within the chamber of lilith all was very still. zaroba sat there, crouched down in what seemed to be her favourite and accustomed corner, busy with the intricate thread-work which she wove with so much celerity;—the lamp burned brightly,—there were odours of frankincense and roses in the air,—and not so much as the sound of a suppressed sigh or soft breath stirred the deep and almost sacred quiet of the room. the tranced lilith herself, pale but beautiful, lay calm and still as ever among the glistening satin cushions of her costly couch, and, just above her, the purple draperies that covered the walls and ceiling were drawn aside to admit of the opening of a previously-concealed window, through which one or two stars could be seen dimly sparkling in the skies. a white moth, attracted by the light, had flown in by way of this aperture, and was now fluttering heedlessly and aimlessly round the lamp,—but by and by it took a lower and less hazardous course, and finally settled on a shining corner of the cushion that supported lilith’s head. there the fragile insect rested,—now expanding its velvety white wings, now folding them close and extending its delicate feelers to touch and test the glittering fabric on which it found itself at ease,—but never moving from the spot it had evidently chosen for its night’s repose. suddenly, and without sound, el-râmi entered. he advanced close up to the couch, and looked upon the sleeping girl with an eager, almost passionate intentness. his heart beat quickly;—a singular excitement possessed him, and for once he was unable to analyse his own sensations. closer and closer he bent over lilith’s exquisite form,—doubtfully and with a certain scorn of himself, he took up a shining tress of her glorious hair and looked at it curiously as though it were something new, strange, or unnatural. the little moth, disturbed, flew off the pillow and fluttered about his head in wild alarm, and el-râmi watched its reckless flight as it made off towards the fatally-attractive lamp again, with meditative eyes, still mechanically stroking that soft lock of lilith’s hair which he held between his fingers.
“into the light!” he murmured—“into the very heart of the light!—into the very core of the fire! that is the end of all ambition—to take wings and plunge so—into the glowing, burning molten creative centre—and die for our foolhardiness? is that all?—or is there more behind? it is a question,—who may answer it?”
he sighed heavily, and leaned more closely over the couch, till the soft scarcely perceptible breath from lilith’s lips touched his cheek warmly like a caress. observantly, as one might study the parts of a bird or a flower, he noted those lips, how delicately curved, how coral-red they were,—and what a soft rose-tint, like the flush of a pink sunrise on white flowers, was the hue which spread itself waveringly over her cheeks,—till there,—there where the long eyelashes curled upwards, there were fine shadows,—shadows which suggested light,—such light as must be burning in those sweetly-closed eyes. then there was the pure, smooth brow, over which little vine-like tendrils of hair caught and clung amorously,—and then—that wondrous wealth of the hair itself which, like twin showers of gold, shed light on either side. it was all beautiful,—a wonderful gem of nature’s handiwork,—a masterpiece of form and colour which, but for him, el-râmi, would long ere this have mouldered away to unsightly ash and bone, in a lonely grave dug hurriedly among the sands of the syrian desert. he was almost, if not quite, the author of that warm if unnatural vitality that flowed through those azure veins and branching arteries,—he, like the christ of galilee, had raised the dead to life,—ay, if he chose, he could say as the master said to the daughter of jairus, “maiden, arise!” and she would obey him—would rise and walk, and smile and speak, and look upon the world,—if he chose! the arrogance of will burned in his brain;—the pride of power, the majesty of conscious strength made his pulses beat high with triumph beyond that of any king or emperor,—and he gazed down upon the tranced fair form, himself entranced, and all unconscious that zaroba had come out of her corner, and that she now stood beside him, watching his face with passionate and inquisitive eagerness. just as he reluctantly lifted himself up from his leaning position he saw her staring at him, and a frown darkened his brows. he made his usual imperative sign to her to leave the room,—a sign she was accustomed to understand and to obey—but this time she remained motionless, fixing her eyes steadily upon him.
“the conqueror shall be conquered, el-râmi zarânos—” she said slowly, pointing to the sleeping lilith—“the victorious master over the forces unutterable shall yet be overthrown! the work has begun,—the small seed has been sown—the great harvest shall be reaped. for in the history of heaven itself certain proud angels rose up and fought for the possession of supreme majesty and power—and they fell,—downbeaten to the darkness,—unforgiven, and are they not in darkness still? even so must the haughty spirit fall that contends against god and the universal law.”
she spoke impressively, and with a certain dignity of manner that gave an added force to her words,—but el-râmi’s impassive countenance showed no sign of having either heard or understood her. he merely repeated his gesture of dismissal, and this time zaroba obeyed it. wrapping her flowing robe closely about her, she withdrew, but with evident reluctance, letting the velvet portière fall only by slow degrees behind her, and to the last keeping her dark deep-set eyes fixed on el-râmi’s face. as soon as she had disappeared, he sprang to where the dividing-curtain hid a massive door between the one room and the ante-chamber,—this door he shut and locked,—then he returned to the couch, and proceeded, according to his usual method, to will the wandering spirit of his “subject” into speech.
