El-Râmi heard him with patient interest.
“I do not deny, Féraz,” he said slowly, “that your impressions are very strange—”
“Very strange? Yes!” cried Féraz. “But very true!”
He paused — then on a sudden impulse came close up to his brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“And do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “that you who have studied so much, and have mastered so much, yet receive no such impressions as those I speak of?”
A faint flush coloured El-Râmi’s olive skin.
“Certain impressions come to me at times, of course,” he answered slowly.— “And there have been certain seasons in my life when I have had visions of the impossible. But I have a coldly-tempered organization, Féraz, — I am able to reason these things away.”
“Oh, you can reason the whole world away if you choose,” said Féraz.— “For it is nothing after all but a pinch of star-dust.”
“If you can reason a thing away it does not exist,” observed El-Râmi dryly.— “Reduce the world, as you say, to a pinch of star-dust, still the pinch of star-dust is there — it Exists.”
“Some people doubt even that!” said Féraz, smiling.
“Well, everything can be over-done,” replied his brother,— “even the process of reasoning. We can, if we choose, ‘reason’ ourselves into madness. There is a boundary-line to every science which the human intellect dare not overstep.”
“I wonder what and where is your boundary-line?” questioned Féraz lightly.— “Have you laid one down for yourself at all? Surely not! — for you are too ambitious.”
El-Râmi made no answer to this observation, but betook himself to his books and papers. Féraz meanwhile set the room in order and cleared away the breakfast, — and these duties done, he quietly withdrew. Left to himself, El-Râmi took from the centre drawer of his writing-table a medium-sized manuscript book which was locked, and which he opened by means of a small key that was attached to his watch-chain, and bending over the title-page he critically examined it. Its heading ran thus —
“The title does not cover all the ground,” he murmured as he read.— “And yet how am I to designate it? It is a vast subject, and presents different branches of treatment, and after all said and done, I may have wasted my time in planning it. Most likely I have, — but there is no scientist living who would refuse to accept it. The question is, shall I ever finish it? — shall I ever know positively that there IS without doubt, a Conscious, Personal Something or Someone after death who enters at once upon another existence? My new experiment will decide all — if I see the Soul of Lilith, all hesitation will be at an end — I shall be sure of everything which now seems uncertain. And then the triumph! — then the victory!”
His eyes sparkled, and dipping his pen in the ink he prepared to write, but ere he did so the message which the monk had left for him to read, recurred with a chill warning to his memory, —
“Beware the end! With Lilith’s love comes Lilith’s freedom.”
He considered the words for a moment apprehensively, — and then a proud smile played round his mouth.
“For a Master who has attained to some degree of wisdom, his intuition is strangely erroneous this time,” he muttered.— “For if there be any dream of love in Lilith, that dream, that love is Mine! And being mine, who shall dispute possession, — who shall take her from me? No one, — not even God, — for He does not break through the laws of Nature. And by those laws I have kept Lilith — and even so I will keep her still.”
Satisfied with his own conclusions, he began to write, taking up the thread of his theory of religion where he had left it on the previous day. He had a brilliant and convincing style, and was soon deep in an elaborate and eloquent disquisition on the superior scientific reasoning contained in the ancient Eastern faiths, as compared with the modern scheme of Christianity, which limits God’s power to this world only, and takes no consideration of the fate of other visible and far more splendid spheres.
CHAPTER IV.
