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A short story by Margery Verner Reed |
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Conflict |
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Title: Conflict Author: Margery Verner Reed [More Titles by Reed] IT is night--a moonlight night in the Orient-- THE earth is flooded in mystic beauty-- MIDNIGHT songbirds in the trees. AND the Palace of the Sultan--great marble halls--fountains of running water--moonlight shining in. STRANGE, weird music of the desert played by slaves. IT is the picturesque setting of a strange tale--a tale of inward struggle. THE Sultan--lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East--softened by the night's mysterious light. AMONG flowers and heavily-scented perfumes. HIS dancing girls have left--his bronzed face--framed in black hair--his dark eyes--wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire--Life holds nothing new for him--only the continuation of old pleasures. AT last a heavy portiere is lifted. PERHAPS you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty--a slave-- THE girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European--a Russian of noble birth. AMONG the palms of the Orient--almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan. ONLY one of many, a passionate love holds her there. EVER following--pursuing, is the other self--the gentle nature, which understands neither passion nor envy. The self which still fears and loves--yet--has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle nature whispers to the dominant one-- Lift yourself up and come away--I will lead you far from the moonlight--the overpowering perfumes--into the bleak light of day--peace will find you. No--the stillness of the night--the kisses of my Sultan content me. But soon the inner voice cried so loud--even the moonlight could not quiet it. PULLING against the inner self--her heart must break. THE soft music of the slaves--once it had soothed her--but now-- IT was the howling wind of a northern land--of Russia--or the pealing of a bell--There had been a chapel in the dark Zamok where her childhood had been spent. THE inner voice called Katherine--but could not yet overcome the blood which flowed in Katherine's veins--the blood of a favorite of a Czar. SOMETIMES in the light of day the inner, other self of Katherine would overcome--would want to flee--but ever the mysticism of Oriental nights would draw out more strongly than before the tainted blood of the unfortunate. FINALLY the Sultan grew disdainful--There were newer girls brought from Mecca, from the desert. THE great--the inevitable conflict with her inner self left her torn--haggard. FOR days she hung between life and death--with no one to care, save an old colored slave. GONE the mystic atmosphere of the Orient--the music of cymbals. * * * * * A PROVINCIAL town in France--with the ill-lighted streets--and a steady down-pour of winter rain. IT is Christmas eve THROUGH the window Katherine has been watching a procession of people hastening to midnight Mass at the Cathedral. Women--dressed in the picturesque garb and coif of Brittany--men and children--What peace is theirs--they know of the Christ Child--of his Mother--and no streams of lowest passion--can cover their souls. THE Cathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic beauty for many centuries--has witnessed many scenes. THAT night a soul struggled against the past. A WOMAN--she was alive--for she walked--moved. But within--she was numb. SHE lay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar--before the creche-- HER inner self was pleading--Katherine--live again! PRESENTLY the Adeste Fidelis sounded--throbbed--filled the church HOW beautiful--she murmured. THE memory of the Sultan rose and fell each time at the sight of the candles, the acolytes in prayer. A vision so fierce and lustful could not live in this sacred place. * * * * * MY child--advised the old Priest--pray--pray always for forgiveness--for enlightenment--for guidance. One who seeks these things as fervently as you do always finds. [The end] GO TO TOP OF SCREEN |