“lilith! lilith!”
as before, he had to wait ere any reply was vouchsafed to him. impatiently he glanced at the clock, and counted slowly a hundred beats.
“lilith!”
she turned round towards him, smiled, and murmured something—her lips moved, but whatever they uttered did not reach his ear.
“lilith! where are you?”
this time, her voice, though soft, was perfectly distinct.
“here. close to you, with your hand on mine.”
el-râmi was puzzled. true, he held her left hand in his own, but she had never described any actual sensation of human touch before.
“then,—can you see me?” he asked somewhat anxiously.
the answer came sadly.
“no. bright air surrounds me, and the colours of the air—nothing more.”
“you are alone, lilith?”
oh, what a sigh came heaving from her breast!
“i am always alone!”
half remorseful, he heard her. she had complained of solitude before,—and it was a thought he did not wish her to dwell upon. he made haste to speak again.
“tell me,”—he said—“where have you been, lilith, and what have you seen?”
there was silence for a minute or two, and she moved restlessly.
“you bade me seek out hell for you”—she murmured at last—“i have searched, but i cannot find it.”
another pause, and she went on.
“you spoke of a strange thing,” she said—“a place of punishment, of torture, of darkness, of horror and despair,—there is no such dreary blot on all god’s fair creation. in all the golden spaces of the farthest stars i find no punishment, no pain, no darkness. i can discover nothing save beauty, light, and—love!”
the last word was uttered softly, and sounded like a note of music, sweet but distant.
el-râmi listened, bewildered, and in a manner disappointed.
“o lilith, take heed what you say!” he exclaimed with some passion—“no pain?—no punishment? no darkness? then this world is hell and you know naught of it!”
as he said this, she moved uneasily among her pillows,—then, to his amazement, she suddenly sat up of her own accord, and went on speaking, enunciating her words with singular clearness and emphasis, always keeping her eyes closed and allowing her left hand to remain in his.
“i am bound to tell you what i know;”—she said—“but i am unable to tell you what is not true. in god’s design i find no evil—no punishment, no death. if there are such things, they must be in your world alone,—they must be man’s work and man’s imagining.”
“man’s work—man’s imagining?” repeated el-râmi—“and what is man?”
“god’s angel,” replied lilith quickly—“with god’s own attribute of free-will. he, like his maker, doth create,—he also doth destroy,—what he elects to do, god will not prevent. therefore, if man makes evil, evil must exist till man himself destroys it.”
this was a deep and strange saying, and el-râmi pondered over it without speaking.
“in the spaces where i roam,” went on lilith softly—“there is no evil. those who are the makers of life in yonder fair regions seek only what is pure. why should pain exist, or sin be known? i do not understand.”
“no”—said el-râmi bitterly—“you do not understand, because you are yourself too happy,—happiness sees no fault in anything. oh, you have wandered too far from earth and you forget! the tie that binds you to this planet is over-fragile,—you have lost touch with pain. i would that i could make you feel my thoughts!—for, lilith, god is cruel, not kind, ... upon god, and god alone, rests the weight of woe that burdens the universe, and for the eternal sorrow of things there is neither reason nor remedy.”
lilith sank back again in a recumbent posture, a smile upon her lips.
“o poor blind eyes!” she murmured—“sad eyes that are so tired—too tired to bear the light!”
her voice was so exquisitely pathetic that he was startled by its very gentleness,—his heart gave one fierce bound against his side, and then seemed almost to stand still.
“you pity me?” he asked tremulously.
she sighed. “i pity you”—she answered—“i pity myself.”
almost breathlessly he asked “why?”
“because i cannot see you—because you cannot see me. if i could see you—if you could see me as i am, you would know all—you would understand all.”
“i do see you, lilith,” he said—“i hold your hand.”
“no—not my real hand”—she said—“only its shadow.”
instinctively he looked at the delicate fingers that lay in his palm—so rosy-tipped and warm. only the “shadow” of a hand! then where was its substance?
“it will pass away”—went on lilith—“like all shadows—but i shall remain—not here, not here,—but elsewhere. when will you let me go?”
“where do you wish to go?” he asked.
“to my friends,” she answered swiftly and with eagerness—“they call me often—i hear their voices singing ‘lilith! lilith!’ and sometimes i see them beckoning me—but i cannot reach them. it is cruel, for they love me and you do not,—why will you keep me here unloved so long?”
he trembled and hesitated, fixing his dark eyes on the fair face, which, in spite of its beauty, was to him but as the image of a sphinx that for ever refused to give up its riddle.
