So she would murmur to herself in her wild half-poetical jargon of language — her voice never rising above an inarticulate whisper. El-Râmi never heard her or seemed to regard her — he had no eyes except for the drowsing Lilith.
If he had been asked, at this particular time, why he went to that room day after day, to stare silently at his beautiful “subject” and ponder on everything connected with her, he could not have answered the question. He did not himself know why. Something there was in him, as in every portion of created matter, which remained inexplicable, — something of his own nature which he neither understood nor cared to analyse. He who sought to fathom the last depth of research concerning God and the things divine, would have been compelled to own, had he been cross-examined on the matter, that he found it impossible to fathom himself. The clue to his own Ego was as desperately hard to seize, as curiously subtle and elusive as the clue to the riddle of Creation. He was wont to pride himself on his consistency — yet in his heart of hearts he knew that in many things he was inconsistent, — he justly triumphed in his herculean Will-force, — yet now he was obliged to admit to himself that there was something in the silent placid aspect of Lilith as she lay before him, subservient to his command, that quite unnerved him and scattered his thoughts. It had not used to be so — but now, — it was so. And he dated the change, whether rightly or wrongly, from the day on which the monk from Cyprus had visited him, and this thought made him restless and irritable, and full of unjust and unreasonable suspicions. For had not the “Master,” as he was known in the community to which he belonged, said that he had seen the Soul of Lilith, while he, El-Râmi, had never attained to so beatific an altitude of vision? Then was it not possible that notwithstanding his rectitude and steadfastness of purpose, the “Master,” great and Christ-like in self-denial though he was, might influence Lilith in some unforeseen way? Then there was Féraz — Féraz, whose supplications and protestations had won a smile from the tranced girl, and who therefore must assuredly have roused in her some faint pleasure and interest. Such thoughts as these rankled in his mind and gave him no peace — for they conveyed to him the unpleasing idea that Lilith was not all his own as he desired her to be, — others had a share in her thoughts. Could he have nothing entirely to himself? he would demand angrily of his own inner conscious — ness — not even this life which he had, as it were, robbed from death? And an idea, which had at first been the merest dim suggestion, now deepened into a passionate resolve — he would make her his own so thoroughly and indissolubly that neither gods nor devils should snatch her from him.
“Her life is mine!” he said— “And she shall live as long as I please. Her body shall sleep,...if I still choose,...or...it shall wake. But whether awake, or sleeping in the flesh, her spirit shall obey me always — like the satellite of a planet, that disembodied Soul shall be mine forever!”
When he spoke thus to himself, he was sitting in his usual contemplative attitude by the couch where Lilith lay; — he rose up suddenly and paced the room, drawing back the velvet portière and setting open the door of the ante-chamber as though he craved for fresh air. Music sounded through the house,...it was Féraz singing. His full pure tenor voice came floating up, bearing with it the words he sang:
“And neither the angels in heaven above.
Nor the demons down under the sea.
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee!
“For the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, —
And the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee —
And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride.
In her tomb by the sounding sea!”
With a shaking hand El-Râmi shut the door more swiftly than he had opened it, and dragged the heavy portière across it to deaden the sound of that song! — to keep it out from his ears...from his heart,...to stop its passionate vibration from throbbing along his nerves like creeping fire....
“And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride.”
“God! — my God!” he muttered incoherently— “What ails me?...Am I going mad that I should dream thus?”
He gazed round the room wildly, his hand still clutching the velvet portière, — and met the keenly watchful glance of Zaroba. Her hands were mechanically busy with her thread-work, — but her eyes, black, piercing and brilliant, were fixed on him steadfastly. Something in her look compelled his attention, — something in his compelled hers. They stared across the room at each other, as though a Thought had sprung between them like an armed soldier with drawn sword, demanding from each the pass-word to a mystery. In and out, across and across went the filmy glistening threads in Zaroba’s wrinkled hands, but her eyes never moved from El-Râmi’s face, and she looked like some weird sorceress weaving a web of destiny.
