a couple of days later, el-râmi was engaged in what was not a very favourite occupation with him,—he was reading the morning’s newspaper. he glanced over the cut-and-dry chronicle of “storms and floods”—he noted that a great deal of damage had been wrought by the gale at ilfracombe and other places along the devonshire coast,—but there was nothing of any specially dreadful import to attract his attention, and nothing either in politics or science of any pressing or vital interest. there were two or three reviews of books, one of these being pressed into a corner next to the advertisement of a patent pill; there were announcements of the movements of certain human units favoured with a little extra money and position than ordinary, as being “in” or “out” of town, and there was a loftily-patronising paragraph on the “theosophical movement,” or, as it is more frequently termed, the “theosophical boom.” from this, el-râmi learned that a gentleman connected with the press, who wrote excessively commonplace verse, and thereby had got himself and his name (through the aforesaid press connection) fairly well known, had been good enough to enunciate the following amazing platitude:—“that, as a great portion of the globe is composed of elements which cannot be seen, and as the study of the invisible may be deemed as legitimate as the study of the visible, he” (the press-connected versifier) “is inclined to admit that there are great possibilities on the lines of that study.”
“inclined to admit it, is he!” and el-râmi threw aside the paper and broke into a laugh of the sincerest enjoyment, “heavens! what fools there are in this world, who call themselves wise men! this little poetaster, full of the conceit common to his imitative craft, is ‘inclined to admit’ that there are great possibilities in the study of the invisible! excellent condescension! how the methods of life have turned topsy-turvy since the ancient days! then the study of the invisible was the first key to the study of the visible,—the things which are seen being considered only as the reflexes of the things which are unseen—the unseen being accepted as cause, the seen as effect. now we all drift the other way,—taking the visible as fact,—the invisible as fancy!”
féraz, who was writing at a side-table, looked up at him.
“surely you are inconsistent?” he said—“you yourself believe in nothing unless it is proved.”
“but then, my dear fellow, i can prove the invisible and follow the grades of it, and the modes by which it makes itself the visible,—to a certain extent—but only to a certain extent. beyond the provable limit i do not go. you, on the contrary, aided by the wings of imagination, outsoar that limit, and profess to find angels, star-kingdoms, and god himself. i cannot go so far as this. but, unlike our blown-out frog of a versifier here, who would fain persuade mankind he is a bull, i am not only ‘inclined’ to admit—i do admit that there are ‘great possibilities’—only i must test them all before i can accept them as facts made clear to my comprehension.”
“still, you believe in the invisible?”
“naturally. i believe in the millions of suns in the milky way, though they can scarcely be called ‘visible.’ i should be a fool if i did not believe in the invisible, under the present conditions of the universe. but i cannot be tricked by ‘shams’ of the invisible. the theosophical business is a piece of vulgar imposture, in which the professors themselves are willing to delude their own imaginations, as well as the imaginations of others—they are the most wretched imitators that ever were of the old eastern sorcerers,—the fellows who taught moses and aaron how to frighten their ignorant cattle-like herds of followers. none of the modern ‘mediums,’ as they are called, have the skill over atmospheric phenomena, metals, and light-reflexes that apollonius of tyana had, or alexander the paphlagonian. both these scientific sorcerers were born about the same time as christ, and apollonius, like christ, raised a maiden from the dead. miracles were the fashion in that period of time,—and, according to the monotonous manner in which history repeats itself, they are coming into favour again in this century. all that we know now has been already known. the ancient greeks had their ‘penny-in-the-slot’ machine for the purpose of scattering perfume on their clothes as they passed along the streets—they had their ‘syphon’ bottles and vases as we have, and they had their automatically opening and closing doors. compare the miserable ‘spiritualistic phenomena’ of the theosophists with the marvels wrought by hakem, known as mokanna! mokanna could cause an orb like the moon to rise from a well at a certain hour and illumine the country for miles and miles around. how did he do it? by a knowledge of electric force applied to air and water. the ‘bogies’ of a modern séance who talk bad grammar and pinch people’s toes and fingers are very coarse examples of necromancy, compared with the scientific skill of mokanna and others of this tribe. however, superstition is the same in all ages, and there will always be fools ready to believe in ‘mahatmas’ or anything else,—and the old ‘incantation of the mantra’ will, if well done, influence the minds of the dupes of the nineteenth century quite as effectively as it did those of the bygone ages before christ.”
“what is the incantation of the mantra?” asked féraz.
