reaching his study, he shut himself in and locked the door,—and, then sitting down, buried his head in his hands and fell to thinking. such odd thoughts too!—they came unbidden, and chased one another in and out of his brain like will-o’-the-wisps in a wilderness. it was growing late, and féraz had not yet returned,—but he heeded not the hour, or his brother’s continued absence,—he was occupied in such a mental battle with his own inward forces as made him utterly indifferent to external things. the question he chiefly asked himself was this:—of what use was all the science he had discovered and mastered, if he was not exempt,—utterly exempt from the emotions common to the most ignorant of men? his pride had been that he was “above” human nature,—that he was able to look down upon its trivial joys and sorrows with a supreme and satiric scorn,—that he knew its ways so well as to be able to calculate its various hesitating moves in all directions, social and political, with very nearly exact accuracy. why then was he shaken to the very centre of his being to-night, by the haunting vision of an angelic face and the echo of a sweet faint voice softly breathing the words—“my belovëd!” he could dominate others; why could he not dominate himself?
“this will never do!” he said aloud at last, starting up from his brooding attitude—“i must read—i must work,—i must, at all costs, get out of this absurd frame of mind into which i have unwittingly fallen. besides, how often have i not assured myself that for all practical earthly considerations lilith is dead—positively dead!”
and to reinstate himself in this idea he unlocked his desk and took from it a small parchment volume in which he had carefully chronicled the whole account of his experiment on lilith from the beginning. one page was written in the form of a journal—the opposite leaf being reserved for “queries,” and the book bore the curious superscription “in search of the soul of lilith” on its cover. the statement began at once without preamble, thus:
“august 8, 18—. 9 p.m.—lilith, an arab girl, aged twelve, dies in my arms. cause of death, fever and inanition. heart ceased to beat at ten minutes past eight this evening. while the blood is still warm in the corpse i inject the ‘electro-flamma’ under the veins, close beneath the heart. no immediate effect visible.
“11 p.m.—arab women lay out lilith’s corpse for burial. questioned the people as to her origin. an orphan child, of poor parentage, no education, and unquiet disposition. not instructed in religious matters, but following the religious customs of others by instinct and imitation. distinctive features of the girl when in health—restlessness, temper, animalism, and dislike of restraint. troublesome to manage, and not a thinking child by any means.
“august 9. 5 a.m.—the caravan has just started on its way, leaving the corpse of lilith with me. the woman zaroba remains behind. féraz i sent away last night in haste. i tell zaroba part of my intention; she is superstitious and afraid of me, but willing to serve me. lilith remains inanimate. i again use the ‘electro-flamma,’ this time close to all the chief arteries. no sign of life.
“august 10. noon.—i begin rather to despair. as a last resource i have injected carefully a few drops of ‘flamma’ close to the brain; it is the mainspring of the whole machine, and if it can be set in motion——
“midnight.—victory! the brain has commenced to pulsate feebly, and the heart with it. breathing has begun, but slowly and with difficulty. a faint colour has come into the hitherto waxen face. success is possible now.
“august 15.—during these last five days lilith has breathed, and, to a certain extent, lived. she does not open her eyes, nor move a muscle of her body, and at times still appears dead. she is kept alive (if it is life) by the vital fluid, and by that only. i must give her more time.
“august 20.—i have called her by name, and she has answered—but how strangely! where does she learn the things she speaks of? she sees the earth, she tells me, like a round ball circling redly in a cloud of vapours, and she hears music everywhere, and perceives a ‘light beyond.’ where and how does she perceive anything?”
here on the opposite side of the page was written the “query,” which in this case was headed
“problem.”
“given, a child’s brain, not wholly developed in its intellectual capacity, with no impressions save those which are purely material, and place that brain in a state of perpetual trance, how does it come to imagine or comprehend things which science cannot prove? is it the soul which conveys these impressions, and, if so, what is the soul, and where is it?”
el-râmi read the passage over and over again, then, sighing impatiently, closed the book and put it by.
