Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  Féraz raised himself half out of his chair, his lips parted in breathless eagerness — his eyes dilated and sparkling.

  “Baffled?” he repeated hurriedly— “How do you mean? — in what way?”

  “Oh, in various ways—” replied El-Râmi, looking at him with a somewhat melancholy expression— “Ways that I myself am not able to comprehend. I found I could influence your Inner Self to obey me, — but only to a very limited extent, and in mere trifles, — for example, as you yourself know, I could compel you to come to me from a certain distance in response to my thought, — but in higher things you escaped me. You became subject to long trances, — this I was prepared for, as it was partially my work, — and during these times of physical unconsciousness, it was evident that your Soul enjoyed a life and liberty superior to anything these earth-regions can offer. But you could never remember all you saw in these absences, — indeed, the only suggestions you seem to have brought away from that other state of existence are the strange melodies you play sometimes, and that idea you have about your native Star.”

  A curious expression flitted across Féraz’s face as he heard — and his lips parted in a slight smile, but he said nothing.

  “Therefore,” — pursued his brother meditatively— “as I could get no clear exposition of other worlds from you, as I had hoped to do, I knew I had failed to command you in a spiritual sense. But my dominance over your Mind continued; it continues still, — nay, my good Féraz!” — this, as Féraz seemed about to utter some impetuous word— “Pray that you may never be able to shake off my force entirely, — for if you do, you will lose what the people of a grander and poetic day called Genius — and what the miserable Dry-as-Dusts of our modern era call Madness — the only gift of the gods that has ever served to enlighten and purify the world. But your genius, Féraz, belongs to me; — I gave it to you, and I can take it back again if I so choose; — and leave you as you originally were — a handsome animal with no more true conception of art or beauty than my Lord Melthorpe, or his spendthrift young cousin Vaughan.”

  Féraz had listened thus far in silence, — but now he sprang out of his chair with a reckless gesture.

  “I cannot bear it!” he said— “I cannot bear it! El-Râmi, I cannot — I will not!”

  “Cannot bear what?” inquired his brother with a touch of satire in his tone— “Pray be calm! — there is no necessity for such melodramatic excitement. Cannot bear what?”

  “I will not owe everything to you!” went on Féraz, passionately— “How can I endure to know that my very thoughts are not my own, but emanate from you? — that my music has been instilled into me by you? — that you possess me by your power, body and brain, — great Heaven! it is awful — intolerable — impossible!”

  El-Râmi rose and laid one hand gently on his shoulder — he recoiled shudderingly — and the elder man sighed heavily.

  “You tremble at my touch,—” he said sadly— “the touch of a hand that has never wilfully wrought you harm, but has always striven to make life beautiful to you? Well! — be it so! — you have only to say the word, Féraz, and you shall owe me nothing. I will undo all I have done, — and you shall reassume the existence for which Nature originally made you — an idle voluptuous wasting of time in sensualism and folly. And even that form of life you must owe to Someone, — even that you must account for — to God!”

  The young man’s head drooped, — a faint sense of shame stirred in him, but he was still resentful and sullen.

  “What have I done to you,” went on El-Râmi, “that you should turn from me thus, all because you have seen a dead woman’s face for an hour? I have made your thoughts harmonious — I have given you pleasure such as the world’s ways cannot give — your mind has been as a clear mirror in which only the fairest visions of life were reflected. You would alter this? — then do so, if you decide thereon, — but weigh the matter well and long, before you shake off my touch, my tenderness, my care.”

  His voice faltered a little — but he quickly controlled his emotion, and continued —

  “I must ask you to sit down again and hear me out patiently to the end of my story. At present I have only told you what concerns yourself — and how the failure of my experiment upon the spiritual part of your nature, obliged me to seek for another subject on whom to continue my investigations. As far as you are personally concerned, no failure is apparent — for your spirit is allowed frequent intervals of supernatural freedom, in which you have experiences that give you peculiar pleasure, though you are unable to impart them to me with positive lucidity. You visit a Star — so you say — with which you really seem to have some home connection — but you never get beyond this, so that it would appear that any higher insight is denied you. Now what I needed to obtain, was not only a higher insight, but the highest knowledge that could possibly be procured through a mingled combination of material and spiritual essences, and it was many a long and weary day before I found what I sought. At last my hour came — as it comes to all who have the patience and fortitude to wait for it.”

  He paused a moment — then went on more quickly —

  “You remember of course that occasion of which we chanced upon a party of Arab wanderers who were journeying across the Syrian desert? — all poor and ailing, and almost destitute of food or water?”

  “I remember it perfectly!” and Féraz, seating himself opposite his brother again, listened with renewed interest and attention.

  “They had two dying persons with them,” continued El-Râmi— “An elderly woman — a widow, known as Zaroba, — the other an orphan girl of about twelve years of age named Lilith. Both were perishing of fever and famine. I came to the rescue. I saved Zaroba, — and she, with the passionate im — pulsiveness of her race, threw herself in gratitude at my feet, and swore by all her most sacred beliefs that she would be my slave from henceforth as long as she lived. All her people were dead, she told me — she was alone in the world — she prayed me to let her be my faithful servant. And truly, her fidelity has never failed — till now. But of that hereafter. The child Lilith, more fragile of frame and weakened to the last extremity of exhaustion — in spite of my unremitting care — died. Do you thoroughly understand me — she died .”