“a ridiculous trick”—replied el-râmi—“known to every eastern conjurer and old woman who professes to see the future. you take your dupe, and fling a little water over him, fixing upon him your eyes and all the force of your will,—then, you take a certain mixture of chemical substances and perfumes, and set them on fire—the flames and fumes produce a dazzling and drowsy effect on the senses of your ‘subject,’ who will see whatever you choose him to see, and hear whatever you intend him to hear. but will is the chief ingredient of the spell,—and if i, for example, choose to influence any one, i can dispense with both water and fire—i can do it alone and without any show of preparation.”
“i know you can!” said féraz meaningly, with a slight smile, and then was silent.
“i wonder what the art of criticism is coming to nowadays!” exclaimed el-râmi presently, taking up the paper again—“here is a remark worthy of dogberry’s profundity—‘this is a book that must be read to be understood.’[3] why, naturally! who can understand a book without reading it?”
féraz laughed—then his eyes darkened.
“i saw an infamous so-called critique of one of madame vassilius’s books the other day”—he said—“i should like to have thrashed the man who wrote it. it was not criticism at all—it was a mere piece of scurrilous vulgarity.”
“ah, but that sort of thing pays!” retorted el-râmi satirically. “the modern journalist attains his extremest height of brilliancy when he throws the refuse of his inkpot at the name and fame of a woman more gifted than himself. it’s nineteenth-century chivalry you know,—above all ... it’s manly!”
féraz shrugged his shoulders with a faint gesture of contempt.
“then—if there is any truth in old chronicles—men are not what they were;”—he said.
“no—they are not what they were, my dear boy—because all things have changed. women were once the real slaves and drudges of men,—now, they are very nearly their equals, or can be so if they choose. and men have to get accustomed to this—at present they are in the transition state and don’t like it. besides, there will always be male tyrants and female drudges as long as the world lasts. men are not what they were,—and, certes, they are not what they might be.”
“they might be gods;”—said féraz—“but i suppose they prefer to be devils.”
“precisely!” agreed el-râmi—“it is easier, and more amusing.”
féraz resumed his writing in silence. he was thinking of irene vassilius, whom he admired;—and also of that wondrous sleeping beauty enshrined upstairs whose loveliness he did not dare to speak of. he had latterly noticed a great change in his brother,—an indefinable softness seemed to have imperceptibly toned down the habitual cynicism of his speech and manner,—his very expression of countenance was more gracious and benign,—he looked handsomer,—his black eyes shot forth a less fierce fire,—and yet, with all his gentleness and entire lack of impatience, he was absorbed from morning to night in such close and secret study as made féraz sometimes fear for its ultimate result on his health.
“do you really believe in prayer, féraz?” was the very unexpected question he now asked, with sudden and startling abruptness; “i mean, do you think any one in the invisible realms hears us when we pray?”
féraz laid down his pen, and gazed at his brother for a moment without answering. then he said slowly—
“well, according to your own theories the air is a vast phonograph,—so it follows naturally that everything is heard and kept. but as to prayer, that depends, i think, altogether on how you pray. i do not believe in it at all times. and i’m afraid my ideas on the subject are quite out of keeping with those generally accepted——”
“never mind—let me have them, whatever they are”—interrupted el-râmi with visible eagerness—“i want to know when and how you pray?”
“well, the fact is i very seldom pray”—returned féraz—“i offer up the best praise i can in mortal language devise, both night and morning—but i never ask for anything. it would seem so vile to ask for more, having already so much. and i am sure god knows best—in which case i have nothing to ask, except one thing.”
“and that is——?” queried his brother.
“punishment!” replied féraz emphatically; “i pray for that—i crave for that—i implore that i may be punished at once when i have done wrong, that i may immediately recognise my error. i would rather be punished here, than hereafter.”
el-râmi paled a little, and his lips trembled.
“strange boy!” he murmured—“all the churches are praying god to take away the punishments incurred for sin,—you, on the contrary, ask for it as if it were a blessing.”
“so it is a blessing”—declared féraz—“it must be a blessing—and it is absurd of the churches to pray against a law. for it is a law. nature punishes us, when we physically rebel against the rules of health, by physical suffering and discomfort,—god punishes us in our mental rebellions by mental wretchedness. this is as it should be. i believe we get everything in this world that we deserve—no more and no less.”
“and do you never pray”—continued el-râmi slowly, “for the accomplished perfection of some cherished aim,—the winning of some special joy——”
“not i”—said féraz—“because i know that if it be good for me i shall have it,—if bad, it will be withheld; all my prayers could not alter the matter.”
el-râmi sat silent for a few minutes,—then, rising, he took two or three turns up and down the room, and gradually a smile, half scornful, half sweet, illumined his dark features.
