# The Soul Of A Century/King Abgar

KING ABGAR
Pale in his beauty like a broken blossom King Abgar, ruler of Armenia, Reclined upon his bed in distant Rome, Far from his kin. It was a night of dreams, Rome, bathed in the sunset’s liquid gold, Stretched at his feet, a vision of wondrous splendor A dream but rarely dreamed by mortal man Since Time began to measure off its flight. The pride of Rome, its buildings towered to the skies And further, to the foot of the bluish hills, A sea of temples and of palaces Of porphyritic columns, statuettes Merged softly with the dreaming sombre groves And with the mystic aromatic gardens.
But Abgar turned away his cheeks and sighed. Looked away from that imposing, splendid view; And his weary head/ in an exhausted doze Fell to the pillows. The enchanting air And all the splendor of the Ceasars of old Rome Did not affect or move his worried soul. Caesar Augustus, who had been his host For full three years and who loved the ailing youth, And highly praised his sentiments and thought, Approached his couch upon the balcony And said to him; “O Abgar, King of Kings, Tell me when will that sad smile disappear.
When will it leave you? It seems like a reproach. What ought I do to make you happier? My theaters, my combats and my games Fail to amuse you and you coolly look On the world’s wonders. Why are you so sad? You are the ruler of a renowned land, And youthful too and like Appolo, beautiful, O, tell me then What would you have me do? I, master of the world Promise on oath to gratify your wants.”
Thus spoke Augustus. And the King replied; “Do I know that? Deep in my heart I feel Such all-embracing, unlimited longing For aught unknown, that with grief I am dying. From early childhood I was melancholy And with the years, my longing only grew Until I nearly died. One day my mother Spoke to me and said. “Dear child, Rome is the center Of all the world and Augustus its ruler, Is the light of Rome. Go, hasten to his city. Perhaps you’ll quench your soul’s thirst at his fountain Some great ambition may inflame you there And lend you wings. Go forth! Return in health!” Thus she advised. I listened and am here. You tried and did all any man could do. Your friendship and its gifts I hold most dear, And clearly see the greatness of your reign. Rome is a wonder . . . But, my master, still I am not well . . . The protests of my soul Outclamor all . . . I shall perish with my grief.
Augustus hear me? Permit me to return To my mother and my distant native land.”
A long-drawn sigh broke off these bitter words And vainly pleaded the mighty emperor, That Abgar stay in Rome. At length, the Roman yielded, Bade Abgar farewell. Two heralds sped ahead With this plaintive message to the mother; “I am returning with a saddened soul Just as I left the Armenian hills. Prepare a chamber for me where the sun Creeps in at evening for a fleeting look As if it tried to say: “Come after me.”
The messengers sped forth and Abgar followed; Slowly he rode a grieving, youthful king, Over high mountains and wide stretching fields, And rivers as blue as the heaven’s arching dome. And when he reached Armenia’s steep hills And reached the city, his mother welcomed him, Suppressing tears and just a feeble smile That tried to hide them, spoke their eloquence.
“Welcome, dear child! Be welcomed to your home,” She whispered as she led Abgar away To his secluded, longed-for quiet room Where the dying rays of the swiftly setting sun Crept through a darkening wall of cypress trees. An ivory inlaid bedstead stood prepared; And across the polished/ mosaic floor were spread Colorful Persian carpetries and cloths; A harp was hanging near the open door; And in the corners, vessels of heavy gold Held blushing apples and pomegranates.
King Abgar knew full well what all this meant. According to his people’s old belief, The angels linger over a sick-room bed Waiting until the Lord of life and death Gives forth the sign for the soul to either flee Or-else remain within a healthy form. These Persian rugs for the angels are prepared To rest upon, the while the tempting fruits Refresh them with their scent, and the stringed harp Hangs near so every visitor that comes To cheer the sick man with a kindly word Or with a warming hand-clasp or a smile, Can strike the silver strings To amuse the souls . . . All this Abgar knew, as he gave his mother a melancholy smile, Removed the harp, and rested peacefully His weary head sinking into the lap Of her who bore him. The mother slowly rose, As if to show her strength, she stilled a rising sigh, And smothering her weeping soul’s lament, Began to humor him with softly spoken words:
“Apparently, Rome cannot heal all hearts? I thought as much and while my child was gone, Seeking in vain, away from our shores, Wherewith to still a grieving, ailing soul,
I found, perhaps, the solace that you sought.” When questioningly Abgar raised his head, The mother thus continued, with a smile; “You will not guess! But I will now explain. During the months you dwelt in distant Rome, I sent my messengers to foreign lands That with their brush, they capture on the cloth The prettiest of maidens of all lands.
If we but find the one whose very touch Will ope the portals of your enclosed soul Than all the flowers/ hid within its depths Will rise to light, beneath the magic touch.” Upon these words, she motioned with her hand. A slave drew wide a drape of precious cloth And a host of artists stood beyond the door, Each carrying a painted masterpiece Of some fair maiden from a distant land.