  “She died!” repeated Féraz slowly— “Well — what then?”

  “I was supporting her in my arms” — said El-Râmi, the ardour of his description growing upon him, and his black eyes dilating and burning like great jewels under the darkness of his brows— “when she drew her last breath and sank back — a corpse. But before her flesh had time to stiffen, — before the warmth had gone out of her blood, — an idea, wild and daring, flashed across my mind. ‘If this child has a Soul,’ I said to myself— ‘I will stay it in its flight from hence! It shall become the new Ariel of my wish and will — and not till it has performed my bidding to the utmost extent will I, like another Prospero, give it its true liberty. And I will preserve the body, its mortal shell, by artificial means, that through its medium I may receive the messages of the Spirit in mortal language such as I am able to understand.’ No sooner had I conceived my bold project than I proceeded to carry it into execution. I injected into the still warm veins of the dead girl a certain fluid whose properties I alone know the working of — and then I sought and readily obtained permission from the Arabs to bury her in the desert, while they went on their way. They were in haste to continue their journey, and were grateful to me for taking this office off their hands. That very day — the day the girl died — I sent you from me, as you know, bidding you make all possible speed, on an errand which I easily invented, to the Brethren of the Cross in the Island of Cyprus, — you went obediently enough, — surprised perhaps, but suspecting nothing. That same evening when the heats abated and the moon rose, the caravan re — sumed its pilgrimage, leaving Lilith’s dead body with me, and also the woman Zaroba, who volunteered to remain and serve me in my tent, an offer which I accepted, seeing that it was her own desir
e, and that she would be useful to me. She, poor silly soul, took me then for a sort of god, because she was unable to understand the miracle of her own recovery from imminent death, and I felt certain I could rely upon her fidelity. Part of my plan I told her, — she heard with mingled fear and reverence, — the magic of the East was in her blood, however, and she had a superstitious belief that a truly ‘wise man’ could do anything. So, for several days we stayed encamped in the desert — I passing all my hours beside the dead Lilith, — dead, but to a certain extent living through artificial means. As soon as I received proof positive that my experiment was likely to be successful, I procured means to continue my journey on to Alexandria, and thence to England. To all enquirers I said the girl was a patient of mine who was suffering from epileptic trances, and the presence of Zaroba, who filled her post admirably as nurse and attendant, was sufficient to stop the mouths of would-be scandal-mongers. I chose my residence in London, because it is the largest city in the world, and the one most suited to pursue a course of study in, without one’s motives becoming generally known. One can be more alone in London than in a desert if one chooses. Now, you know all. You have seen the dead Lilith, — the human chrysalis of the moth, — but there is a living Lilith too — the Soul of Lilith, which is partly free and partly captive, but in both conditions is always the servant of my Will!”

  Féraz looked at him in mingled awe and fear.

  “El-Râmi,” — he said tremulously— “What you tell me is wonderful — terrible — almost beyond belief, — but, I know something of your power and I must believe you. Only — surely you are in error when you say that Lilith is dead? How can she be dead, if you have given her life?”

  “Can you call that life which sleeps perpetually and will not wake?” demanded El-Râmi.

  “Would you have her wake?” asked Féraz, his heart beating quickly.

  El-Râmi bent his burning gaze upon him.

  “Not so, — for if she wakes, in the usual sense of waking — she dies a second death from which there can be no recall. There is the terror of the thing. Zaroba’s foolish teaching, and your misguided yielding to her temptation, might have resulted in the fatal end to my life’s best and grandest work. But — I forgive you; — you did not know, — and she — she did not wake.”

  “She did not wake,” echoed Féraz softly. “No — but — she smiled!”

  El-Râmi still kept his eyes fixed upon him, — there was an odd sense of irritation in his usually calm and coldly balanced organization — a feeling he strove in vain to subdue. She smiled! — the exquisite Lilith — the life-in-death Lilith smiled, because Féraz had called her by some endearing name! Surely it could not be! — and smothering his annoyance, he turned towards the writing-table and feigned to arrange some books and papers there.

  “El-Râmi—” murmured Féraz again, but timidly— “If she was a child when she died as you say — how is it she has grown to womanhood?”

  “By artificial vitality,” — said El-Râmi— “As a flower is forced under a hot-house, — and with no more trouble, and less consciousness of effort than a rose under a glass dome.”

  “Then she lives,—” declared Féraz impetuously. “She lives, — artificial or natural, she has vitality. Through your power she exists, and if you chose, oh, if you chose, El-Râmi, you could wake her to the fullest life — to perfect consciousness, — to joy — to love! — Oh, she is in a blessed trance — you cannot call her dead!”

  El-Râmi turned upon him abruptly.

