for two or three weeks after he had received the news of kremlin’s death, el-râmi’s mind was somewhat troubled and uneasy. he continued his abstruse studies ardently, yet with less interest than usual,—and he spent hour after hour in lilith’s room, sitting beside the couch on which she reposed, saying nothing, but simply watching her, himself absorbed in thought. days went by and he never roused her,—never asked her to reply to any question concerning the deep things of time and of eternity with which her aërial spirit seemed conversant. he was more impressed by the suddenness and terror of kremlin’s end than he cared to admit to himself,—and the “light-maps” and other papers belonging to his deceased old friend, all of which had now come into his possession, were concise enough in many marvellous particulars to have the effect of leading him almost imperceptibly to believe that after all there was a god,—an actual being whose magnificent attributes baffled the highest efforts of the imagination, and who indeed, as the bible grandly hath it—“holds the universe in the hollow of his hand.” and he began to go back to the bible for information;—for he, like most students versed in eastern philosophies, knew that all that was ever said or will be said on the mysteries of life and death is to be found in that book, which, though full of much matter that does not pertain to its actual teaching, remains the one chief epitome of all the wisdom of the world. when it is once remembered that the deity of moses and aaron was their own invented hobgoblin, used for the purpose of terrifying and keeping the jews in order, much becomes clear that is otherwise impossible to accept or comprehend. historians, priests, lawgivers, prophets and poets have all contributed to the bible,—and when we detach class from class and put each in its proper place, without confounding them all together in an inextricable jumble as “divine inspiration,” we obtain a better view of the final intention of the whole. el-râmi considered moses and aaron in the light of particularly clever eastern conjurers,—and not only conjurers, but tacticians and diplomatists, who had just the qualities necessary to rule a barbarous, ignorant, and rebellious people. the thunders of mount sinai, the graving of the commandments on tablets of stone,—the serpent in the wilderness,—the bringing of water out of a rock,—the parting of the sea to let an army march through; he, el-râmi, knew how all these things were done, and was perfectly cognisant of the means and appliances used to compass all these seemingly miraculous events.
“what a career i could make if i chose!” he thought—“what wealth i could amass,—what position! i who know how to quell the wildest waves of the sea,—i who, by means of a few drops of liquid, can corrode a name or a device so deeply on stone that centuries shall not efface it—i who can do so many things that would astonish the vulgar and make them my slaves,—why am i content to live as i do, when i could be greater than a crowned king? why, because i scorn to trick the ignorant by scientific skill which i have neither the time nor the patience to explain to them—and again—because i want to fathom the impossible;—i want to prove if indeed there is any impossible. what can be done and proved, when once it is done and proved, i regard as nothing,—and because i know how to smooth the sea, call down the rain, and evoke phantoms out of the atmosphere, i think such manifestations of power trifling and inadequate. these things are all provable; and the performance of them is attained through a familiar knowledge of our own earth elements and atmosphere, but to find out the subtle something that is not of earth, and has not yet been made provable,—that is the aim of my ambition. the soul! what is it? of what ethereal composition? of what likeness? of what feeling? of what capacity? this, and this alone, is the supreme mystery,—when once we understand it, we shall understand god. the preachers waste their time in urging men and women to save their souls, so long as we remain in total ignorance as to what the soul is. we cannot be expected to take any trouble to “save” or even regard anything so vague and dubious as the soul under its present conditions. what is visible and provable to our eyes is that our friends die, and, to all intents and purposes, disappear. we never know them as they were any more, ... and, ... what is still more horrible to think of, but is nevertheless true,—our natural tendency is to forget them,—indeed, after three or four years, perhaps less, we should find it difficult, without the aid of a photograph or painted picture, to recall their faces to our memories. and it is curious to think of it, but we really remember their ways, their conversation, and their notions of life better than their actual physiognomies. all this is very strange and very perplexing too,—and it is difficult to imagine the reason for such perpetual tearing down of affections, and such bitter loss and harassment, unless there is some great intention behind it all,—an intention of which it is arranged we shall be made duly cognisant. if we are not to be made cognisant,—if we are not to have a full and perfect explanation,—then the very fact of life being lived at all is a mere cruelty,—a senseless jest which lacks all point,—and the very grandeur and immensity of the universe becomes nothing but the meanest display of gigantic force remorselessly put forth to overwhelm creatures who have no power to offer resistance to its huge tyranny. if i could but fathom that ultimate purpose of things!—if i could but seize the subtle clue—for i believe it is something very slight and delicate which by its very fineness we have missed,—something which has to do with the eternal infinitesimal—that marvellous power which creates animated and regularly organised beings, many thousands of whose bodies laid together would not extend one inch. it is not to the infinitely great one must look for the secret of creation, but to the infinitely little.”
so he mused, as he sat by the couch of lilith and watched her sleeping that enchanted sleep of death-in-life. old zaroba, though now perfectly passive and obedient, and fulfilling all his commands with scrupulous exactitude, was not without her own ideas and hopes as she went about her various duties connected with the care of the beautiful tranced girl. she seldom spoke to féraz now except on ordinary household matters, and he understood and silently respected her reserve. she would sit in her accustomed corner of lilith’s regal apartment, weaving her thread-work mechanically, but ever and anon lifting her burning eyes to look at el-râmi’s absorbed face and note the varied expressions she saw, or fancied she saw there.