THE few days immediately following the visit of the mysterious monk from Cyprus were quiet and uneventful enough. El-Râmi led the life of a student and recluse; Féraz, too, occupied himself with books and music, thinking much, but saying little. He had solemnly sworn never again to make allusion to the forbidden subject of his brother’s great experiment, and he meant to keep his vow. For though he had in very truth absolutely forgotten the name “Lilith,” he had not forgotten the face of her whose beauty had surprised his senses and dazzled his brain. She had become to him a nameless Wonder, — and from the sweet remembrance of her loveliness he gained a certain consolation and pleasure which he jealously and religiously kept to himself. He thought of her as a poet may think of an ideal goddess seen in a mystic dream, — but he never ventured to ask a question concerning her. And even if he had wished to do so, — even if he had indulged the idea of encouraging Zaroba to follow up the work she had begun by telling him all she could concerning the beautiful tranced girl, that course was now impossible. For Zaroba seemed stricken dumb as well as deaf, — what had chanced to her he could not tell, — but a mysterious silence possessed her; and though her large black eyes were sorrowfully eloquent, she never uttered a word. She came and went on various household errands, always silently and with bent head, — she looked older, feebler, wearier and sadder, but not so much as a gesture escaped her that could be construed into a complaint. Once Féraz made signs to her of inquiry after her health and well-being — she smiled mournfully, but gave no other response, and turning away, left him hurriedly. He mused long and deeply upon all this, — and though he felt sure that Zaroba’s strange but resolute speechlessness was his brother’s work, he dared not speculate too far or inquire too deeply. For he fully recognised El-Râmi’s power, — a power so scientifically balanced, and used with such terrible and unerring precision, that there could be no opposition possible unless one were of equal strength and knowledge. Féraz knew he could no more compete with such a force than a mouse can wield a thunderbolt, — he therefore deemed it best to resign himself to his destiny and wait the course of events.
“For,” he said within himself, “it is not likely one man should be permitted to use such strange authority over natural forces long, — it may be that God is trying him, — putting him to the proof, as it were, to find out how far he will dare to go, — and then — ah then! — what then? If his heart were dedicated to the service of God I should not fear — but — as it is, — I dread the end!”
His instinct was correct in this, — for in spite of his poetic and fanciful temperament, he had plenty of quick perception, and he saw plainly what El-Râmi himself was not very willing to recognise, — namely, that in all the labour of his life, so far as it had gone, he, El-Râmi, had rather opposed himself to the Unseen Divine, than striven to incorporate himself with it. He preferred to believe in Natural Force only; his inclination was to deny the possibility of anything behind That. He accepted the idea of Immortality to a certain extent, because Natural Force was forever giving him proofs of the perpetual regeneration of life — but that there was a Primal Source of this generating influence, — One, great and eternal, who would demand an account of all lives, and an accurate summing-up of all words and actions, — in this, though he might assume the virtue of faith, Féraz very well knew he had it not. Like the greater majority of scientists and natural philosophers generally, what Self could comprehend, he accepted, — but all that extended beyond Self, — all that made of Self but a grain of dust in a vast infinitude, — all that forced the Creature to prostrate himself humbly before the Creator and cry out “Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!” this he tacitly and proudly rejected. For which reasons the gentle, dreamy Féraz had good cause to fear, — and a foreboding voice forever whispered in his mind that man without God was as a world without light, — a black chaos of blank unfruitfulness.
With the ensuing week the grand “reception” to which El-R
âmi and his brother had been invited by Lord Melthorpe came off with great éclat. Lady Melthorpe’s “crushes” were among the most brilliant of the season, and this one was particularly so, as it was a special function held for the entertainment of the distinguished Crown Prince of a great nation. True, the distinguished Crown Prince was only “timed” to look in a little after midnight for about ten minutes, but the exceeding brevity of his stay was immaterial to the fashionable throng. All that was needed was just the piquant flavour, — the “passing” of a Royal Presence, — to make the gathering socially complete. The rooms were crowded — so much so indeed that it was difficult to take note of any one person in particular, yet in spite of this fact, there was a very general movement of interest and admiration when El-Râmi entered with his young and handsome brother beside him. Both had a look and manner too distinctly striking to escape observation: — their olive complexions, black melancholy eyes, and slim yet stately figures, were set off to perfection by the richness of the Oriental dresses they wore; and the grave composure and perfect dignity of their bearing offered a pleasing contrast to the excited pushing, waddling, and scrambling indulged in by the greater part of the aristocratic assemblage. Lady Melthorpe herself, a rather pretty woman attired in a very æsthetic gown, and wearing her brown hair all towzled and arranged “à la Grecque” in diamond bandeaux, caught sight of them at once, and was delighted. Such picturesque-looking creatures were really ornaments to a room, she thought with much interior satisfaction; and wreathing her face with smiles, she glided up to them.