King Abgar flushed, turned sulkily away, And only when his mother begged of him He looked, but showed no interest or warmth, And in his mother’s eyes, hope swiftly died, Hope that had risen in a troubled heart. When all the artists left, the mother saw One, who still lingered at the open door, Without a picture, a strangely lonely man, With cheeks of pallor and bright burning eyes. He waited in his dark, close-fitting cloak.
“Where is your painting?” kindly asked the queen.
Without a word, he loosed his heavy cloak; And rays of light illumined the dark room With the light of stars. This light poured From out the fringes of a folded/ snow-white cloth.
King Abgar stirred with ill concealed foreboding. “You have brought me news?” he asked. “Then speak, good man.
The artist approached the king and his words flowed As from afar. They sounded dreamily Like the winds that blow through the cypress trees. As thus he told the king this narrative:
“Commanded by your mother/ I went forth To where the Jordan flows. Judea’s women Blinded me with their beauty. Each one seemed More beautiful to me. I heard of one, A sinner she was called, and this was said of her; That she had met a strangely gifted man Who made of her a saint with but a glance. I was so curious/ that I set out At once to reach the seat of Judea Where she dwelt alone. And the nearer I approached The more I heard about this gifted man Whom men called Holy. Wearily/ at length I came To far Jerusalem. My mind over filled With thoughts of this strange man, and I forgot To seek the sinner of whose varied charms They spoke throughout that distant, foreign land.
My King, ’twas there that I saw Jesus Christ. His look contained more in one passing glance Than could be stated in the words of man. I knelt before him and I humbly begged Of him the right to paint his countenance, Hoping that I could bring to you. My Lord, His shining features to Armenia. Christ smiled and nodded in a dreamy way And I began to work. But all in vain. My hands just trembled and into my eyes Rose unchecked tears; My heart began to beat With so much sadness and unbridled joy, That I was blinded and could no longer work. Thrice I attempted to record those lines With brush on canvas and thrice ill luck Filled my soul with despair, and wretchedly I hid my tear-stained face. Then Christ, who saw My struggling grief, came near and said to me Softly; “Man, cease your sorrowing lament, For I will help you.” From his mother’s hand He took a white cloth and gently buried there His holy countenance in the soft wool web. That very moment. Mighty miracle! His features shone upon the snow-white cloth As brightly as a star that gleams above. And his holy picture, look, rests in my hands.”
Upon these words, he unfolded the cloth, And Abgar, seeing Christ’s sweet countenance Fell to his knees, and an unbounded joy And holy ardor stirred him fervently, And joyously, ’mid tears, he sighed and said; “My soul is healed at last and grieves no more.” Then he began to kiss Christ’s saintly cheek. With pleading hands/ he begged the artist speak And tell him more of Christ. The artist spoke And told about Christ’s mission on this earth; Spoke of his holy life and miracles; About Christ’s more than human kindliness; About God’s kingdom and the destruction that Perils the sons of man in Judea. The night passed thus and with fatigue King Abgar fell into a troubled sleep. And when he woke, he said: “Send messengers To far Canaan and let them take to Christ The message that I will entrust to them.”
He took a parchment and wrote in words of gold: “O Saviour? O son of God on earth! I have heard about you and your many deeds. And learned that, in their blindness, Christ, your kin Plot ill against you. Listen to my plea! I have a wondrous city, dreaming in a grove; A golden palace; all is open wide My city and my home of famed kings. Come to me, Christ! My soul is weak with grief.”
The messengers sped swiftly to Canaan, But came too late for on a wooden cross, Christ gave his soul into the hands of God.
Then sadly they returned, with heavy feet, As men who know that grief shall follow them Into the home of one whom they hold dear. While the heralds plodded on their weary way, King Abgar lingered between life and death Upon the bed within his darkened room. “!f they would only come,” he prayed incessantly, With his mother who, with grief, bent over him As a willow-tree bends over a lonely grave. With the night at length the messengers returned
And whispered haltingly, their grievous news To the queen. King Abgar slept and did not feel The flow of burning tears that fell Upon his wasted head; nor did he feel The mother’s greying, gently stirring hair With which she deftly wiped the tears away. Suddenly, Abgar opened wide his eyes And the room was filled with pure-white, blinding rays, And He, who was to have been Abgar’s guest Appeared in all the burning glory there And with a tender voice of mystic dreaminess He said to Abgar; “I came unto your house To realize the wish you had expressed. Your city is wondrous, dreaming in the grove, But far more wondrous is my city, O King! Come with me hence! Your soul will rest and heal.”
And while the mother, tremulous with grief, Pressed Abgar’s body to her aching heart, His soul went up with Christ. For he was not Of those whose kingdom is upon the Earth.
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