he found him quietly seated in the study, close beside the window, which he had thrown open for air. the rain had ceased,—a few stars shone out in the misty sky, and there was a fresh smell of earth and grass and flowers, as though all were suddenly growing together by some new impetus.
“‘the winter is past,—the rain is over and gone!—arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!’” quoted the monk softly, half to himself and half to el-râmi as he saw the latter enter the room—“even in this great and densely-peopled city of london, nature sends her messengers of spring—see here!”
and he held out on his hand a delicate insect with shining iridescent wings that glistened like jewels.
“this creature flew in as i opened the window,” he continued, surveying it tenderly. “what quaint and charming stories of flower-land it could tell us if we could but understand its language! of the poppy-palaces, and rose-leaf saloons coloured through by the kindly sun,—of the loves of the ladybirds and the political controversies of the bees! how dare we make a boast of wisdom!—this tiny denizen of air baffles us—it knows more than we do.”
“with regard to the things of its own sphere it knows more, doubtless,” said el-râmi—“but concerning our part of creation it knows less. these things are equally balanced. you seem to me to be more of a poet than either a devotee or a scientist.”
“perhaps i am!” and the monk smiled, as he carefully wafted the pretty insect out into the darkness of the night again—“yet poets are often the best scientists, because they never know they are scientists. they arrive by a sudden intuition at the facts which it takes several professors dry-as-dust years to discover. when once you feel you are a scientist, it is all over with you. you are a clever biped who has got hold of a crumb out of the universal loaf, and for all your days afterwards you are turning that crumb over and over under your analytical lens. but a poet takes up the whole loaf unconsciously, and hands portions of it about at haphazard and with the abstracted behaviour of one in a dream,—a wild and extravagant process,—but then, what would you?—his nature could not do with a crumb. no—i dare not call myself ‘poet’; if i gave myself any title at all, i would say, with all humbleness, that i am a sympathiser.”
“you do not sympathise with me,” observed el-râmi gloomily.
“my friend, at the immediate moment, you do not need my sympathy. you are sufficient for yourself. but, should you ever make a claim upon me, be sure i shall not fail.”
he spoke earnestly and cheerily, and smiled,—but el-râmi did not return the smile. he was bending over a deep drawer in his writing-table, and after a little search he took out two bulky rolls of manuscript tied and sealed.
“look there!” he said, indicating the titles with an air of triumph.
the monk obeyed and read aloud:
“‘the inhabitants of sirius. their laws, customs and progress.’ well?”
“well!” echoed el-râmi.—“is such information, gained from lilith in her wanderings, of no value?”
the monk made no direct reply, but read the title of the second ms.
“‘the world of neptune. how it is composed of one thousand distinct nations, united under one reigning emperor, known at the present era as ustalvian the tenth.’ and again i say—well? what of all this, except to hazard the remark that ustalvian is a great creature, and supports his responsibilities admirably?”
el-râmi gave a gesture of irritation and impatience.
“surely it must interest you?” he said.—“surely you cannot have known these things positively——”
“stop, stop, my friend!” interposed the monk—“do you know them positively? do you accept any of lilith’s news as positive? come,—you are honest—confess you do not! you cannot believe her, though you are puzzled to make out as to where she obtains information which has certainly nothing to do with this world, or any external impression. and that is why she is really a sphinx to you still, in spite of your power over her. as for being interested, of course i am interested. it is impossible not to be interested in everything, even in the development of a grub. but you have not made any discovery that is specially new—to me. i have my own messenger!” he raised his eyes one moment with a brief devout glance—then resumed quietly—“there are other ‘detached’ spirits, besides that of your lilith, who have found their way to some of the planets, and have returned to tell the tale. in one of our monasteries we have a very exact description of mars obtained in this same way—its landscapes, its cities, its people, its various nations—all very concisely given. these are but the beginnings of discoveries—the feeling for the clue,—the clue itself will be found one day.”
“the clue to what?” demanded el-râmi. “to the stellar mysteries, or to life’s mystery?”
“to everything!” replied the monk firmly. “to everything that seems unclear and perplexing now. it will all be unravelled for us in such a simple way that we shall wonder why we did not discover it before. as i told you, my friend, i am, above all things, a sympathiser. i sympathise—god knows how deeply and passionately,—with what i may call the unexplained woe of the world. the other day i visited a poor fellow who had lost his only child. he told me he could believe in nothing,—he said that what people call the goodness of god was only cruelty. ‘why take this boy?’ he cried, rocking the pretty little corpse to and fro on his breast—‘why rob me of the chief thing i had to live for? oh, if i only knew—as positively as i know day is day, and night is night—that i should see my living child again, and possess his love in another world than this, should i repine as i do? no,—i should believe in god’s wisdom,—and i should try to be a good man instead of a bad. but it is because i do not know, that i am broken-hearted. if there is a god, surely he might have given us some little certain clue by way of help and comfort!’ thus he wailed,—and my heart ached for him. nevertheless, the clue is to be had,—and i believe it will be found suddenly in some little, deeply-hidden unguessed law,—we are on the track of it, and i fancy we shall soon find it.”
“ah!—and what of the millions of creatures who, in the bygone eras, having no clue, have passed away without any sort of comfort?” asked el-râmi.
“nature takes time to manifest her laws,” replied the monk.—“and it must be remembered that what we call ‘time’ is not nature’s counting at all. the method nature has of counting time may be faintly guessed by proven scientific fact,—as, for instance, take the comet which appeared in 1744. strict mathematicians calculated that this brilliant world (for it is a world) needs 122,683 years to perform one single circuit! and yet the circuit of a comet is surely not so much time to allow for god and nature to declare a meaning!”
el-râmi shuddered slightly.