“I am so charmed, my dear El-Râmi!” she said, holding out her jewelled hand.— “So charmed to see you — you so very seldom will come to me! And your brother! So glad! Why did you never tell me you had a brother? Naughty man! What is your brother’s name? Féraz? Delightful! — it makes me think of Hafiz and Sadi and all those very charming Eastern people. I must find someone interesting to introduce to you. Will you wait here a minute — the crowd is so thick in the centre of the room that really I’m afraid you will not be able to get through it — do wait here, and I’ll bring the Baroness to you — don’t you know the Baroness? Oh, she’s such a delightful creature — so clever at palmistry! Yes — just stay where you are, — I’ll come back directly!”
And with sundry good-humoured nods her ladyship swept away, while Féraz glanced at his brother with an expression of amused inquiry.
“That is Lady Melthorpe?” he asked.
“That is Lady Melthorpe,” returned El-Râmi— “our hostess, and Lord Melthorpe’s wife; his, ‘to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honour and cherish till death do them part,’” and he smiled somewhat satirically.— “It seems odd, doesn’t it? — I mean, such solemn words sound out of place sometimes. Do you like her?”
Féraz made a slight sign in the negative.
“She does not speak sincerely,” he said in a low tone.
El-Râmi laughed.
“My dear boy, you mustn’t expect anyone to be ‘sincere’ in society. You said you wanted to ‘see life’ — very well, but it will never do to begin by viewing it in that way. An outburst of actual sincerity in this human mêlée” — and he glanced comprehensively over the brilliant throng— “would be like a match to a gunpowder magazine — the whole thing would blow up into fragments and be dispersed to the four winds of heaven, leaving nothing behind but an evil odour.”
“Better so,” said Féraz dreamily, “than that false hearts should be mistaken for true.”
El-Râmi looked at him wistfully; — what a beautiful youth he really was, with all that glow of thought and feeling in his dark eyes! How different was his aspect to that of the jaded, cynical, vice-worn young men of fashion, some of whom were pushing their way past at that moment, — men in the twenties who had the air of being well on in the forties, and badly preserved at that — wretched, pallid, languid, exhausted creatures who had thrown away the splendid jewel of their youth in a couple of years’ stupid dissipation and folly. At that moment Lord Melthorpe, smiling and cordial, came up to them and shook hands warmly, and then introduced with a few pleasant words a gentleman who had accompanied him as,— “Roy Ainsworth, the famous artist, you know!”
“Oh, not at all!” drawled the individual thus described, with a searching glance at the two brothers from under his drowsy eyelids.— “Not famous by any means — not yet. Only trying to be. You’ve got to paint something startling and shocking nowadays before you are considered ‘famous’; — and even then, when you’ve outraged all the proprieties, you must give a banquet, or take a big house and hold receptions, or have an electrically lit-up skeleton in your studio, or something of that sort, to keep the public attention fixed upon you. It’s such a restless age.”
El-Râmi smiled gravely.
“The feverish outburst of an unnatural vitality immediately preceding dissolution,” he observed.
“Ah! — you think that? Well — it may be, — I’m sure I hope it is. I personally should be charmed to believe in the rapidly-approaching end of the world. We really need a change of planet as much as certain invalids require a change of air. Your brother, however” — and here he flashed a keen glance at Féraz— “seems already to belong to quite a different sphere.”
Féraz looked up with a pleased yet startled expression.
“Yes, — but how did you know it?” he asked.
It was now the artist’s turn to be embarrassed. He had used the words “different sphere” merely as a figure of speech, whereas this intelligent-looking young fellow evidently took the phrase in a literal sense. It was very odd! — and he hesitated what to answer, so El-Râmi came to the rescue.