“is love your craving, lilith?” he asked slowly—“and what is your thought—or dream—of love?”
“love is no dream;”—she responded—“love is reality—love is life. i am not fully living yet—i hover in the realms between, where spirits wait in silence and alone.”
he sighed. “then you are sad, lilith?”
“no. i am never sad. there is light within my solitude, and the glory of god’s beauty everywhere.”
el-râmi gazed down upon her, an expression very like despair shadowing his own features.
“too far, too far she wends her flight;”—he muttered to himself wearily. “how can i argue on these vague and sublimated utterances! i cannot understand her joy—she cannot understand my pain. evidently heaven’s language is incomprehensible to mortal ears. and yet;—lilith!” he called again almost imperiously. “you talk of god as if you knew him. but i—i know him not—i have not proved him; tell me of his shape, his seeming,—if indeed you have the power.”
she was silent. he studied her tranquil face intently,—the smile upon it was in very truth divine.
“no answer!” he said with some derision. “of course,—what answer should there be! what shape or seeming should there be to a mere huge blind force that creates without reason, and destroys without necessity!”
as he thus soliloquised, lilith stirred, and flung her white arms upward as though in ecstasy, letting them fall slowly afterwards in a folded position behind her head.
“to the seven declared tones of music, add seventy million more,”—she said—“and let them ring their sweetest cadence, they shall make but a feeble echo of the music of god’s voice! to all the shades of radiant colour, to all the lines of noblest form, add the splendour of eternal youth, eternal goodness, eternal joy, eternal power, and yet we shall not render into speech or song the beauty of our god! from his glance flows light—from his presence rushes harmony,—as he moves through space great worlds are born; and at his bidding planets grow within the air like flowers. oh to see him passing ’mid the stars!——”
she broke off suddenly and drew a long deep breath, as of sheer delight,—but the shadow on el-râmi’s features darkened wearily.
“you teach me nothing, lilith”—he said sadly and somewhat sternly—“you speak of what you see—or what you think you see—but you cannot convince me of its truth.”
her face grew paler,—the smile vanished from her lips, and all her delicate beauty seemed to freeze into a cold and grave rigidity.
“love begets faith;”—she said—“where we do not love, we doubt. doubt breeds evil, and evil knows not god.”
“platitudes, upon my life!—mere platitudes!” exclaimed el-râmi bitterly—“if this half-released spirit can do no more than prate of the same old laws and duties our preachers teach us, then indeed my service is vain. but she shall not baffle me thus;”—and, bending over lilith’s figure, he unwound her arms from the indolent position in which they were folded, took her hands roughly in his own, and, sitting on the edge of her couch, fixed his burning eyes upon her as though he sought to pierce her to the heart’s core with their ardent, almost cruel lustre.
“lilith!” he commanded—“speak plainly, that i may fully understand your words. you say there is no hell?”
the answer came steadily.
“none.”
“then must evil go unpunished?”
“evil wreaks punishment upon itself. evil destroys itself. that is the law.”
“and the prophets!” muttered el-râmi scornfully—“well! go on, strange sprite! why—for such things are known—why does goodness suffer for being good?”
“that never is. that is impossible.”
“impossible?” queried el-râmi incredulously.
“impossible,”—repeated, the soft voice firmly. “goodness seems to suffer, but it does not. evil seems to prosper, but it does not.”
“and god exists?”
“god exists.”
“and what of heaven?”
“which heaven?” asked lilith—“there are a million million heavens.”
el-râmi stopped—thinking,—then finally said—
“god’s heaven.”
“you would say god’s world;”—returned lilith tranquilly—“nay, you will not let me reach that centre. i see it; i feel it afar off—but your will binds me—you will not let me go.”
“if i were to let you go, what would you do?” asked el-râmi—“would you return to me?”
“never! those who enter the perfect glory return no more to an imperfect light.”
el-râmi paused—he was arranging other questions to ask, when her next words startled him—
“some one called me by my name,”—she said—“tenderly and softly, as though it were a name beloved. i heard the voice—i could not answer—but i heard it—and i know that some one loves me. the sense of love is sweet, and makes your dreary world seem fair!”
