fashion and impeccable taste in high culture. Every time you leave this suite, therefore, you are representing the luxury of Lusk, which governs the world more certainly than the armies of Vrak himself could ever do.”

“Your manner of life, in this position, will of course be the envy of the world. You will be, in essence, a professional socialite and icon of prosperity. Children all over the world will grow up dreaming about becoming you. Only make no mistake about it, all of your influence and success hangs upon the whim of the Queen: offend her in the slightest, make any decision of which she does not approve, or model any fashion that becomes a laughingstock, and you will fall as suddenly as you arose. And you must realize this, as well: to all appearances, you will possess immeasurable power. Speak a word, and it will be done, for everyone from the highest officials of Lusk to the lowliest slaves in the streets will be at your beck and call. But although you will seem to have all authority, in reality you will be the most abject slave of popular opinion. Your own tastes and opinions mean nothing. The slaveboy who sweeps the streets has the right to an opinion, but you have no more right. It is your solemn duty, above all else, to discern the mind of the people and reflect their opinions as if they were originally yours. Give the people what they want. That is what you are called upon to do. And if you fail to do it, Isabella will find someone who will.”

“And one more thing,” the shrewd vizier continued; “what I have told you is obviously never to be spoken of, either in this palace or abroad. To admit that you are enslaved to popular opinion is at once to divest yourself of your influence and prestige. The people will follow you because you represent what they do not have but dream about having, and dare to hope they might achieve. You will be loved because you are the incarnation of the people’s own desires; but if they could see that you are their product, not their inspiration – their slave and not their master – the resultant realization that their dreams are unobtainable, because you are not a goal to be striving toward, but rather one of them, and just the same as they, will be the downfall of Lusk.”

“Now, tomorrow will be an important day for you, for you will be officially introduced to high society, and the impression that you make will determine your future. Tonight, sleep well and prepare yourself. An attendant will arrive in the morning to assist you in making yourself presentable.”

* * * * * * * *

The following day came and went in a flurry of preparation, introductions, intelligent-sounding chatter that masked its meaninglessness behind a cascade of impressive words and hot-button topics, and in short, all the ornate emptiness by which high society is characterized. Mishael was an outstanding success, and quite rapidly became the talk of the town, and the darling of the fashionable crowd. Soon his whole life was a whirlwind of the same parties and affected airs of happiness and purpose, of condescending familiarity and arrogant approachableness. In a word, he was soon the very image of the soul of Lusk, and the exact masculine counterpart of her splendid Queen, Isabella.

For six weeks Mishael lived like this, and it seemed to him as if it had already been a lifetime of exhilaration and gratification. And he might indeed have spent a lifetime in those enchanting circles, which drain one’s lifeblood and smile seductively while doing so, if a singular event had not just then taken place, which would quite change the direction of his life, as nothing else should have been able to do.

One of the great pleasures of Lusk’s fashionable society was the introduction of new artists, fashions, philosophies, entertainments, and so on, from all over the world. Nothing could draw the crowds or spark the conversations like the groundbreaking exhibition of the great works of so-and-so from such-and-such an exotic country, which would then be emulated by all the aspiring young artists of Lusk until the arrival of some new art form from some new virtuoso. On the day in question, there was to be a showing of a newly discovered musician, whose genius was apparently unrivaled, and who had been captured by unwitting slave traders and brought to Lusk, where his prodigious talent had soon been discovered. No one knew his origins, and all admitted he was rather a different sort of fellow, serenely silent and strikingly unaffected; but granting that it was the prerogative of a genius to be unusual, the fashionable crowd was ready to turn out in force for a concert that night in one of the city’s premier amphitheaters. But first, the musician, whose name turned out to be Asaph, was invited to a private showing in the parlors of the Queen herself, to which only a few high dignitaries, Mishael included, would be invited.

At about three o’clock that afternoon, Asaph was escorted to the reception parlor in the palace of the Queen, where a small crowd of some ten or twelve persons, together with a handful of security guards and attendants, was gathered together to wait for him. His appearance was immediately a little distasteful – he was a tall, lanky fellow, and had been dressed in the fashions of Lusk, which did not suit him at all, and which made the sincere expression of his face, which was a thing almost unheard of in the palace, all the more striking. He carried nothing but a small, stringed instrument, some sort of harp or lyre, an exact counterpart to which Mishael had never before seen; and when invited to play, with a humble and bashful motion, although still apparently possessing an inward calm and complete mastery over his soul, he unslung the harp from his shoulder, fingered it familiarly and tenderly for a few moments, and finally, so absorbed in the music he was making that he seemed to have forgotten his whereabouts entirely, he began to play.

The melodies that Asaph soon had leaping from the strings of his battered harp were undoubtedly beautiful and most skillfully played; but the effect, like that of his person, was a little uncomfortable, and tended toward mixed and contradictory emotions in its hearers. Some of them, although feeling a little awkward at first, finally thrust aside their doubts, considering that, if it was taking place in the presence of Mishael and Queen Isabella, it must certainly be fashionable and right; and soon, they were completely taken in by the unadulterated beauty of the music, which was so different a kind of beauty than they had ever experienced before. Others grew visibly uncomfortable and agitated, and seemed to have no appreciation for the music at all. A very strained tension began to make itself felt, cutting through the thick layers of Luskian pretension and hypocrisy, and exposing genuine feelings that had not been seen unmasked in years.