“Mr. Ainsworth only means that you do not look quite like other people, Féraz, that’s all. Poets and musicians often carry their own distinctive mark.”
“Is he a poet?” inquired Lord Melthorpe with interest.— “And has he published anything?”
El-Râmi laughed good-humouredly.
“Not he! Why dear Lord Melthorpe, we are not all called upon to give the world our blood and brain and nerve and spirit. Some few reserve their strength for higher latitudes. To give greedy Humanity everything of one’s self is rather too prodigal an expenditure.”
“I agree with you,” said a chill yet sweet voice close to them.— “It was Christ’s way of work, — and quite too unwise an example for any of us to follow.”
Lord Melthorpe and Mr. Ainsworth turned quickly to make way for the speaker, — a slight fair woman, with a delicate thoughtful face full of light, languor, and scorn, who, clad in snowy draperies adorned here and there with the cold sparkle of diamonds, drew near them at the moment. El-Râmi and his brother both noted her with interest, — she was so different from the other women present.
“I am delighted to see you!” said Lord Melthorpe as he held out his hand in greeting.— “It is so seldom we have the honour! Mr. Ainsworth you already know, — let me introduce my Oriental friends here, — El-Râmi Zarânos and his brother Féraz Zarânos, — Madame Irene Vassilius — you must have heard of her very often.”
El-Râmi had indeed heard of her, — she was an authoress of high repute, noted for her brilliant satirical pen, her contempt of press-criticism, and her influence over, and utter indifference to, all men. Therefore he regarded her now with a certain pardonable curiosity as he made her his profoundest salutation, while she returned his look with equal interest.
“It is you who said that we must not give ourselves wholly away to the needs of Humanity, is it not?” she said, letting her calm eyes dwell upon him with a dreamy yet searching scrutiny.
“I certainly did say so, Madame,” replied El-Râmi.— “It is a waste of life, — and Humanity is always ungrateful.”
“You have proved it? But perhaps you have not tried to deserve its gratitude.”
This was rather a home thrust, and El-Râmi was surprised and vaguely annoyed at its truth. Irene Vassiliu
s still stood quietly observing him, — then she turned to Roy Ainsworth.
“There is the type you want for your picture,” she said, indicating Féraz by a slight gesture.— “That boy, depicted in the clutches of your Phryne, would make angels weep.”
“If I could make you weep I should have achieved something like success,” replied the painter, his dreamy eyes dilating with a passion he could not wholly conceal.— “But icebergs neither smile nor shed tears, — and intellectual women are impervious to emotion.”
“That is a mistaken idea, — one of the narrow notions common to men,” she answered, waving her fan idly to and fro.— “You remind me of the querulous Edward Fitzgerald, who wrote that he was glad Mrs. Barrett-Browning was dead, because there would be no more ‘Aurora Leighs.’ He condescended to say she was a ‘woman of Genius,’ but what was the use of it? She and her Sex, he said, would be better minding the Kitchen and their Children. He and his Sex always consider the terrible possibilities to themselves of a badly cooked dinner and a baby’s screams. His notion about the limitation of Woman’s sphere, is Man’s notion generally.”
“It is not mine,” said Lord Melthorpe.— “I think women are cleverer than men.”
“Ah, you are not a reviewer!” laughed Madame Vassilius— “so you can afford to be generous. But as a rule men detest clever women, simply because they are jealous of them.”
“They have cause to be jealous of you,” said Roy Ainsworth.— “You succeed in everything you touch.”
“Success is easy,” she replied indifferently.— “Resolve upon it, and carry out that resolve — and the thing is done.”
El-Râmi looked at her with new interest.
“Madame, you have a strong will!” he observed.— “But permit me to say that all your sex are not like yourself, beautiful, gifted, and resolute at one and the same time. The majority of women are deplorably unintelligent and uninteresting.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 260
