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Smith, Clark Ashton - Ennui.txt
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Ennui
by Clark Ashton Smith
Feb. 26. 1918
In the alcove whose curtains are cloth-of-gold, and whose pillars are fluted
sapphire, reclines the emperor Chan, on his couch of ebony set with opals and
rubies, and cushioned with the furs of unknown and gorgeous beasts. With
implacable and weary gaze, from beneath unmoving lids that seem carven of
purple-veined onyx, he stares at the crystal windows, giving upon the infinite
fiery azures of a tropic sky and sea. Oppressive as nightmare, a formless
nameless fatigue, heavier than any burden the slaves of the mines must bear,
lies forever at his heart: all deliriums of Love and wine, the agonizing ecstasy
of drugs, even the deepest and the faintest pulse of delight or pain-all are
proven, all are futile, for the outworn but insatiate emperor. Even for a new
grief, or a subtler pang than any felt before, he thinks, lying on his bed of
ebony, that he would give the silver and vermilion of all his mines, with the
crowded caskets, the carcanets and crowns that lie in his most immemorial
treasure-vault. Vainly, with the verse of the more inventive poets, the fanciful
purple-threaded fabrics of the subtlest looms, the unfamiliar gems and minerals
from the uttermost land, the pallid leaves and blood-like petals of a rare and
venomous blossom-vainly, with all these, and many stranger devices, wilder, more
wonderful diversions, the slaves and sultanas have sought to alleviate the iron
hours. One by one he has dismissed them with a weary gesture. And now, in the
silence of the heavily curtained alcove, he lies alone, with the canker of ennui
at his heart, like the undying mordant worm at the heart of the dead.
Anon, from between the curtains at the head of his couch, a dark and
slender hand is slowly extended, clasping a dagger whose blade reflects the gold
of the curtain in a thin and stealthily wavering gleam. Slowly, in silence, the
dagger is poised, then rises and falls like a splinter of lightning. The emperor
cries out, as the blade, piercing his loosely-folded robe, wounds him slightly
in the side. In a moment the alcove is filled with armed attendants, who seize
and drag forth the would-be assassin-a slave-girl, the princess of a conquered
people, who has often, but vainly, implored her freedom from the emperor. Pale,
and panting with terror and rage, she faces Chan and the guardsmen, while
stories of unimaginable monstrous tortures, of dooms unnamable, crowd upon her
memory. But Chan, aroused and startled only for the instant, feels again the
insuperable weariness, more strong than anger or fear, and delays to give the
expected signal. And then, momentarily moved, perchance, by some ironical
emotion, half-akin to gratitude-gratitude for the brief but diverting danger,
which has served to alleviate his ennui for a little, he bids them free the
princess; and, with a regal courtesy, places about her throat his own necklace
of pearls and emeralds, each of which is the cost of an army.