“For you were the days of Ashtaroth!” she said in a low, monotonous, yet curiously thrilling tone— “You are born too late, El-Râmi, — the youth of the world has departed and the summer seasons of the heart are known on earth no more. You are born too late — too late! — the Christ claims all, — the body, the blood, the nerve and the spirit, — every muscle of His white limbs on the cross must be atoned for by the dire penance and torture of centuries of men. So that now even love is a thorn in the flesh and its prick must be paid with a price, — these are the hours of woe preceding the end. The blood that runs in your veins, El-Râmi, has sprung from kings and strong rulers of men, — and the pale faint spirits of this dull day have naught to do with its colour and glow. And it rebels, O El-Râmi! — as God liveth, it rebels! — it burns in your heart — the proud, strong heart, — like ruddy wine in a ruby cup; it rebels, El-Râmi! — it rises to passion as rise the waves of the sea to the moon, by a force and an impulse in Nature stronger than yours! Aye, aye! — for you were the days of Ashtaroth” — and her voice sank into a wailing murmur— “but now — now — the Christ claims all.”
He heard her as one may hear incoherencies in a nightmare vision; — only a few weeks ago he would have been angry with her for what he would then have termed her foolish jargon, — but he was not angry now. Why should he be angry? he wondered dully — had he time to even think of anger while thus unnerved by that keen tremor that quivered through his frame — a tremor he strove in vain to calm? His hand fell from the curtain, — the sweet distracting song of Poe’s “Annabel Lee” had ceased, — and he advanced into the room again, his heart beating painfully still, his head a little drooped as though with a sense of conscious shame. He moved slowly to where the roses in the Venetian vase exhaled their odours on the air, and breaking one off its branch toyed with it aimlessly, letting its pale pink leaves flutter down one by one on the violet carpet at his feet. Suddenly, as though he had resolved a doubt and made up his mind to something, he turned towards Zaroba who watched him fixedly, — and with a mute signal bade her leave the apartment. She rose instantly, and crossing her hands upon her breast made her customary obeisance and waited, — for he looked at her with a meditative expression which implied that he had not yet completed his instruction. Presently, and with some hesitation, he made her another sign — a sign which had the effect of awakening a blaze of astonishment in her dark sunken eyes.
“No more to-night!” she repeated aloud— “It is your will that I return here no more to-night?”
He gave a slow but decided gesture of assent, — there was no mistaking it.
Zaroba paused an instant, and then with a swift noiseless step went to the couch of Lilith and bent yearningly above that exquisite sleeping form.
“Star of my heart!” she muttered— “Child whose outward fairness I have ever loved, unheedful of the soul within, — may there still be strength enough left in the old gods to bid thee wake!”
El-Râmi caught her words, and a faint smile, proud yet bitter, curved his delicate lips.
“The old gods or the new — does it matter which?” he mused vaguely— “And what is their strength compared to the Will of Man by which the very elements are conquered and made the slaves of his service? ‘My Will is God’s Will’ should be every strong man’s motto. But I — am I strong — or the weakest of the weak?...and...shall the Christ claim all?”
The soft fall of the velvet portière startled him as it dropped behind the retreating figure of Zaroba — she had left the room, and he was alone, — alone with Lilith.
END OF VOL. II.
VOLUME 3
CHAPTER I.
HE remained quite still, standing near the tall vase that held the clustered roses, — in his hand he grasped unconsciously the stalk of the one he had pulled to pieces. He was aware of his own strange passiveness, — it was a sort of inexplicable inertia which like temporary paralysis seemed to incapacitate him from any action. It would have appeared well and natural to him that he should stay there so, dreamily, with the scented rose-stalk in his hand, for any length of time. A noise in the outer street roused him a little, — the whistling, hooting and laughing of drunken men reeling homewards, — and lifting his eyes from their studious observation of the floor, he sighed deeply.
“That is the way the great majority of men amuse themselves,” — he mused. “Drink, stupidity, brutality, sensuality — all blatant proofs of miserable unresisted weakness, — can it be possible that God can care for such? Could even the pity of Christ pardon such wilful workers of their own ruin? The pity of Christ, said I? — nay, at times even He was pitiless. Did He not curse a fig-tree because it was barren? — though truly we are not told the cause of its barrenness. Of course the lesson is that Life — the fig-tree, — has no right to be barren of results, — but why curse it, if it is? What is the use of a curse at any time? And what, may equally be asked, is the use of a blessing? Neither are heard; the curse is seldom if ever wreaked, — and the blessing, so the sorrowful say, is never granted.”
