féraz meanwhile was fast asleep in his own room. he had sought to be alone for the purpose of thinking quietly and connectedly over all he had heard,—but no sooner had he obtained the desired solitude than a sudden and heavy drowsiness overcame him, such as he was unable to resist, and, throwing himself on his bed, he dropped into a profound slumber, which deepened as the minutes crept on. the afternoon wore slowly away,—sunset came and passed,—the coming shadows lengthened, and just as the first faint star peeped out in the darkening skies he awoke, startled to find it so late. he sprang from his couch, bewildered and vexed with himself,—it was time for supper, he thought, and el-râmi must be waiting. he hastened to the study, and there he found his brother conversing with a gentleman,—no other than lord melthorpe, who was talking in a loud cheerful voice, which contrasted oddly with el-râmi’s slow musical accents, that ever had a note of sadness in them. when féraz made his hurried entrance, his eyes humid with sleep, yet dewily brilliant,—his thick dark hair tangled in rough curls above his brows, lord melthorpe stared at him in honestly undisguised admiration, and then glanced at el-râmi inquiringly.
“my brother, féraz zarânos”—said el-râmi, readily performing the ceremony of introduction—“féraz, this is lord melthorpe,—you have heard me speak of him.”
féraz bowed with his usual perfect grace, and lord melthorpe shook hands with him.
“upon my word!” he said good-humouredly, “this young gentleman reminds one of the arabian nights, el-râmi! he looks like one of those amazing fellows who always had remarkable adventures; prince ahmed, or the son of a king, or something—don’t you know?”
el-râmi smiled gravely.
“the eastern dress is responsible for that idea in your mind, no doubt—” he replied—“féraz wears it in the house, because he moves more easily and is more comfortable in it than in the regulation british attire, which really is the most hideous mode of garb in the world. englishmen are among the finest types of the human race, but their dress does them scant justice.”
“you are right—we’re all on the same tailor’s pattern—and a frightful pattern it is!” and his lordship put up his eyeglass to survey féraz once more, the while he thought—“devilish handsome fellow!—would make quite a sensation in the room—new sort of craze for my lady.” aloud he said—“pray bring your brother with you on tuesday evening—my wife will be charmed.”
“féraz never goes into society—” replied el-râmi—“but of course, if you insist——”
“oh, i never insist—” declared lord melthorpe, laughing, “you are the man for insisting, not i. but i shall take it as a favour if he will accompany you.”
“you hear, féraz—” and el-râmi looked at his brother inquiringly—“lord melthorpe invites you to a great reception next tuesday evening. would you like to go?”
féraz glanced from one to the other half smilingly, half doubtfully.
“yes, i should like it,” he said at last.
“then we shall expect you,—” and lord melthorpe rose to take his leave,—“it’s a sort of diplomatic and official affair—fellows will look in either before or after the foreign office crush, which is on the same evening, and orders and decorations will be in full force, i believe. oh, by the way, lady melthorpe begged me to ask you most particularly to wear oriental dress.”
“i shall obey her ladyship;”—and el-râmi smiled a little satirically—the character of the lady in question was one that always vaguely amused him.
“and your brother will do the same, i hope?”
“assuredly!” and el-râmi shook hands with his visitor, bidding féraz escort him to the door. when he had gone, féraz sprang into the study again with all the eager impetuosity of a boy.
“what is it like—a reception in england?” he asked—“and why does lord melthorpe ask me?”
“i cannot imagine!” returned his brother drily—“why do you want to go?”
“i should like to see life;”—said féraz.
“see life!” echoed el-râmi somewhat disdainfully—“what do you mean? don’t you ‘see life’ as it is?”
“no!” answered féraz quickly—“i see men and women—but i don’t know how they live, and i don’t know what they do.”
“they live in a perpetual effort to out-reach and injure one another”—said el-râmi, “and all their forces are concentrated on bringing themselves into notice. that is how they live,—that is what they do. it is not a dignified or noble way of living, but it is all they care about. you will see illustrations of this at lord melthorpe’s reception. you will find the woman with the most diamonds giving herself peacock-like airs over the woman who has fewest,—you will see the snob-millionaire treated with greater consideration by every one than the born gentleman who happens to have little of this world’s wealth. you will find that no one thinks of putting himself out to give personal pleasure to another,—you will hear the same commonplace observations from every mouth,—you will discover a lack of wit, a dearth of kindness, a scarcity of cheerfulness, and a most desperate want of tact in every member of the whole fashionable assemblage. and so you shall ‘see life’—if you think you can discern it there. sufficient for the day is the evil thereof!—meanwhile let us have supper,—time flies, and i have work to do to-night that must be done.”
féraz busied himself nimbly about his usual duties—the frugal meal was soon prepared and soon dispensed with, and, at its close, the brothers sat in silence, el-râmi watching féraz with a curious intentness, because he felt for the first time in his life that he was not quite master of the young man’s thoughts. did he still remember the name of lilith? el-râmi had willed that every trace of it should vanish from his memory during that long afternoon sleep in which the lad had indulged himself unresistingly,—but the question was now—had that force of will gained the victory? he, el-râmi, could not tell—not yet—but he turned the problem over and over in his mind with sombre irritation and restlessness. presently féraz broke the silence. drawing from his vest pocket a small manuscript book, and raising his eyes, he said—
“do you mind hearing something i wrote last night? i don’t quite know how it came to me—i think i must have been dreaming——”
“read on;”—said el-râmi—“if it be poesy, then its origin cannot be explained. were you able to explain it, it would become prose.”