  “Be silent!” he said sternly— “I read your thoughts, — control them, if you are wise! You echo Zaroba’s prating — Zaroba’s teaching. Lilith is dead, I tell you, — dead to you, — and, in the sense you mean — dead to me.”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  AFTER this, a long silence fell between them. Féraz sat moodily in his chair, conscious of a certain faint sense of shame. He was sorry that he had wilfully trespassed upon his brother’s great secret, — and yet there was an angry pride in him, — a vague resentment at having been kept so long in ignorance of this wonderful story of Lilith, — which made him reluctant to acknowledge himself in the wrong. Moreover, his mind was possessed and haunted by Lilith’s face, — the radiant face that looked like that of an angel sleeping, — and perplexedly thinking over all he had heard, he wondered if he would ever again have the opportunity of beholding what had seemed to him the incarnation of ideal loveliness. Surely yes! — Zaroba would be his friend, — Zaroba would let him gaze his fill on that exquisite form — would let him touch that little, ethereally delicate hand, as soft as velvet and as white as snow! Absorbed in these reflections, he scarcely noticed that El-Râmi had moved away from him to the writing-table, and that he now sat there in his ebony chair, turning over the leaves of the curious Arabic volume which Féraz had had such trouble in deciphering on the previous day. The silence in the room continued; outside there was the perpetual sullen roar of raging restless London, — now and again the sharp chirruping of contentious sparrows, arguing over a crumb of food as parliamentary agitators chatter over a crumb of difference, stirred the quiet air. Féraz stretched himself and yawned, — he was getting sleepy, and as he realized this fact, he nervously attributed it to his brother’s influence, and sprang up abruptly, rubbing his eyes and pushing his thick hair from his brows. At his hasty movement, El-Râmi turned slowly towards him with a grave yet kindly smile.

  “Well, Féraz” — he said— “Do you still think me ‘wicked’ now you know all? Speak frankly — do not be afraid.”

  Féraz paused, irresolute.

  “I do not know what to think—” he answered hesitatingly,— “Your experiment is of course wonderful, — but — as I said before — to me, it seems terrible.”

  “Life is terrible—” said El-Râmi— “Death is terrible, — Love is terrible, — God is terrible. All Nature’s pulses beat to the note of Terror, — terror of the Unknown that May Be, — terror of the Known that Is!”

  His deep voice rang with impressive solemnity through the room, — his eyes were full of that strange lurid gleam which gave them the appearance of having a flame behind them.

  “Come here, Féraz,” he continued— “Why do you stand at so cautious a distance from me? With that brave show-dagger at your belt, are you a coward? Silly lad! — I swear to you my influence shall not touch you unless I warn you of it beforehand. Come!”

  Féraz obeyed, but slowly and with an uncertain step. His brother looked at him attentively as he came, — then, with a gesture indicating the volume before him, he said— “You found this book on my table yesterday and tried to read it, — is it not so?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, and have you learnt anything from it?” pursued El-Râmi with a strange smile.

  “Yes. I learnt how the senses may be deceived by trickery—” retorted Féraz with some heat and quickness— “and how a clever magnetizer — like yourself — may fool the eye and delude the ear with sights and sounds that have no existence.”

  “Precisely. Listen to this passage;” — and El-Râmi read aloud— “The King when he had any affair, assembled the Priests without the City Memphis, and the People met together in the streets of the said City. Then they (the Priests) made their entrance one after another in order, the drum beating before them to bring the people together; and every-one made some miraculous discovery of his Magick and Wisdom. One had, to their thinking who looked on him, his face surrounded with a light like that of the Sun, so that none could look earnestly upon him. Another seemed clad with a Robe beset with precious stones of divers colours, green, red, or yellow, or wrought with gold. Another came mounted on a Lion compassed with Serpents like Girdles. Another came in covered with a canopy or pavilion of Light. Another appeared surrounded with Fire turning about him, so as that nobody durst come near him. Another was seen with dreadful birds perching about his head and shaking their wings like black eagles and vultures. In fine, everyone did what was taught him; — yet all
was but Apparition and Illusion without any reality, insomuch that when they came up to the King they spake thus to him: — You imagined that it was so-and-so, — but the truth is that it was such or such a thing. ‘* The A B C of magnetism is contained in the last words—” continued El-Râmi lifting his eyes from the book,— “The merest tyro in the science knows that; and also realizes that the Imagination is the centre of both physical and bodily health or disease. And did you learn nothing more?”

  * This remarkable passage on the admitted effects of hypnotism as practised by the priests of ancient Egypt, will be found in an old history of the building of the Pyramids entitled— “The Egyptian Account of the Pyramids” — Written in the Arabic by Murtadi the son of Gaphiphus — date about 1400.

  Féraz made a half-angry gesture in the negative.

  “What a pity!” — and his brother surveyed him with good-humoured compassion— “To know how a ‘miracle’ is done is one thing — but to do it is quite another matter. Now let me recall to your mind what I previously told you — that from this day henceforth, I forbid you to make any allusion to the subject of my work. I forbid you to mention the name of Lilith, — and I forbid you to approach or to enter the room where her body lies. You understand me? — I forbid you!”