“since i wrote that, what has she not said—what has she not told me!” he muttered; “and the ‘child’s brain’ is a child’s brain no longer, but a woman’s, while she has obtained absolutely no knowledge of any sort by external means. yet she—she who was described by those who knew her in her former life as ‘not a thinking child, troublesome and difficult to manage,’ she it is who describes to me the scenery and civilisation of mars, the inhabitants of sirius, the wonders of a myriad of worlds; she it is who talks of the ravishing beauty of things divine and immortal, of the glory of the heavens, of the destined fate of the world. god knows it is very strange!—and the problem i wrote out six years ago is hardly nearer solving than it was then. if i could believe—but then i cannot—i must always doubt, and shall not doubt lead to discovery?”
thus arguing with himself, and scoffing interiorly at the suggestion which just then came unbidden to his mind—“blessed are they which have not seen and yet believed”—he turned over some more papers and sorted them, with the intention and hope of detaching his thoughts entirely from what had suddenly become the too-enthralling subject of lilith’s beauteous personality. presently he came upon a memorandum, over which he nodded and smiled with a sort of grim satirical content, entitled, “the passions of the human animal as nature made him;” it was only a scrap—a hint of some idea which he had intended to make use of in literary work, but he read it over now with a good deal of curious satisfaction. it ran thus:
“man, as a purely natural creature, fairly educated, but wholly unspiritualised, is a mental composition of: hunger, curiosity, self-esteem, avarice, cowardice, lust, cruelty, personal ambition; and on these vile qualities alone our ‘society’ hangs together; the virtues have no place anywhere, and do not count at all, save as conveniently pious metaphors.”
“it is true!” he said aloud—“as true as the very light of the skies! now am i, or have i ever been, guilty of these common vices of ordinary nature? no, no; i have examined my own conscience too often and too carefully. i have been accused of personal ambition, but even that is a false accusation, for i do not seek vulgar rewards, or the noise of notoriety ringing about my name. all that i am seeking to discover is meant for the benefit of the world; that humanity,—poor, wretched, vicious humanity—may know positively and finally that there is a future. for till they do know it, beyond all manner of doubt, why should they strive to be better? why should they seek to quell their animalism? why should they need to be any better than they are? and why, above all things, should they be exhorted by their preachers and teachers to fasten their faith to a myth, and anchor their hopes on a dream?”
at that moment a loud and prolonged rat-tat-tatting at the street door startled him,—he hastily thrust all his loose manuscripts into a drawer, and went to answer the summons, glancing at the clock as he passed it with an air of complete bewilderment,—for it was close upon two a.m., and he could not imagine how the time had flown. he had scarcely set foot across the hall before another furious knocking began, and he stopped abruptly to listen to the imperative clatter with a curious wondering expression on his dark handsome face. when the noise ceased again, he began slowly to undo the door.
“patience, my dear boy,” he said as he flung it open—“is a virtue, as you must have seen it set forth in copy-books. i provided you with a latch-key—where is it?—there could not be a more timely hour for its usage.”
but while he spoke, féraz, for it was he, had sprung in swiftly like some wild animal pursued by hunters, and he now stood in the hall, nearly breathless, staring confusedly at his brother with big, feverishly-bright bewildered eyes.
“then i have escaped!” he said in a half-whisper—“i am at home,—really at home again!”
el-râmi looked at him steadily,—then, turning away quietly, carefully shut and bolted the door.
“have you spent a happy day, féraz?” he gently inquired.
“happy!” echoed féraz—“happy? yes. no! good god!—what do you mean by happiness?”
el-râmi looked at him again, and, making no reply to this adjuration, simply turned about and went into his study. féraz followed.
“i know what you think,” he said in pained accents—“you think i’ve been drinking—so i have. but i’m not drunk, for all that. they gave me wine—bad burgundy—detestable champagne—the sun never shone on the grapes that made it,—and i took very little of it. it is not that which has filled me with a terror too real to deserve your scorn,—it is not that which has driven me home here to you for help and shelter——”
“it is somewhat late to be ‘driven’ home,” remarked el-râmi with a slightly sarcastic smile—“two in the morning, and—bad champagne or good,—you are talking, my dear féraz, to say the least of it, rather wildly.”