“then, o young and serene philosopher, i will not pray!” he said, his eyes flashing a lustrous defiance—“i have a special aim in view—i mean to grasp a joy!—and whether it be good or bad for me, i will attempt it unassisted.”
“if it be good you will succeed;”—said féraz with a glance expressive of some fear as well as wonderment. “if it be bad, you will not. god arranges these things for us.”
“god—god—always god!” cried el-râmi with some impatience—“no god shall interfere with me!” at that moment there came a hesitating knock at the street door. féraz went to open it, and admitted a pale grief-stricken man whose eyes were red and heavy with tears and whose voice utterly failed him to reply when el-râmi exclaimed in astonishment:
“karl! ... karl! you here? why, what has happened?”
poor karl made a heroic struggle to speak,—but his emotion was too strong for him—he remained silent, and two great drops rolled down his cheeks in spite of all his efforts to restrain them.
“you are ill;”—said féraz kindly, pushing him by gentle force into a chair and fetching him a glass of wine—“here, drink this—it will restore you.”
karl put the glass aside tremblingly, and tried to smile his gratitude,—and presently gaining a little control over himself he turned his piteous glances towards el-râmi whose fine features had become suddenly grave and fixed in thought.
“you ... you ... have not heard, sir——” he stammered.
el-râmi raised his hand gently, with a solemn and compassionate gesture.
“peace, my good fellow!—no, i have not heard,—but i can guess;—kremlin, ... your master ... is dead.”
and he was silent for many minutes. fresh tears trickled from karl’s eyes, and he made a pretence of tasting the wine that féraz pressed upon him—féraz, who looked as statuesque and serene as a young apollo.
“you must console yourself;”—he said cheerfully to karl, “poor dr. kremlin had many troubles and few joys—now he has gone where he has no trouble and all joy.”
“ah!” sighed karl dolefully—“i wish i could believe that, sir,—i wish i could believe it! but it was the judgment of god upon him—it was indeed!—that is what my poor mother would say,—the judgment of god!”
el-râmi moved from his meditative attitude with a faint sense of irritation. the words he had so lately uttered—“no god shall interfere with me”—re-echoed in his mind. and now here was this man,—this servant, weeping and trembling and talking of the “judgment of god” as if it were really something divinely directed and inexorable.
“what do you mean?” he asked, endeavouring to suppress the impatience in his voice—“of course, i know he must have had some violent end, or else he could not”—and he repeated the words impressively—“could not have died,—but was there anything more than usually strange in the manner of his death?”
karl threw up his hands.
“more than usually strange! ach, gott!” and, with many interpolations of despair and expressions of horror, he related in broken accents the whole of the appalling circumstances attending his master’s end. in spite of himself a faint shudder ran through el-râmi’s warm blood as he heard—he could almost see before him the horrible spectacle of the old man’s mangled form lying crushed under the ponderous disc his daring skill had designed; and under his breath he murmured, “oh lilith, oh my too happy lilith! and yet you tell me there is no death!” féraz, however, the young and sensitive féraz, listened to the sad recital with quiet interest, unhorrified, apparently unmoved,—his eyes were bright, his expression placid.
“he could not have suffered;”—he observed at last, when karl had finished speaking—“the flash of lightning must have severed body and spirit instantly and without pain. i think it was a good end.”
karl looked at the beautiful smiling youth in vague horror. what!—to be flattened out like a board beneath a ponderous weight of fallen stone—to be so disfigured as to be unrecognisable—to be only a mangled mass of flesh difficult of decent burial,—and call that “a good end”! karl shuddered and groaned;—he was not versed in the strange philosophies of young féraz—he had never been out of his body on an ethereal journey to the star-kingdoms.
“it was the judgment of god,”—he repeated dully—“neither more nor less. my poor master studied too hard, and tried to find out too much, and i think he made god angry——”
“my good fellow,” interrupted el-râmi rather irritably—“do not talk of what you do not understand. you have been faithful, hard-working and all the rest of it,—but as for your master trying to find out too much, or god getting angry with him, that is all nonsense. we were placed on this earth to find out as much as we can, about it and about ourselves, and do the best that is possible with our learning,—and the bare idea of a great god condescending to be ‘angry’ with one out of millions upon millions of units is absurd——”
“but even if an unit rebels against the law the law crushes him”—interrupted féraz softly—“a gnat flies into flame—the flame consumes it—the law is fulfilled,—and the law is god’s will.”
el-râmi bit his lip vexedly.