“i daresay the lines are not very good,”—went on féraz diffidently—“yet they are the true expression of a thought that is in me. and whether i owe it to you, or to my own temperament, i have visions now and then—visions not only of love, but of fame—strange glories that i almost realise, yet cannot grasp. and there is a sadness and futility in it all that grieves me ... everything is so vague and swift and fleeting. yet if love, as you say, be a mere chimera,—surely there is such a thing as fame?”
“there is—” and el-râmi’s eyes flashed, then darkened again—“there is the applause of this world, which may mean the derision of the next. read on!”
féraz obeyed. “i call it for the present ‘the star of destiny’”—he said; and then his mellifluous voice, rich and well modulated, gave flowing musical enunciation to the following lines:
“the soft low plash of waves upon the shore,
mariners’ voices singing out at sea,
the sighing of the wind that evermore
chants to my spirit mystic melody,—
these are the mingling sounds i vaguely hear
as o’er the darkening misty main i gaze,
where one fair planet, warmly bright and clear,
pours from its heart a rain of silver rays.
“o patient star of love! in yon pale sky
what absolute serenity is thine!
beneath thy steadfast, half-reproachful eye
large ocean chafes,—and, white with bitter brine,
heaves restlessly, and ripples from the light
to darker shadows,—ev’n as noble thought
recoils from human passion, to a night
of splendid gloom by its own mystery wrought.”
“what made you think of the sea?” interrupted el-râmi.
féraz looked up dreamily.
“i don’t know,”—he said.
“well!—go on!”
féraz continued,—
“o searching star, i bring my grief to thee,—
regard it, thou, as pitying angels may
regard a tortured saint,—and, down to me
send one bright glance, one heart-assuring ray
from that high throne where thou in sheeny state
dost hang, thought-pensive, ’twixt the heaven and earth;
thou, sure, dost know the secret of my fate,
for thou didst shine upon my hour of birth.
“o star, from whom the clouds asunder roll,
tell this poor spirit pent in dying flesh,
this fighting, working, praying, prisoned soul,
why it is trapped and strangled in the mesh
of foolish life and time? its wild young voice
calls for release, unanswered and unstilled,—
it sought not out this world,—it had no choice
of other worlds where glory is fulfilled.
“how hard to live at all, if living be
the thing it seems to us!—the few brief years
made up of toil and sorrow, where we see
no joy without companionship of tears,—
what is the artist’s fame?—the golden chords
of rapt musician? or the poet’s themes?
all incomplete!—the nailed-down coffin boards
are mocking sequels to the grandest dreams.”
“that is not your creed,”—said el-râmi with a searching look.
féraz sighed. “no—it is not my actual creed—but it is my frequent thought.”
“a thought unworthy of you,”—said his brother—“there is nothing left ‘incomplete’ in the whole universe—and there is no sequel possible to creation.”
“perhaps not,—but again perhaps there may be a sequel beyond all imagination or comprehension. and surely you must admit that some things are left distressingly incomplete. shelley’s ‘fragments’ for instance, keats’s ‘hyperion’—schubert’s ‘unfinished’ symphony——”
“incomplete here—yes—;” agreed el-râmi—“but—finished elsewhere, as surely as day is day, and night is night. there is nothing lost,—no, not so much as the lightest flicker of a thought in a man’s brain,—nothing wasted or forgotten,—not even so much as an idle word. we forget—but the forces of nature are non-oblivious. all is chronicled and registered—all is scientifically set down in plain figures that no mistake may be made in the final reckoning.”
“you really think that?—you really believe that?” asked féraz, his eyes dilating eagerly.
“i do, most positively;”—said el-râmi—“it is a fact which nature most potently sets forth, and insists upon. but is there no more of your verse?”
“yes—” and féraz read on—
“o, we are sorrowful, my soul and i:
we war together fondly—yet we pray
for separate roads,—the body fain would die
and sleep i’ the ground, low-hidden from the day—
the soul erect, its large wings cramped for room,
doth pantingly and passionately rebel,
against this strange, uncomprehended doom
called life, where nothing is, or shall be well.”
“good!”—murmured el-râmi softly—“good—and true!”
“hear me, my star!—star of my natal hour,
thou calm unmovëd one amid all clouds!
give me my birth-right,—the imperial sway
of thought supreme above the common crowds,—
o let me feel thy swift compelling beam
drawing me upwards to a goal divine;
fulfil thy promise, o thou glittering dream,
and let one crown of victory be mine.
“let me behold this world recede and pass
like shifting mist upon a stormy coast
or vision in a necromancer’s glass;—
for i, ’mid perishable earth can boast
of proven immortality,—can reach
glories ungrasped by minds of lower tone;—
thus, in a silence vaster than all speech,
i follow thee, my star of love, alone!”
he ceased. el-râmi, who had listened attentively, resting his head on one hand, now lifted his eyes and looked at his young brother with an expression of mingled curiosity and compassion.