el-râmi’s heart began to beat violently—the voice of féraz had reached her in her trance then after all! and she remembered it!—more than this—it had carried a vague emotion of love to that vagrant and ethereal essence which he called her “soul” but which he had his doubts of all the while. for he was unable to convince himself positively of any such thing as “soul”;—all emotions, even of the most divinely transcendent nature, he was disposed to set down to the action of brain merely. but he was scientist enough to know that the brain must gather its ideas from something,—something either external or internal,—even such a vague thing as an idea cannot spring out of blank chaos. and this was what especially puzzled him in his experiment with the girl lilith—for, ever since he had placed her in the “life-in-death” condition she was, he had been careful to avoid impressing any of his own thoughts or ideas upon her. and, as a matter of fact, all she said about god, or about a present or a future state, was precisely the reverse of what he himself argued;—the question therefore remained—from where and how did she get her knowledge? she had been a mere pretty, ignorant, half-barbaric arab child, when she died (according to natural law), and, during the six years she had lived (by scientific law) in her strange trance, her brain had been absolutely unconscious of all external impressions, while of internal she could have none, beyond the memories of her childhood. yet,—she had grown beautiful beyond the beauty of mortals, and she spoke of things beyond all mortal comprehension. the riddle of her physical and mental development seemed unanswerable,—it was the wonder, the puzzle, the difficulty, the delight of all el-râmi’s hours. but now there was mischief done. she spoke of love,—not divine impersonal love, as was her wont,—but love that touched her own existence with a vaguely pleasing emotion. a voice had reached her that never should have been allowed to penetrate her spiritual solitude, and realising this, a sullen anger smouldered in el-râmi’s mind. he strove to consider zaroba’s fault and féraz’s folly with all the leniency, forbearance, and forgiveness possible, and yet the strange restlessness within him gave him no peace. what should be done? what could be answered to those wistful words—“the sense of love is sweet, and makes your dreary world seem fair”?
he pondered on the matter, vaguely uneasy and dissatisfied. he, and he alone, was the master of lilith,—he commanded and she obeyed,—but would it be always thus? the doubt turned his blood cold,—suppose she escaped him now, after all his studies and calculations! he resolved he would ask her no more questions that night, and very gently he released the little slender hands he held.
“go, lilith!” he said softly—“this world, as you say, is dreary—i will not keep you longer in its gloom—go hence and rest.”
“rest?” sighed lilith inquiringly—“where?”
he bent above her, and touched her loose gold locks almost caressingly.
“where you choose!”
“nay, that i may not!” murmured lilith sadly. “i have no choice—i must obey the master’s will.”
el-râmi’s heart beat high with triumph at these words.
“my will!” he said, more to himself than to her—“the force of it!—the marvel of it!—my will!”
lilith heard,—a strange glory seemed to shine round her, like a halo round a pictured saint, and the voice that came from her lips rang out with singularly sweet clearness.
“your will!” she echoed—“your will—and also—god’s will!”
he started, amazed and irresolute. the words were not what he expected, and he would have questioned their meaning, but that he saw on the girl’s lovely features a certain pale composed look which he recognised as the look that meant silence.
“lilith!” he whispered.
no answer. he stood looking down upon her, his face seeming sterner and darker than usual by reason of the intense, passionate anxiety in his burning eyes.
“god’s will!” he echoed with some disdain—“god’s will would have annihilated her very existence long ago out in the desert;—what should god do with her now that i have not done?”
his arrogance seemed to be perfectly justifiable; and yet he very well knew that, strictly speaking, there was no such thing as “annihilation” possible to any atom in the universe. moreover, he did not choose to analyse the mystical reasons as to why he had been permitted by fate or chance to obtain such mastery over one human soul,—he preferred to attribute it all to his own discoveries in science,—his own patient and untiring skill,—his own studious comprehension of the forces of nature,—and he was nearly, if not quite, oblivious of the fact that there is a something behind natural forces, which knows and sees, controls and commands, and against which, if he places himself in opposition, man is but the puniest, most wretched straw that was ever tossed or split by a whirlwind. as a rule, men of science work not for god so much as against him,—wherefore their most brilliant researches stop short of the goal. great intellects are seldom devout,—for brilliant culture begets pride—and pride is incompatible with faith or worship. perfect science, combined with perfect selflessness, would give us what we need,—a purified and reasoning religion. but el-râmi’s chief characteristic was pride,—and he saw no mischief in it. strong in his knowledge,—defiant of evil in the consciousness he possessed of his own extraordinary physical and mental endowments, he saw no reason why he should bow down in humiliated abasement before forces, either natural or spiritual, which he deemed himself able to control. and his brow cleared, as he once more bent over his tranced “subject” and, with all the methodical precaution of a physician, felt her pulse, took note of her temperature, and judged that for the present she needed no more of that strange elixir which kept her veins aglow with such inexplicably beauteous vitality. then—his examination done—he left the room; and as he drew the velvet portière behind him the little white moth that had flown in for a night’s shelter fluttered down from the golden lamp like a falling leaf, and dropped on the couch of lilith, shrivelled and dead.