“well, be that as it may, one must needs find out what the law is first, before it can either be accepted or opposed,” he said.
féraz made no answer. he was thinking of the simplicity of certain laws of spirit and matter which were accepted and agreed to by the community of men of whom the monk from cyprus was the chief master.
karl meanwhile stared bewilderedly from féraz to el-râmi and from el-râmi back to féraz again. their remarks were totally beyond his comprehension; he never could understand, and never wanted to understand, these subtle philosophies.
“i came to ask you, sir”—he said after a pause—“whether you would not, now you know all, manage to take away that devilish thing that killed my master? i’m afraid to touch it myself, and no one else will—and there it lies up in the ruined tower shining away like a big lamp, and sticking like a burr to the iron rod i lifted it with, if it’s any good to you, i’m sure you’d better have it—and by the bye, i found this, sir, in my master’s room addressed to you.”
he held out a sealed envelope, which el-râmi opened. it contained a folded paper, on which were scratched these lines—
“to el-râmi zarânos.
“good friend, in the event of my death, i beg you to accept all my possessions such as they are, and do me the one favour i ask, which is this—destroy the disc, and let my problem die with me.”
this paper, duly signed, bore the date of two years previously. el-râmi read it, and handed it to karl, who read it also. they were silent for a few minutes; then el-râmi crossed the room, and, unlocking a small cupboard in the wall, took out a sealed flask full of what looked like red wine.
“see here, karl”—he said;—“there is no devil in the great stone you are so afraid of. it is as perishable as anything else in this best of all possible worlds. it is nothing but a peculiar and rare growth of crystal, which, though found in the lowest depths of the earth, has the quality of absorbing light and emitting it. it clings to the iron rod in the way you speak of because it is a magnet,—and iron not only attracts but fastens it. it is impossible for me just now to go to ilfracombe—besides there is really no necessity for my presence there. i can fully trust you to bring me the papers and few possessions of my poor old friend,—and for the rest, you can destroy the stone yourself—the disc, as your master called it. all you have to do is simply to pour this liquid on it,—it will pulverise—that is, it will crumble into dust while you watch it, and in ten minutes will be indistinguishable from the fallen mortar of the shattered tower. do you understand?”
karl’s mouth opened a little in wonderment, and he nodded feebly,—he found it quite easy and natural to be afraid of the flask containing a mixture of such potent quality, and he took it from el-râmi’s hand very gingerly and reluctantly. a slight smile crossed el-râmi’s features as he said—
“no, karl! there is no danger—no fear of pulverisation for you. you can put the phial safely in your pocket,—and though its contents would pulverise a mountain if used in sufficient quantities,—the liquid has no effect on flesh and blood.”
“pulverise a mountain!” repeated karl nervously—“do you mean that it could turn a mountain into a dust-heap?”
“or a city—or a fortress—or a rock-bound coast—or anything in the shape of stone that you please”—replied el-râmi carelessly—“but it will not harm human beings.”
“will it not explode, sir?” and karl still looked at the flask in doubt.
“oh no—it will do its work with extraordinary silence and no less extraordinary rapidity. do not be afraid!”
slowly and with evident uneasiness karl put the terrifying composition into his pocket, deeply impressed by the idea that he had about him stuff, which, if used in sufficient quantity, could “pulverise a mountain.” it was awful! worse than dynamite, he considered, his thoughts flying off wantonly to the woes of irishmen and russians. el-râmi seemed not to notice his embarrassment and went on talking quietly, asking various questions concerning kremlin’s funeral, and giving advice as to the final arrangements which were necessary, till presently he inquired of karl what he proposed doing with himself in the future.
“oh i shall look out for another situation,”—he said—“i shall not go back to germany. i like to think of the ‘fatherland,’ and i can sing the ‘wacht am rhein’ with as much lung as anybody, but i wouldn’t care to live there. i think i shall try for a place where there’s a lady to serve; you know, sir, gentlemen’s ways are apt to be monotonous. whether they are clever or foolish they always stick to it, whatever it is. a gentleman that races is always racing, and always talking and thinking about racing,—a gentleman that drinks is always on the drink,—a gentleman that coaches is always coaching, and so on; now a lady does vary! one day she’s all for flowers, another for pictures, another for china,—sometimes she’s mad about music, sometimes about dresses,—or else she takes a fit for study, and gets heaps of books from the libraries. now for a man-servant all that is very agreeable and lively.”