“the verses are good;”—he said at last—“good and perfectly rhythmical, but surely they have a touch of arrogance?—
“‘i, ’mid perishable earth can boast
of proven immortality.’
what do you mean by ‘proven’ immortality? where are your proofs?”
“i have them in my inner consciousness;” replied féraz slowly—“but to put them into the limited language spoken by mortals is impossible. there are existing emotions—existing facts, which can never be rendered into common speech. god is a fact—but he cannot be explained or described.”
el-râmi was silent,—a slight frown contracted his dark even brows.
“you are beginning to think too much,”—he observed, rising from his chair as he spoke—“do not analyse yourself, féraz, ... self-analysis is the temper of the age, but it engenders distrust and sorrow. your poem is excellent, but it breathes of sadness,—i prefer your ‘star’ songs which are so full of joy. to be wise is to be happy,—to be happy is to be wise——”
a loud rat-tat at the street door interrupted him. féraz sprang up to answer the imperative summons, and returned with a telegram. el-râmi opened and read it with astonished eyes, his face growing suddenly pale.
“he will be here to-morrow night!” he ejaculated in a whisper—“to-morrow night! he, the saint—the king—here to-morrow night! why should he come?—what would he have with me?”
his expression was one of dazed bewilderment, and féraz looked at him inquiringly.
“any bad news?” he asked—“who is it that is coming?”
el-râmi recollected himself, and, folding up the telegram, thrust it in his breast pocket.
“a poor monk who is travelling hither on a secret mission solicits my hospitality for the night”—he replied hurriedly—“that is all. he will be here to-morrow.”
féraz stood silent, an incredulous smile in his fine eyes.
“why should you stoop to deceive me, el-râmi, my brother?” he said gently at last—“surely it is not one of your ways to perfection? why try to disguise the truth from me?—i am not of a treacherous nature. if i guess rightly, this ‘poor monk’ is the supreme head of the brethren of the cross, from whose mystic band you were dismissed for a breach of discipline. what harm is there in my knowing of this?”
el-râmi’s hand clenched, and his eyes had that dark and terrible look in them that féraz had learned to fear, but his voice was very calm.
“who told you?” he asked.
“one of the monks at cyprus long ago, when i went on your errand”—replied féraz; “he spoke of your wisdom, your power, your brilliant faculties, in genuine regret that, all for some slight matter in which you would not bend your pride, you had lost touch with their various centres of action in all parts of the globe. he said no more than this,—and no more than this i know.”
“you know quite enough,”—said el-râmi quietly—“if i have lost touch with their modes of work, i have gained insight beyond their reach. and,—i am sorry i did not at once say the truth to you—it is their chief leader who comes here to-morrow. no doubt,”—and he smiled with a sense of triumph—“no doubt he seeks for fresh knowledge, such as i alone can give him.”
“i thought,” said féraz in a low half-awed tone,—“that he was one of those who are wise with the wisdom of the angels?”
“if there are angels!” said el-râmi with a touch of scorn, “he is wise in faith alone—he believes and he imagines,—and there is no question as to the strange power he has obtained through the simplest means,—but i—i have no faith!—i seek to prove—i work to know,—and my power is as great as his, though it is won in a different way.”
féraz said nothing, but sat down to the piano, allowing his hands to wander over the keys in a dreamy fashion that sounded like the far-off echo of a rippling mountain stream. el-râmi waited a moment, listening,—then glanced at his watch—it was growing late.
“good-night, féraz;”—he said in gentle accents—“i shall want nothing more this evening. i am going to my work.”
“good-night,”—answered féraz with equal gentleness, as he went on playing. his brother opened and closed the door softly;—he was gone.
as soon as he found himself alone, féraz pressed the pedal of his instrument so that the music pealed through the room in rich salvos of sound—chord after chord rolled grandly forth, and sweet ringing notes came throbbing from under his agile finger-tips, the while he said aloud, with a mingling of triumph and tenderness—
“forget! i shall never forget! does one forget the flowers, the birds, the moonlight, the sound of a sweet song? is the world so fair that i should blot from my mind the fairest thing in it? not so! my memory may fail me in a thousand things—but let me be tortured, harassed, perplexed with dreams, persuaded by fantasies, i shall never forget the name of——”
he stopped abruptly—a look of pain and terror and effort flashed into his eyes,—his hands fell on the keys of the piano with a discordant jangle,—he stared about him, wondering and afraid.
“the name—the name!” he muttered hoarsely—“a flower’s name—an angel’s name—the sweetest name i ever heard! how is this?—am i mad that my lips refuse to utter it? the name—the name of ... my god! my god! i have forgotten it!”
and springing from his chair he stood for one instant in mute wrath, incredulity, and bewilderment,—then throwing himself down again, he buried his face in his hands, his whole frame trembling with mingled terror and awe at the mystic power of el-râmi’s indomitable will, which had, he knew, forced him to forget what most he desired to remember.