The noise and the laughter outside died away, — and a deep silence ensued. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and noted his own reflective attitude, — his brooding visage; and studied himself critically as he would have studied a picture.
“You are no Antinous, my friend” — he said aloud, addressing his own reflection with some bitterness— “A mere sun-tanned Oriental with a pair of eyes in which the light is more of hell than heaven. What should you do with yourself, frowning at Fate? You are a superb Egoist, — no more.”
As he spoke, the roses in the vase beside him swayed lightly to and fro, as though a faint wind had fanned them, and their perfume stole upon the air like the delicate breath of summer wafted from some distant garden.
There was no window open — and El-Râmi had not stirred, so that no movement on his part could have shaken the vase, — and yet the roses quivered on their stalks as if brushed by a bird’s wing. He watched them with a faint sense of curiosity — but with no desire to discover why they thus nodded their fair heads to an apparently causeless vibration. He was struggling with an emotion that threatened to overwhelm him, — he knew that he was not master of himself, — and instinctively he kept his face turned away from the tranced Lilith.
“I must not look upon her — I dare not;” he whispered to the silence— “Not yet — not yet.”
There was a low chair close by, and he dropped into it wearily, covering his eyes with one hand. He tried to control his thoughts — but they were rebellious, and ran riot in spite of him. The words of Zaroba rang in his ears— “For you were the days of Ashtaroth.” The days of Ashtaroth! — for what had they been renowned? For love and the feasts of love, — for mirth and song and dance — for crowns of flowers, for shouting of choruses and tinkling of cymbals, for exquisite luxury and voluptuous pleasures, — for men and women who were not ashamed of love and took delight in loving; — were there not better, warmer ways of life in those old times than now — now when cautious and timid souls make schemes for marriage as they scheme for wealth, — when they snigger at “love” as though it were some ludicrous defect in mortal composition, and when real passion of any kind is deemed downright improper, and not to be spoken of before cold and punctilious society?
“Aye, but the passion is there all the same;” — thought El-Râmi— “Under the ice burns the fire, — all the fiercer and the more dangerous for its repression.”
And he still kept his hand over his eyes, thinking.
“The Christ claims all” — had said Zaroba. Nay, what has Christ done that He should claim all? “He died for us!” cry the preachers. Well, — others can die also. “He was Divine!” proclaim the churches. We are all Divine, if we will but let the Divinity in us have way. And moved by these ideas, El-Râmi rose up and crossed to a niche in the purple-pavilioned walls of the room, before which hung a loose breadth of velvet fringed with gold, — this he drew aside, and disclosed a picture very finely painted, of Christ standing near the sea, surrounded by his disciples — underneath it were in — scribed the words— “Whom say ye that I am?”
The dignity and beauty of the Face and Figure were truly marvellous, — the expression of the eyes had something of pride as well as sweetness, and El-Râmi confronted it as he had confronted it many times before, with a restless inquisitiveness.
“Whom say ye that I am?”
The painted Christ seemed to audibly ask the question.
“O noble Mystery of a Man, I cannot tell!” exclaimed El-Râmi suddenly and aloud— “I cannot say who you are, or who you were. A riddle for all the world to wonder at, — a white Sphinx with a smile inscrutable, — all the secrets of Egypt are as nothing to your secret, O simple, pure-souled Nazarene! You, born in miserable plight in miserable Bethlehem, changed the aspect of the world, altered and purified the modes of civilization, and thrilled all life with higher motives for work than it had ever been dowered with before. All this in three years’ work, ending in a criminal’s death! Truly if there was not something Divine in you, then God Himself is an Error!”
The grand Face seemed to smile upon him with a deep and solemn pity, and “Whom say ye that I am?” sounded in his ears as though it were spoken by someone in the room.
“I must be getting nervous;” — he muttered, drawing the curtain softly over the picture again, and looking uneasily round about him, “I think I cannot be much more than the weakest of men, — after all.”