féraz laughed at this novel view of domestic service, and karl, growing a little more cheerful, went on with his explanation—
“you see, supposing i get into a lady’s service, i shall have so much more to distract me. one afternoon i shall be waiting outside a picture-gallery with her shawls and wraps; another day i shall be running backwards and forwards to a library,—and then there’s always the pleasure of never quite knowing what she will do next. and it’s excitement i want just now—it really is!”
the corners of his good-humoured mouth drooped again despondently, and his thoughts reverted with unpleasant suddenness to the “pulverising” liquid in his pocket. what a terrible thing it was to get acquainted with scientists!
el-râmi listened to his observations patiently.
“well, karl,” he said at last—“i think i can promise you a situation such as you would like. there is a very famous and lovely lady in london, known to the reading-world as irene vassilius—she writes original books; is sweetly capricious, yet nobly kind-hearted. i will write to her about you, and i have no doubt she will give you a trial.”
karl brightened up immensely at this prospect.
“thank you, sir!” he said fervently—“you’ve no idea what a deal of good it will do me to take in the tea to a sweet-looking lady—a properly-served tea, you know, all silver and good china. it will be a sort of tonic to me,—it will indeed, after that terrible place at ilfracombe. you can tell her i’m a very handy man,—i can do almost anything, from cooking a chop, up to stretching my legs all day in a porter’s chair in the hall and reading the latest ‘special.’ anything she wishes, whether for show or economy, she couldn’t have a better hand at it than me;—will you tell her so, sir?”
“certainly!” replied el-râmi with a smile. “i’ll tell her you are a domestic von moltke, and that under your management her household will be as well ordered as the german army under the great field-marshal.”
after a little more desultory conversation, karl took his departure, and returned by the afternoon train to ilfracombe. he was living with one of his fisher-friends, and as it was late when he arrived he made no attempt to go to the deserted house of his deceased master that night. but early the next morning he hurried there before breakfast, and ascended to the shattered tower,—that awful scene of desolation from whence poor kremlin’s mangled remains had been taken, and where only a dark stain of blood on the floor silently testified of the horror that had there been enacted. the disc, lying prone, glittered as he approached it, with, as he thought, a fiendish and supernatural light—the early sunlight fell upon its surface, and a thousand prismatic tints and sparkles dazzled his eyes as he drew near and gazed dubiously at it where it still clung to the iron pendulum. what could his master have used such a strange object for?—what did it mean? and that solemn humming noise which he had used to hear when the nights were still,—had that glistening thing been the cause?—had it any sound? ... struck by this idea, and filled with a sudden courage, he seized a piece of thick wire, part of the many tangled coils that lay among the ruins of roof and wall, and with it gave the disc a smart blow on its edge ... hush! ... hush! ... the wire dropped from his hand, and he stood, almost paralysed with fear. a deep, solemn, booming sound, like a great cathedral bell, rang through the air,—grand, and pure and musical, and ... unearthly!—as might be the clarion stroke of a clock beating out, not the short pulsations of time, but the vast throbs of eternity. round and round, in eddying echoes swept that sweet, sonorous note,—till—growing gradually fainter and fainter, it died entirely away from human hearing, and seemed to pass out and upwards into the gathering sun-rays that poured brightly from the east, there to take its place, perchance, in that immense diapason of vibrating tone-music that fills the star-strewn space for ever and ever. it was the last sound struck from the great star-dial:—for karl, terrified at the solemn din, wasted no more time in speculative hesitation, but, taking the flask el-râmi had given him, he opened it tremblingly and poured all its contents on the surface of the crystal. the red liquid ran over the stone like blood, crumbling it as it ran and extinguishing its brilliancy,—eating its substance away as rapidly as vitriol eats away the human skin,—blistering it and withering it visibly before karl’s astonished eyes,—till, as el-râmi had said, it was hardly distinguishable from the dust and mortar around it. one piece lasted just a little longer than the rest—it curled and writhed like a living thing under the absolutely noiseless and terribly destructive influence of that blood-like liquid that seemed to sink into it as water sinks into a sponge,—karl watched it, fascinated—till all at once it broke into a sparkle like flame, gleamed, smouldered, leaped high ... and—disappeared. the wondrous dial, with its “perpetual motion” and its measured rhythm, was as if it had never been,—it had vanished as utterly as a destroyed planet,—and the mighty problem reflected on its surface remained ... and will most likely still remain ... a mystery unsolved.