“for god’s sake do not sneer at me!” cried féraz passionately—“i shall go mad if you do! is it as late as you say?—i never knew it. i fled from them at midnight;—i have wandered about alone under the stars since then.”
at these words, el-râmi’s expression changed from satire to compassion. his fine eyes softened, and their lustrous light grew deeper and more tender.
“alone—and under the stars?” he repeated softly—“are not the two things incompatible—to you? have you not made the stars your companions—almost your friends?”
“no, no!” said féraz, with a swift gesture of utter hopelessness. “not now—not now! for all is changed. i see life as it is—hideous, foul, corruptible, cruel! and the once bright planets look pitiless; the heavens i thought so gloriously designed are but an impenetrable vault arched over an ever-filling grave. there is no light, no hope anywhere; how can there be in the face of so much sin? el-râmi, why did you not tell me? why did you not warn me of the accursed evil of this pulsating movement men call life? for it seems i have not lived, i have only dreamed!”
and with a heavy sigh, that seemed wrung from his very heart, he threw himself wearily into a chair, and buried his head between his hands in an attitude of utter dejection.
el-râmi looked at him as he sat thus, with a certain shadow of melancholy on his own fine features, then he spoke gently:
“who told you, féraz, that you have not lived?” he asked.
“zaroba did, first of all,” returned féraz reluctantly; “and now he, the artist ainsworth, says the same thing. it seems that to men of the world i look a fool. i know nothing; i am as ignorant as a barbarian——”
“of what?” queried his brother. “of wine, loose women, the race-course and the gaming-table? yes, i grant you, you are ignorant of these, and you may thank god for your ignorance. and these wise ‘men of the world’ who are so superior to you—in what does their wisdom consist?”
féraz sat silent, wrapt in meditation. presently he looked up; his lashes were wet, and his lips trembled.
“i wish,” he murmured, “i wish i had never gone there,—i wish i had been content to stay with you.”
el-râmi laughed a little, but it was to hide a very different emotion.
“my dear fellow,” he said lightly, “i am not an old woman that i should wish you to be tied to my apron-strings. come, make a clean breast of it; if not the champagne, what is it that has so seriously disagreed with you?”
“everything!” replied féraz emphatically. “the whole day has been one of discord—what wonder then that i myself am out of tune! when i first started off from the house this morning, i was full of curious anticipation—i looked upon this invitation to an artist’s studio as a sort of break in what i chose to call the even monotony of my existence,—i fancied i should imbibe new ideas, and be able to understand something of the artistic world of london if i spent the day with a man truly distinguished in his profession. when i arrived at the studio, mr. ainsworth was already at work—he was painting—a woman.”
“well?” said el-râmi, seeing that féraz paused, and stammered hesitatingly.
“she was nude,—this woman,” he went on in a low shamed voice, a hot flush creeping over his delicate boyish face,—“a creature without any modesty or self-respect. a model, mr. ainsworth called her,—and it seems that she took his money for showing herself thus. her body was beautiful; like a statue flushed with life,—but she was a devil, el-râmi!—the foulness of her spirit was reflected in her bold eyes—the coarseness of her mind found echo in her voice,—and i—i sickened at the sight of her; i had never believed in the existence of fiends,—but she was one!”
el-râmi was silent, and féraz resumed—
“as i tell you, ainsworth was painting her, and he asked me to sit beside him and watch his work. his request surprised me,—i said to him in a whisper, ‘surely she will resent the presence of a stranger?’ he stared at me. ‘she? whom do you mean?’ he inquired. ‘the woman there,’ i answered. he burst out laughing, called me ‘an innocent,’ and said she was perfectly accustomed to ‘pose’ before twenty men at a time, so that i need have no scruples on that score. so i sat down as he bade me, and watched in silence, and thought——”
“ah, what did you think?” asked el-râmi.
“i thought evil things,” answered féraz deliberately. “and, while thinking them, i knew they were evil. and i put my own nature under a sort of analysis, and came to the conclusion that, when a man does wrong, he is perfectly aware that it is wrong, and that, therefore, doing wrong deliberately and consciously, he has no right to seek forgiveness, either through christ or any other intermediary. he should be willing to bear the brunt of it, and his prayers should be for punishment, not for pardon.”