The effect on Mishael himself was extraordinary: no sooner had the first note struck his ear, than his mind fled back in remembrance to the Springs of Elim, and the song that Ariel had then sung for him, which was suffused in every strain with the beauty of Lebben-Or, and the glory of the High King. For six weeks he had thought nothing of Ariel and Gilead, and he had quite come to the fashionable conviction that Lebben-Or was a childish fairy-tale devised by the uncivilized barbarians of the earth, who wandered in squalor and filth. The gibes of Eshban had taken root deep within his soul, and he quickly came to despise such persons as he had been only a few weeks previous. But now, the visions of Lebben-Or and his friends, whom he had so faithlessly forgotten, came rushing back upon him; and soon, he was as forgetful of his whereabouts as Asaph seemed to be, as poignantly feeling his shame and as ardently longing for reconciliation with his friends as he had been in the dungeon where the slave drivers had first thrown him.

The effect on Queen Isabella, on the other hand, was quite different but equally extraordinary. For a moment, she seemed uncharacteristically paralyzed, and then she seemed uncharacteristically in a rage, quite out of control, with the exquisite mask of decorum she had fashioned for herself over the years thrown aside in an uncontrollable passion. Stepping toward Asaph with eyes full of hatred, she whispered in a ferocious tone of disbelief and disgust, “How dare you play the songs of Lebben-Or in here? Don’t you know that I have the power to destroy you or to make you rich and famous? A nod from me, and your ludicrous, ungainly head will be rolling on the floor.”

Looking up serenely from his harp, the last tones of which were still ringing in the air, Asaph responded simply and calmly, “You may kill me, but the songs of the High King will never die.”

“Fool!”, she shrieked in a rage; and then, in a frenzied pitch sultry with detestation, “Guards!”.

In a flash, the guards were upon Asaph, unceremoniously dragging him out of the parlor, and Mishael knew with a heavy-hearted certainty that there would be no concert tonight, and that this out-of-place singer would never see the light of another day. Before he was gone, the Queen was already stepping out of the parlor at an undignified half-trot, and Mishael, his head in a whirl, was fumbling his way back to his suite, where he could be alone and sort things through.

When Mishael made it into his suite, where he locked himself in after asking his personal attendant that he wished on no account to be disturbed, he sank down into the first available chair, at the front of the spacious reception hall, and looked around. Before, he had seen only luxury and elegance, curtains and carpets of the finest materials from around the world, crystal chandeliers and exquisite furniture. Now, when he looked about him, he was quite certain that he was seeing barred windows and moldy, dripping stone walls, with chains on every door and stocks and fetters before every chair. He squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked again, but he could still see the same gloomy dungeon; the splendor was all vanished away.

Leaping to his feet, he began to pace rapidly back and forth, muttering to himself with incoherent strings of words, among which could be discerned “…worse than Fair Semblances…miserable idiot…O Ariel!…O Lebben-Or…too late, too late…”. He seemed to be in just such a state as he had been in at the Wayfarer’s Inn so long before.

But suddenly he stopped, frozen in his tracks, and a new thought, a look of hope which he dared not believe, flashed across his eyes. His lips slowly formed around a word and then paused, leaving it unuttered. For awhile he stood there, his mouth still frozen in an unnatural shape, as if he were laboring, giving all his being, to bring to birth this one great word, this impossible dream. The expression on his face made him look like the dullest of creatures, trying to fathom something far beyond him. All the smugness and dignity of his Luskian demeanor had been thoroughly erased. Finally, shaking his head as if awaking from a vivid dream, he closed his mouth again, and opening it once more uttered a different word, “maybe”. Then, he sat back down.

A couple hours later, just before dusk, Mishael stepped out of his suite dressed in the latest fashions of Lusk, walked through the intricate maze of palatial hallways, and stepped out of the palace. He walked briskly on foot, and everywhere he went, doors opened to him and people bowed. Finally, when he was out of sight of the celebratory crowds, who were by this time all making their way to the amphitheater, still hoping to hear the new virtuoso in concert, he ducked into a dark alleyway and reappeared a few seconds later, dressed much differently, in a nondescript brown cloak, with the hood drawn close around his face. He walked down the well-lighted central thoroughfare of Lusk in silence and at something between a brisk walk and a jog, pushing through the rest of the crowd, who took no notice of him. Finally he reached the high gate in the surrounding wall of the city, which was still open, and through which a long caravan of camels was just then passing. Taking advantage of the commotion, he slipped through unnoticed, or at least unnoticed by anyone who cared to hinder him, as he had the appearance of a harmless enough peasant.

Soon, twilight was obscuring the fine lines of the landscape, and Mishael was making his way due west, where he remembered that Gilead had said that Lebben-Or should be.

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