Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yaféh winged his flight to the studio of the musician, and harmonies of heaven floated in his ear, entrancing him with their exquisite perfection, and hour after hour he laboured to bring them from their impalpable essence to the bondage of note and phrase, but in vain—in vain! The sounds he did produce were wild, discordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he refused to listen more.
The poet, the philosopher, the historian—wherever genius lay—Yaféh touched with his quivering breath, and to all came the same dream of marvellous loveliness—the same ideal perfection. On all burst the torrent of inspiration, compelling toil and work, to give words to the pressing thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect; and their burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each glorious lay, each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis—clothed in such glowing imagery and thrilling words—must last for ever. And Yaféh triumphed, for surely here he was secure, and in these prove that he could work alone, and needed the aid of none.
A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were forgotten and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely as it had seemed, quivered into darkness before the test of usefulness and reason. The new discoveries, new thoughts of the historian met with scorn and laughter in the vain search for their foundation. And, in their deep despair, Yaféh heard the names by which he was known to earth accursed and scorned; his presence banished; his inspirations rudely checked, as bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and ruin, and the Spirit fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the homes of earth and the hearts of men; and shrinking from his starry home and light-clad brother, sought to pierce through and through the vast realms of unfathomable space, and lose himself in darkness. His iris rays seemed fading from his lovely form, lost in denser and denser gloom. Above, below, and around him thunder rolled, and the glittering Hosts of Heaven trembled, lest his proud wish were to be chastised still further. But soon the majestic form of the Spirit Amête stood beside his brother, and before the touch of his glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to claim Yaféh, fled howling.
“Yaféh, beloved! we will descend together,” he said, in tones clear, distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood. “Thy work shall yet live and be immortal.”
“Nay, ’twill be thine,” murmured the repentant Spirit, his darkened loveliness resuming light and glory from the effulgent brow so pityingly bent down on his. “What need hast thou for me? Go forth and work alone; I have no part on earth.”
“Thou hast; for without thee I have no power. Man trembles at my form when at the Eternal’s mandate, I must go forth alone; but with thee, perchance because my sterner self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and permits my work ascendency. Without thee I could but bind to earth; with thee I lead to heaven. Brother, we are One, though earth may deem us twain. We cannot work for Immortality apart.”
Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother spirits could with difficulty distinguish their individuality, Amête and Yaféh stood within the dwellings of man. The mechanic and the artizan started from their desponding trance; the neglected work was resumed. The form, the inspiration was the same; but as if a flash of light had touched it, it gave back that perfect image of the mind for which before they had so toiled and toiled in vain. On to the artist, the sculptor, the musician, and one touch from that crystal spear, and the misty cloud dispersed, and the senseless canvas gave back the perfected thought; the cold marble sprung into the warmth of actual being; the impalpable but exquisite harmonies, the ethereal essence of sound, at the word of Amête, resolved itself into the necessary bondage of note and form, and breathed forth to admiring thousands the music lent to one. Hovering over the poet, again the thrilling words burst forth, and fraught with such mighty meanings every heart responded, as to the voice of the Immortal; folding his azure pinion round the panting soul of the philosopher, the shrouding cloud dispersed, and science, deep, stern, lasting, took the place of the mere lovely dream; and on the page of the historian, light from the brow of Amête so flashed as to make him a gifted reader of the Future, by the wondrous record his spirit-thought unfolded of the Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man worked for immortality; it mattered not under what guise, or in what rank. From the highest to the lowest, each creative impulse, fashioned by Yaféh, received perfection from Amête. The former, indeed, alone was visible, but never more he sought to work alone. Within his outward work was the vital essence breathed by Amête, without which the most exquisite form was incomplete—the most lovely thought imperfect—the fairest theory a dream.
And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleaming so brightly through the immeasurable space, as may be their throne, still does their glorious and united Presence walk the earth. Their semblance may be found apart, but not themselves. Twain as they are in name and aspect, in essence they are One. Truth is the vital breath of Beauty; Beauty the outward form of Truth; the Real the sole foundation of the Ideal; the Ideal but the spiritualized essence of the Real.
[1]. Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the concluding paragraph.