“a severe doctrine,” observed el-râmi. “strangely so, for a young man who has not ‘lived,’ but only ‘dreamed.’”
“in my dreams i see nothing evil,” said féraz, “and i think nothing evil. all is harmonious; all works in sweet accordance with a divine and infinite plan, of whose ultimate perfection i am sure. i would rather dream so, than live as i have lived to-day.”
el-râmi forbore to press him with any questions, and, after a little pause, he went on:
“when that woman—the model—went away from the studio, i was as thankful as one might be for the removal of a plague. she dropped a curtain over her bare limbs and disappeared like some vanishing evil spirit. then ainsworth asked me to sit to him. i obeyed willingly. he placed me in a half-sitting, half-recumbent attitude, and began to sketch. suddenly, after about half an hour, it occurred to me that he perhaps wanted to put me in the same picture with that fiend who had gone, and i asked him the question point-blank. ‘why, certainly!’ he said. ‘you will appear as the infatuated lover of that lady, in my great academy work.’ then, el-râmi, some suppressed rage in me broke loose. i sprang up and confronted him angrily. ‘never!’ i cried. ‘you shall never picture me thus! if you dared to do it, i would rip your canvas to shreds on the very walls of the academy itself! i am no “model,” to sell my personality to you for gold!’ he laughed in that lazy, unmirthful way of his. ‘no,’ he said, ‘you are certainly not a model, you are a tiger—a young tiger—quite furious and untamed. i wish you would go and rip up my picture on the academy walls, as you say; it would make my fortune; i should have so many orders for duplicates. my dear fellow, if you won’t let me put you into my canvas, you are no use to me. i want your meditative face for the face of a poet destroyed by a passion for phryne. i really think you might oblige me.’ ‘never!’ i said; ‘the thing would be a libel and a lie. my face is not the face you want. you want a weak face, a round foolish brow, and a receding chin. why, as god made me, and as i am, every one of my features would falsify your picture’s story! the man who voluntarily sacrifices his genius and his hopes of heaven to vulgar vice and passion must have weakness in him somewhere, and as a true artist you are bound to show that weakness in the features you portray.’ ‘and have you no weakness, you young savage?’ he asked. ‘not that weakness!’ i said. ‘the wretched incapacity of will that brings the whole soul down to a grovelling depth of materialism—that is not in me!’ i spoke angrily, el-râmi, perhaps violently; but i could not help myself. he stared at me curiously, and began drawing lines on his palette with his brush dipped in colour. ‘you are a very singular young fellow,’ he said at last. ‘but i must tell you that it was the fair irene vassilius who suggested to me that your face would be suitable for that of the poet in my picture. i wanted to please her——’ ‘you will please her more by telling her what i say,’ i interrupted him abruptly. ‘tell her——’ ‘that you are a new parsifal,’ he said mockingly. ‘ah, she will never believe it! all men in her opinion are either brutes or cowards.’ then he took up a fresh square of canvas, and added: ‘well, i promise you i will not put you in my picture, as you have such a rooted objection to figuring in public as a slave of phryne, though, i assure you, most young fellows would be proud of such a distinction; for one is hardly considered a “man” nowadays unless one professes to be “in love”—god save the mark!—with some female beast of the stage or the music-hall. such is life, my boy! there! now sit still with that look of supreme scorn on your countenance, and that will do excellently.’ ‘on your word of honour, you will not place me in your picture?’ i said. ‘on my word of honour,’ he replied. so, of course, i could not doubt him. and he drew my features on his canvas quickly, and with much more than ordinary skill; and, when he had finished his sketch, he took me out to lunch with him at a noisy, crowded place, called the ‘criterion.’ there were numbers of men and women there, eating and drinking, all of a low type, i thought, and some of them of a most vulgar and insolent bearing, more like dressed-up monkeys than human beings, i told ainsworth; but he laughed, and said they were very fair specimens of civilised society. then, after lunch, we went to a club, where several men were smoking and throwing cards about. they asked me to play, and i told them i knew nothing of the game. whereupon they explained it; and i said it seemed to me to be quite an imbecile method of losing money. then they laughed uproariously. one said i was ‘very fresh,’ whatever that might mean. another asked ainsworth what he had brought me there for, and ainsworth answered: ‘to show you one of the greatest wonders of the century—a really young man in his youth,’ and then they laughed again. later on he took me into the park. there i saw madame vassilius in her carriage. she looked fair and cold, and proud and weary all at once. her horses came to a standstill under the trees, and ainsworth went up and spoke to her. she looked at me very earnestly as she gave me her hand, and only said one thing: ‘what a pity you are not with your brother!’ i longed to ask her why, but she seemed unwilling to converse, and soon gave the signal to her coachman to drive on—in fact, she went at once out of the park. then ainsworth got angry and sullen, and said: ‘i hate intellectual women! that pretty scribbler has made so much money that she is perfectly independent of man’s help—and, being independent, she is insolent.’ i was surprised at his tone. i said i could not see where he perceived the insolence. ‘can you not?’ he asked. ‘she studies men instead of loving them; that is where she is insolent—and—insufferable!’ he was so irritated that i did not pursue the subject, and he then pressed me to stay and dine with him. i accepted—and i am sorry i did.”
