“I think not, Féraz, — I think you cannot have forgotten music. Surely it is no extraneous thing, but part of you, — a lovely portion of your life which you would be loth to miss. Here is your little neglected friend,” — and, rising, he took out of its case an exquisitely shaped mandolin inlaid with pearl— “The dear old lute, — for lute it is, though modernized, — the same shaped instrument on which the rose and fuchsia-crowned youths of old Pompeii played the accompaniment to their love-songs; the same, the very same on which the long-haired, dusky-skinned maids of Thebes and Memphis thrummed their strange uncouth ditties to their black-browed warrior kings. I like it better than the violin — its form is far more pleasing — we can see Apollo with a lute, but it is difficult to fancy the Sun-god fitting his graceful arm to the contorted positions of a fiddle. Play something, Féraz” — and he smiled winningly as he gave the mandolin into his brother’s hands— “Here,” — and he detached the plectrum from its place under the strings— “With this little piece of oval tortoiseshell, you can set the nerves of music quivering, — those silver wires will answer to your touch like the fibres of the human heart struck by the tremolo of passion.”
He paused, — his eyes were full of an ardent light, and Féraz looked at him wonderingly. What a voice he had! — how eloquently he spoke! — how noble and thoughtful were his features! — and what an air of almost pathetic dignity was given to his face by that curiously snow-white hair of his, which so incongruously suggested age in youth! Poor Féraz! — his heart swelled within him; love and secret admiration for his brother contended with a sense of outraged pride in himself, — and yet — he felt his sullen amour-propre, his instinct of rebellion, and his distrustful reserve all oozing away under the spell of El-Râmi’s persuasive tongue and fascinating manner, — and to escape from his own feelings, he bent over the mandolin and tried its chords with a trembling hand and downcast eyes.
“You speak of passion,” he said in a low voice— “but you have never known it.”
“Oh, have I not!” and El-Râmi laughed lightly as he resumed his seat— “Nay, if I had not I should be more than man. The lightning has flashed across my path, Féraz, I assure you, only it has not killed me; and I have been ready to shed my blood drop by drop, for so slight and imperfect a production of Nature as — a woman! A thing of white flesh and soft curves, and long hair and large eyes, and a laugh like the tinkle of a fountain in our Eastern courts, — a thing with less mind than a kitten, and less fidelity than a hound. Of course there are clever women and faithful women, — but then we men seldom choose these; we are fools, and we pay for our folly. And I also have been a fool in my time, — why should you imagine I have not? It is flattering to me, but why?”
Féraz looked at him again, and in spite of himself smiled, though reluctantly.
“You always seem to treat all earthly emotions with scorn—” he replied evasively, “And once you told me there was no such thing in the world as love.”
“Nor is there—” said El-Râmi quickly— “Not ideal love — not everlasting love. Love in its highest, purest sense, belongs to other planets — in this its golden wings are clipped, and it becomes nothing more than a common and vulgar physical attraction.”
Féraz thrummed his mandolin softly.
“I saw two lovers the other day—” he said— “They seemed divinely happy.”
“Where did you see them?”
“Not here. In the land I know best — my Star.”
El-Râmi looked at him curiously, but forbore to speak.
“They were beautiful—” went on Féraz. “They were resting together on a bank of flowers, in a little nook of that lovely forest where there are thousands of song-birds sweeter than nightingales. Music filled the air, — a rosy glory filled the sky, — their arms were twined around each other, — their lips met, and then — oh, then their joy smote me with fear, because, — because I was alone — and they were — together!”
His voice trembled. El-Râmi’s smile had in it something of compassion.
“Love in your Star is a dream, Féraz—” he said gently— “But love here — here in this phase of things we call Reality, — means, — do you know what it means?”
Féraz shook his head.