“all the same, it is horrible to think of,” he said.—“all those enormous periods,—those eternal vastnesses! for, during the 122,683 years we die, and pass into the silence.”
“into the silence or the explanation?” queried the monk softly.—“for there is an explanation,—and we are all bound to know it at some time or other, else creation would be but a poor and bungling business.”
“if we are bound to know,” said el-râmi, “then every living creature is bound to know, since every living creature suffers cruelly, in wretched ignorance of the cause of its suffering. to every atom, no matter how infinitely minute, must be given this ‘explanation,’—to dogs and birds as well as men—nay, even to flowers must be declared the meaning of the mystery.”
“unless the flowers know already!” suggested the monk with a smile.—“which is quite possible!”
“oh, everything is ‘possible’ according to your way of thinking,” said el-râmi somewhat impatiently. “if one is a visionary, one would scarcely be surprised to see the legended ‘jacob’s ladder’ leaning against that dark midnight sky and the angels descending and ascending upon it. and so—” here he touched the two rolls of manuscript lying on the table, “you find no use in these?”
“i personally have no use for them,” responded his guest, “but, as you desire it, i will take charge of them and place them in safe keeping at the monastery. every little link helps to forge the chain of discovery, of course. by the way, while on this subject, i must not forget to speak to you about poor old kremlin. i had a letter from him about two months ago. i very much fear that famous disc of his will be his ruin.”
“such an intimation will console him vastly!” observed el-râmi sarcastically.
“consolation has nothing to do with the matter. if a man rushes wilfully into danger, danger will not move itself out of the way for him. i always told kremlin that his proposed design was an unsafe one, even before he went out to africa fifteen years ago in search of the magnetic spar—a crystalline formation whose extraordinary reflection-power he learned from me. however, it must be admitted that he has come marvellously close to the unravelling of the enigma at which he works. and when you see him next you may tell him from me that if he can—mind, it is a very big ‘if’—if he can follow the movements of the third ray on his disc he will be following the signals from mars. to make out the meaning of those signals is quite another matter—but he can safely classify them as the light-vibrations from that particular planet.”
“how is he to tell which is the third ray that falls, among a fleeting thousand?” asked el-râmi dubiously.
“it will be difficult of course, but he can try,” returned the monk.—“let him first cover the disc with thick, dark drapery, and then, when it is face to face with the stars in the zenith, uncover it quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on its surface. in one minute there will be three distinct flashes—the third is from mars. let him endeavour to follow that third ray in its course on the disc, and probably he will arrive at something worth remark. this suggestion i offer by way of assisting him, for his patient labour is both wonderful and pathetic,—but,—it would be far better and wiser were he to resign his task altogether. yet—who knows!—the ordained end may be the best!”
“and do you know this ‘ordained end’?” questioned el-râmi.
the monk met his incredulous gaze calmly.
“i know it as i know yours,” he replied. “as i know my own, and the end (or beginning) of all those who are, or who have been, in any way connected with my life and labours.”
“how can you know!” exclaimed el-râmi brusquely.—“who is there to tell you these things that are surely hidden in the future?”
“even as a picture already hangs in an artist’s brain before it is painted,” said the monk,—“so does every scene of each human unit’s life hang, embryo-like, in air and space, in light and colour. explanations of these things are well-nigh impossible—it is not given to mortal speech to tell them. one must see,—and to see clearly, one must not become wilfully blind.” he paused,—then added—“for instance, el-râmi, i would that you could see this room as i see it.”
el-râmi looked about half carelessly, half wonderingly.
“and do i not?” he asked.
the monk stretched out his hand.
“tell me first,—is there anything visible between this my extended arm and you?”
el-râmi shook his head.
“nothing.”
whereupon the monk raised his eyes, and in a low thrilling voice said solemnly—
“o god with whom thought is creation and creation thought, for one brief moment be pleased to lift material darkness from the sight of this man thy subject-creature, and by thy sovereign-power permit him to behold with mortal eyes, in mortal life, thy deathless messenger!”
scarcely had these words been pronounced than el-râmi was conscious of a blinding flash of fire as though sudden lightning had struck the room from end to end. confused and dazzled, he instinctively covered his eyes with his hand, then removing it, looked up, stupefied, speechless, and utterly overwhelmed at what he saw. clear before him stood a wondrous shape, seemingly human, yet unlike humanity,—a creature apparently composed of radiant colour, from whose transcendent form great shafts of gold and rose and purple spread upward and around in glowing lines of glory. this marvellous being stood, or rather was poised in a steadfast attitude, between him, el-râmi, and the monk,—its luminous hands were stretched out on either side as though to keep those twain asunder—its starry eyes expressed an earnest watchfulness—its majestic patience never seemed to tire. a thing of royal stateliness and power, it stayed there immovable, parting with its radiant intangible presence the two men who gazed upon it, one with fearless, reverent, yet accustomed eyes—the other with a dazzled and bewildered stare. another moment and el-râmi at all risks would have spoken,—but that the shining figure lifted its light-crowned head and gazed at him. the wondrous look appalled him,—unnerved him,—the straight, pure brilliancy and limpid lustre of those unearthly orbs sent shudders through him,—he gasped for breath—thrust out his hands, and fell on his knees in a blind, unconscious, swooning act of adoration, mingled with a sense of awe and something like despair,—when a dense chill darkness as of death closed over him, and he remembered nothing more.