“why?” asked el-râmi in purposely indifferent tones. “at present, so far as you have told me, your day seems to have passed in a very harmless manner. a peep at a model, a lunch at the criterion, a glance at a gaming-club, a stroll in the park—what could be more ordinary? there is no tragedy in it, such as you seem inclined to imagine; it is all the merest bathos.”
féraz looked up indignantly, his eyes sparkling.
“is there nothing tragic in the horrible, stifling, strangling consciousness of evil surrounding one like a plague?” he demanded passionately. “to know and to feel that god is far off, instead of near; that one is shut up in a prison of one’s own making, where sweet air and pure light cannot penetrate; to be perfectly conscious that one is moving and speaking with difficulty and agitation in a thick, choking atmosphere of lies—lies—all lies! is that not tragic? is that all bathos?”
“my dear fellow, it is life!” said el-râmi sedately. “it is what you wanted to see, to know, and to understand.”
“it is not life!” declared féraz hotly. “the people who accept it as such are fools, and delude themselves. life, as god gave it to us, is beautiful and noble—grandly suggestive of the future beyond; but you will not tell me there is anything beautiful or noble or suggestive in the life led by such men and women as i saw to-day. with the exception of madame vassilius—and she, i am told, is considered eccentric and a ‘visionary’—i have seen no one who would be worth talking to for an hour. at ainsworth’s dinner, for instance, there were some men who called themselves artists, and they talked, not of art, but of money; how much they could get, and how much they would get from certain patrons of theirs whom they called ‘full-pursed fools.’ well, and that woman—that model i told you of—actually came to dine at ainsworth’s table, and other coarse women like her. surely, el-râmi, you can imagine what their conversation was like? and as the time went on things became worse. there was no restraint, and at last i could stand it no longer. i rose up from the table, and left the room without a word. ainsworth followed me; he was flushed with wine, and he looked foolish. ‘where are you going?’ he asked. ‘mamie dillon,’ that was the name of his model, ‘wants to talk to you.’ i made him no answer. ‘where are you going?’ he repeated angrily. ‘home, of course,’ i replied, ‘i have stayed here too long as it is. let me pass.’ he was excited; he had taken too much wine, i know, and he scarcely knew what he was saying. ‘oh, i understand you!’ he exclaimed. ‘you and irene vassilius are of a piece—all purity, eh! all disgust at the manners and customs of the “lower animals.” well, i tell you we are no worse than any one else in modern days. my lord the duke’s conversation differs very little from that of his groom; and the latest imported american heiress in search of a title rattles on to the full as volubly and ruthlessly as mamie dillon. go home, if go you must; and take my advice, if you don’t like what you have seen in the world to-day, stay home for good. stay in your shell, and dream your dreams; i dare say they will profit you quite as much as our realities!’ he laughed, and as i left him i said, ‘you mistake! it is you who are “dreaming,” as you call it; dreaming a bad dream, too; it is i who live.’ then i went out of the house, as i tell you, and wandered alone, under the stars, and thought bitter things.”
“why ‘bitter’?” asked el-râmi.