“It means Money. It means lands, and houses and a big balance at the bank. Lovers do not subsist here on flowers and music, — they have rather more vulgar and substantial appetites. Love here is the disillusion of Love — there, in the region you speak of, it may perchance be perfect—”
A sudden rush of rain battering at the windows, accompanied by a gust of wind, interrupted him.
“What a storm!” exclaimed Féraz, looking up— “And you are expecting—”
A measured rat-tat-tat at the door came at that moment, and El-Râmi sprang to his feet. Féraz rose also, and set aside his mandolin. Another gust of wind whistled by, bringing with it a sweeping torrent of hail.
“Quick!” said El-Râmi, in a somewhat agitated voice— “It is — you know who it is. Give him reverent greeting, Féraz — and show him at once in here.”
Féraz withdrew, — and when he had disappeared, El-Râmi looked about him vaguely with the bewildered air of a man who would fain escape from some difficult position, could he but discover an egress, — a slight shudder ran through his frame, and he heaved a deep sigh.
“Why has he come to me!” he muttered, “Why — after all these years of absolute silence and indifference to my work, does he seek me now?”
CHAPTER XIX.
STANDING in an attitude more of resignation than expectancy, he waited, listening. He heard the street-door open and shut again, — then came a brief pause, followed by the sound of a firm step in the outer hall, — and Féraz reappeared, ushering in with grave respect a man of stately height and majestic demeanour, cloaked in a heavy travelling ulster, the hood of which was pulled cowl-like over his head and almost concealed his features.
“Greeting to El-Râmi Zarânos—” said a rich mellow voice— “And so this is the weather provided by an English month of May! Well, it might be worse, — certes, also, it might be better. I should have disburdened myself of these ‘lendings’ in the hall, but that I knew not whether you were quite alone—” and, as he spoke, he threw off his cloak, which dripped with rain, and handed it to Féraz, disclosing himself in the dress of a Carthusian monk, all save the disfiguring tonsure. “I was not certain,” he continued cheerfully— “whether you might be ready or willing to receive me.”
“I am always ready for such a visitor—” said El-Râmi, advancing hesitatingly, and with a curious diffidence in his manner— “And more than willing. Your presence honours this poor house and brings with it a certain benediction.”
“Gracefully said, El-Râmi!” exclaimed the monk with a keen flash of his deep-set blue eyes— “Where did you learn to make pretty speeches? I remember you of old time as brusque of tongue and obstinate of humour, — and even now humility sits ill upon you,— ’tis not your favourite practised household virtue.”
El-Râmi flushed, but made no reply. He seemed all at once to have become even to himself the merest foolish nobody before this his remarkable-looking visitor with the brow and eyes of an inspired evangelist, and the splendid lines of thought, aspiration and endeavour marking the already noble countenance with an expression seldom seen on features of mortal mould. Féraz now came forward to proffer wine and sundry other refreshments, all of which were courteously refused.
“This lad has grown, El-Râmi—” said the stranger, surveying Féraz with much interest and kindliness,— “since he stayed with us in Cyprus and studied our views of poesy and song. A promising youth he seems, — and still your slave?”
El-Râmi gave a gesture of deprecation.
“You mistake—” he replied curtly— “He is my brother and my friend, — as such he cannot be my slave. He is as free as air.”
“Or as an eagle that ever flies back to its eyrie in the rocks out of she
er habit—” observed the monk with a smile— “In this case you are the eyrie, and the eagle is never absent long! Well — what now, pretty lad?” this, as Féraz, moved by a sudden instinct which he could not explain to himself, dropped reverently on one knee.
“Your blessing—” he murmured timidly. “I have heard it said that your touch brings peace, — and I — I am not at peace.”
The monk looked at him benignly.
“We live in a world of storm, my boy—” he said gently— “where there is no peace but the peace of the inner spirit. That, with your youth and joyous nature, you should surely possess, — and if you have it not, may God grant it you! ’Tis the best blessing I can devise.”