A faint tremor seized him as he turned slowly but resolutely round towards the couch of Lilith, and let his eyes rest on her enchanting loveliness. Step by step he drew nearer and nearer till he bent closely over her, but he did not call her by name. A loose mass of her hair lay close to his arm, — with an impetuous suddenness he gathered it in his hands and kissed it.
“A sheaf of sunbeams!” — he whispered, his lips burning as they caressed the shining wealth of silken curls— “A golden web in which kisses might be caught and killed! Ah Heaven have pity on me!” and he sank by the couch, stifling his words beneath his breath— “If I love this girl — if all this mad tumult in my soul is Love — let her never know it, O merciful Fates! — or she is lost, and so am I. Let me be bound, — let her be free, — let me fight down my weakness, but let her never know that I am weak, or I shall lose her long obedience. No, no! I will not summon her to me now — it is best she should be absent, — this body of hers, this fair fine casket of her spirit is but a dead thing when that spirit is elsewhere. She cannot hear me, — she does not see me — no, not even when I lay this hand — this ‘shadow of a hand,’ as she once called it, here, to quell my foolish murmurings.”
And, lifting Lilith’s hand as he spoke, he pressed its roseate palm against his lips, — then on his forehead. A strange sense of relief and peace came upon him with the touch of those delicate fingers — it was as though a cool wind blew, bringing freshness from some quiet mountain lake or river.
Silently he knelt, — and presently, somewhat calmed, lifted his eyes again to look at Lilith, — she smiled in her deep trance — she was the very picture of some happy angel sleeping. His arm sank in the soft satin coverlid as he laid back the little hand he held upon her breast, — and with eager scrutiny he noted every tint and every line in her exquisite face; — the lovely long lashes that swept the blush-rose of her cheeks, — the rounded chin, dimpled in its curve, — the full white throat, the perfect outline of the whole fair figure as it rested like a branched lily in a bed of snow, — and as he looked, he realized that all this beauty was his — his, if he chose to take Love, and let Wisdom go. If he chose to resign the chance of increasing his knowledge of the supernatural, — if he were content to accept earth for what it is, and heaven for what it may be, Lilith, the bodily incarnation of loveliness, purity and perfect womanhood, was his — his only. He grew dizzy at the thought, — then by an effort conquered the longing of his heart. He remembered what he had sworn to do, — to discover the one great secret before he seized the joy that tempted him, — to prove the actual, individual, conscious existence of the Being that is said to occupy a temporary habitation in flesh. He knew and he saw the Body of Lilith, — he must know, and he must see her Soul. And while he leaned above her couch entranced, a sudden strain of music echoed through the stillness, — music solemn and sweet, that stirred the air into rhythmic vibrations as of slow and sacred psalmody. He listened, perplexed but not afraid, — he was not afraid of anything in earth or heaven save — himself. He knew that man has his worst enemy in his own Ego, — beyond that, there is very little in life that need give cause for alarm. He had, till now, been able to practise the stoical philosophy of an Epictetus while engaged in researches that would have puzzled the brain of a Plato, — but his philosophy was just now at fault and his self-possession gone to the four winds of heaven — and why? He knew not — but he was certain the fault lay in himself, and not in others. Of an arrogant temper and a self-reliant haughty disposition he had none of that low cowardice which people are guilty of, who finding themselves in a dilemma, cast the blame at once on others, or on “circumstances” which after all, were most probably of their own creating. And the strange music that ebbed and flowed in sonorous pulsations through the air around him, troubled him not at all, — he attributed it at once to something or other that was out of order in his own mental perceptions. He knew how in certain conditions of the brain, some infinitesimal trifle gone wrong in the aural nerves, will persuade one that trumpets are blowing, violins playing, birds singing or bells ringing in the distance, — just as a little disorder of the visual organs will help to convince one of apparitions. He knew how to cast a “glamour” better than any so-called “Theosophist” in full practice of his trickery, — and being thus perfectly aware how the human sense can be deceived, listened to the harmonious sounds he heard with speculative interest, wondering how long this “fancy” of his would last. Much more startled was he, when amid the rising and falling of the mysterious melody he heard the voice of Lilith saying softly in her usual manner —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 272