“i do not know,” returned féraz moodily, “except that all the world seemed wrong. i wondered how god could endure so much degradation on the face of one of his planets, without some grand, divine protest.”
“the protest is always there,” said el-râmi quickly. “silent, but eternal, in the existence of good in the midst of evil.”
féraz lifted his eyes and rested their gaze on his brother with an expression of unutterable affection.
“el-râmi, keep me with you!” he entreated; “never let me leave you again! i think i must be crazed if the world is what it seems, and my life is so entirely opposed to it; but, if so, i would rather be crazed than sane. in my wanderings to-night, on my way home hither, i met young girls and women who must have been devils in disguise, so utterly were they lost to every sense of womanhood and decency. i saw men, evil-looking and wretched, who seemed waiting but the chance to murder, or commit any other barbarous crime for gold. i saw little children, starving and in rags; old and feeble creatures, too, in the last stage of destitution, without a passer-by to wish them well; all things seemed foul and dark and hopeless, and when i entered here i felt—ah, god knows what i felt!—that you were my providence, that this was my home, and that surely some angel dwelt within and hallowed it with safety and pure blessing!”
a sudden remorse softened his voice, his beautiful eyes were dim with tears.
“he remembers and thinks of lilith!” thought el-râmi quickly, with a singular jealous tightening emotion at his heart; but aloud he said gently:
“if one day in the ‘world’ has taught you to love this simple abode of ours, my dear féraz, more than you did before, you have had a most valuable lesson. but do not be too sure of yourself. remember, you resented my authority, and you wished to escape from my influence. well, now——”
“now i voluntarily place myself under both,” said féraz rising and standing before him with bent head. “el-râmi, my brother and my friend, do with me as you will! if from you come my dreams, in god’s name let me dream! if from your potent will, exerted on my spirit, springs the fountain of the music which haunts my life, let me ever be a servant of that will! with you i have had happiness, health, peace, and mysterious joy, such as the world could never comprehend; away from you, though only for a day, i have been miserable. take my complete obedience, el-râmi, for what it is worth; you give me more than my life’s submission can ever repay.”
el-râmi stepped up more closely to him, and, laying both hands on his shoulders, looked him seriously in the eyes.
“my dear boy, consider for a moment how you involve yourself,” he said earnestly, yet with great kindliness. “remember the old arabic volume you chanced upon, and what it said concerning the mystic powers of ‘influence.’ did you quite realise it, and all that it implies?”
féraz met his searching gaze steadily.
“quite,” he replied. “so much and so plainly do i realise it that i even attribute everything done in the world to ‘influence.’ each one of us is ‘influenced’ by something or some one. even you, my dearest brother, share the common lot, though i dare say you do not quite perceive where your ruling force is generated, your own powers being so extraordinary. ainsworth, for example, is ‘influenced’ in very opposite directions by very opposite forces—irene vassilius, and—his mamie dillon! now i would rather have your spell laid upon my life than that of the speculator, the gambler, the drinker, or the vile woman, for none of these can possibly give satisfaction, at least not to me; while your wizard wand invokes nothing but beauty, harmony, and peace of conscience. so i repeat it, el-râmi, i submit to you utterly and finally—must i entreat you to accept my submission?”
he smiled, and the old happy look that he was wont to wear began to radiate over his face, which had till then seemed worn and wearied. el-râmi’s dark features appeared to reflect the smile, as he gently touched his brother’s clustering curls, and said playfully:
“in spite of zaroba?”
“in spite of zaroba,” echoed féraz mirthfully. “poor zaroba! she does not seem well, or happy. i fear she has offended you?”
“no, no,” said el-râmi meditatively, “she has not offended me; she is too old to offend me. i cannot be angry with sorrowful and helpless age. and, if she is not well, we will make her well, and if she is not happy we will make her happy, ... and be happy ourselves—shall it not be so?” his voice was very soft, and he seemed to talk at random, and to be conscious of it, for he roused himself with a slight start, and said in firmer tones: “good-night, féraz; good-night, dear lad. rest, and dream!”
he smiled as féraz impulsively caught his hand and kissed it, and after the young man had left the room he still stood, lost in a reverie, murmuring under his breath: “and be happy ourselves! is that possible—could that be possible—in this world?”