And he signed the Cross on the young man’s forehead with a gentle lingering touch, — a touch under which Féraz trembled and sighed for pleasure, conscious of the delicious restfulness and ease that seemed suddenly to pervade his being.
“What a child he is still, this brother of yours!” then said the monk, turning abruptly towards El-Râmi— “He craves a blessing, — while you have progressed beyond all such need!”
El-Râmi raised his dark eyes, — eyes full of a burning pain and pride, — but made no answer. The monk looked at him steadily — and heaved a quick sigh.
“Vigilate et orate ut non intretis in tentationem!” he murmured,— “Truly, to forgive is easy — but to forget is difficult. I have much to say to you, El-Râmi, — for this is the last time I shall meet you ‘before I go hence and be no more seen.’”
Féraz uttered an involuntary exclamation.
“You do not mean,” he said almost breathlessly— “that you are going to die?”
“Assuredly not!” replied the monk with a smile— “I am going to live. Some people call it dying — but we know better, — we know we cannot die.”
“We are not sure—” began El-Râmi.
“Speak for yourself, my friend!” said the monk cheerily— “I am sure, — and so are those who labour with me. I am not made of perishable composition any more than the dust is perishable. Every grain of dust contains a germ of life — I am co-equal with the dust, and I contain my germ also, of life that is capable of infinite reproduction.”
El-Râmi looked at him dubiously yet wonderingly. He seemed the very embodiment of physical strength and vitality, yet he only compared himself to a grain of dust. And the very dust held the seeds of life! — true! — then, after all, was there anything in the universe, however small and slight, that could die utterly? And was Lilith right when she said there was no death? Wearily and impatiently El-Râmi pondered the question, — and he almost started with nervous irritation when the slight noise of the door shutting, told him that Féraz had retired, leaving him and his mysterious visitant alone together.
Some minutes passed in silence. The monk sat quietly in El-Râmi’s own chair, and El-Râmi himself stood close by, waiting, as it seemed, for something; with an air of mingled defiance and appeal. Outside, the rain and wind continued their gusty altercation; — inside, the lamp burned brightly, shedding warmth and lustre on the student-like simplicity of the room. It was the monk himself who at last broke the spell of the absolute stillness.
“You wonder,” he said slowly— “at the reason of my coming here, — to you, who are a recreant from the mystic tie of our brother — hood, — to you, who have employed the most sacred and venerable secrets of our Order, to wrest from Life and Nature the material for your own self-interested labours. You think I come for information — you think I wish to hear from your own lips the results of your scientific scheme of supernatural ambition, — alas, El-Râmi Zarânos! — how little you know me! Prayer has taught me more science than Science will ever grasp, — there is nothing in all the catalogue of your labours that I do not understand, and you can give me no new message from lands beyond the sun. I have come to you out of simple pity, — to warn you and if possible to save.”
El-Râmi’s dark eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“To warn me?” he echoed— “To save? From what? — Such a mission to me is incomprehensible.”
“Incomprehensible to your stubborn spirit, — yes, no doubt it is—” said the monk, with a touch of stern reproach in his accents,— “For you will not see that the Veil of the Eternal, though it may lift itself for you a little from other men’s lives, hangs dark across your own, and is impervious to your gaze. You will not grasp the fact that though it may be given to you to read other men’s passions, you cannot read your own. You have begun at the wrong end of the mystery, El-Râmi, — you should have mastered yourself first before seeking to master others. And now there is danger ahead of you — be wise in time, — accept the truth before it is too late.”
El-Râmi listened, impatient and incredulous.
“Accept what truth?” he asked somewhat bitterly— “Am I not searching for truth everywhere? and seeking to prove it? Give me any sort of truth to hold, and I will grasp it as a drowning sailor grasps the rope of rescue!”
The monk’s eyes rested on him in mingled compassion and sorrow.
“After all these years—” he said— “are you still asking Pilate’s question?”
“Yes — I am still asking Pilate’s question!” retorted El-Râmi with sudden passion— “See you — I know who you are, — great and wise, a master of the arts and sciences, and with all your stores of learning, still a servant of Christ, which to me, is the wildest, maddest incongruity. I grant you that Christ was the holiest man that ever lived on earth, — and if I swear a thing in His name, I swear an oath that shall not be broken. But in His Divinity, I cannot, I may not, I dare not believe! — except in so far that there is divinity in all of us. One man, born of woman, destined to regenerate the world! — the idea is stupendous, — but impossible to reason!”
He paced the room impatiently.
“If I could believe it — I say ‘if,’” — he continued, “I should still think it a clumsy scheme. For every human creature living should be a reformer and regenerator of his race.”
“Like yourself?” queried the monk calmly. “What have you done, for example?”
El-Râmi stopped in his walk to and fro.
“What have I done?” he repeated— “Why — nothing! You deem me proud and ambitious, — but I am humble enough to know how little I know. And as to proofs, — well, it is the same story — I have proved nothing.”
“So! Then are your labours wasted?”
“Nothing is wasted, — according to your theories even. Your theories — many of them — are beautiful and soul-satisfying, and this one of there being no waste in the economy of the universe is, I believe, true. But I cannot accept all you teach. I broke my connection with you because I could not bend my spirit to the level of the patience you enjoined. It was not rebellion, — no! for I loved and honoured you — and I still revere you more than any man alive, but I cannot bow my neck to the yoke you consider so necessary. To begin all work by first admitting one’s weakness! — no! — Power is gained by never-resting ambition, not by a merely laborious humility.”
“Opinions differ on that point” — said the monk quietly— “I never sought to check your ambition — I simply said — Take God with you. Do not leave Him out. He IS. Therefore His existence must be included in everything, even in the scientific examination of a drop of dew. Without Him you grope in the dark — you lack the key to the mystery. As an example of this, you are yourself battering against a shut door, and fighting with a Force too strong for you.”
“I must have proofs of God!” said El-Râmi very deliberately— “Nature proves her existence; let God prove His!”
“And does He not prove it?” inquired the monk with mingled passion and solemnity— “Have you to go further than the commonest flower to find Him?”
El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders with an air of light disdain.
“Nature is Nature,” — he said— “God — an there be a God — is God. If God works through Nature He arranges th
ings very curiously on a system of mutual destruction. You talk of flowers, — they contain both poisonous and healing properties, — and the poor human race has to study and toil for years before finding out which is which. Is that just of Nature — or God? Children never know at all, — and the poor little wretches die often through eating poison-berries of whose deadly nature they were not aware. That is what I complain of — we are not aware of evil, and we are not made aware. We have to find it out for ourselves. And I maintain that it is wanton cruelty on the part of the Divine Element to punish us for ignorance which we cannot help. And so the plan of mutual destructiveness goes on, with the most admirable persistency; the eater is in turn eaten, and as far as I can make out, this seems to be the one Everlasting Law. Surely it is an odd and inconsequential arrangement? As for the business of creation, that is easy, if once we grant the existence of certain component parts of space. Look at this, for example” — and he took from a corner a thin steel rod about the size of an ordinary walking cane— “If I use this magnet, and these few crystals” — and he opened a box on the table, containing some sparkling powder like diamond dust, a pinch of which he threw up into the air— “and play with them thus, you see what happens!”
And with a dexterous steady motion, he waved the steel rod rapidly round and round in the apparently empty space where he had tossed aloft the pinch of powder, and gradually there grew into shape out of the seeming nothingness, a round large brilliant globe of prismatic tints, like an enormously magnified soap-bubble, which followed the movement of the steel magnet rapidly and accurately. The monk lifted himself a little in his chair and watched the operation with interest and curiosity — till presently El-Râmi dropped the steel rod from sheer fatigue of arm. But the globe went on revolving steadily by itself for a time, and El-Râmi pointed to it with a smile —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 256