“the feverish trouble has begun”—she muttered to herself on one occasion, as she heard her master sigh deeply—“the stir in the blood,—the restlessness—the wonder—the desire. and out of heart’s pain comes heart’s peace;—and out of desire, accomplishment; and shall not the old gods of the world rejoice to see love born again of flames and tears and bitter-sweet as in the ancient days? for there is no love now such as there used to be—the pale christ has killed it,—and the red rose aglow with colour and scent is now but a dull weed on a tame shore, washed by the salt sea, but never warmed by the sun. in the days of old, in the nights when ashtaroth was queen of the silver hours, the youths and maidens knew what it was to love in the very breath of love!—and the magic of all nature, the music of the woods and waters, the fire of the stars, the odours of the flowers—all these were in the dance and beat of the young blood, and in the touch of the soft red lips as they met and clung together in kisses sweeter than honey in wine. but now—now the world has grown old and cold, and dreary and joyless,—it is winter among men and the summer is past.”
so she would murmur to herself in her wild half-poetical jargon of language—her voice never rising above an inarticulate whisper. el-râmi never heard her or seemed to regard her—he had no eyes except for the drowsing lilith.
if he had been asked, at this particular time, why he went to that room day after day, to stare silently at his beautiful “subject” and ponder on everything connected with her, he could not have answered the question. he did not himself know why. something there was in him, as in every portion of created matter, which remained inexplicable,—something of his own nature which he neither understood nor cared to analyse. he who sought to fathom the last depth of research concerning god and the things divine would have been compelled to own, had he been cross-examined on the matter, that he found it impossible to fathom himself. the clue to his own ego was as desperately hard to seize, as curiously subtle and elusive, as the clue to the riddle of creation. he was wont to pride himself on his consistency—yet in his heart of hearts he knew that in many things he was inconsistent,—he justly triumphed in his herculean will-force,—yet now he was obliged to admit to himself that there was something in the silent placid aspect of lilith as she lay before him, subservient to his command, that quite unnerved him and scattered his thoughts. it had not used to be so—but now,—it was so. and he dated the change, whether rightly or wrongly, from the day on which the monk from cyprus had visited him, and this thought made him restless and irritable, and full of unjust and unreasonable suspicions. for had not the “master,” as he was known in the community to which he belonged, said that he had seen the soul of lilith, while he, el-râmi, had never attained to so beatific an altitude of vision? then was it not possible that, notwithstanding his rectitude and steadfastness of purpose, the “master,” great and christ-like in self-denial though he was, might influence lilith in some unforeseen way? then there was féraz—féraz, whose supplications and protestations had won a smile from the tranced girl, and who therefore must assuredly have roused in her some faint pleasure and interest. such thoughts as these rankled in his mind and gave him no peace—for they conveyed to him the unpleasing idea that lilith was not all his own as he desired her to be,—others had a share in her thoughts. could he have nothing entirely to himself? he would demand angrily of his own inner consciousness—not even this life which he had, as it were, robbed from death? and an idea, which had at first been the merest dim suggestion, now deepened into a passionate resolve—he would make her his own so thoroughly and indissolubly that neither gods nor devils should snatch her from him.
“her life is mine!” he said—“and she shall live as long as i please. her body shall sleep, ... if i still choose, ... or ... it shall wake. but whether awake, or sleeping in the flesh, her spirit shall obey me always—like the satellite of a planet, that disembodied soul shall be mine for ever!”
when he spoke thus to himself, he was sitting in his usual contemplative attitude by the couch where lilith lay;—he rose up suddenly and paced the room, drawing back the velvet portière and setting open the door of the ante-chamber as though he craved for fresh air. music sounded through the house, ... it was féraz singing. his full pure tenor voice came floating up, bearing with it the words he sang:
“and neither the angels in heaven above,
nor the demons down under the sea,
can ever dissever my soul from the soul
of the beautiful annabel lee!
“for the stars never rise, but i feel the bright eyes
of the beautiful annabel lee,—
and the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
of the beautiful annabel lee—
and so all the night-tide i lie down by the side
of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
in her tomb by the sounding sea!”
with a shaking hand el-râmi shut the door more swiftly than he had opened it, and dragged the heavy portière across it to deaden the sound of that song!—to keep it out from his ears ... from his heart, ... to stop its passionate vibration from throbbing along his nerves like creeping fire. ...
“and so all the night-tide i lie down by the side
of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride.” ...
“god!—my god!” he muttered incoherently—“what ails me? ... am i going mad that i should dream thus?”
he gazed round the room wildly, his hand still clutching the velvet portière,—and met the keenly watchful glance of zaroba. her hands were mechanically busy with her thread-work,—but her eyes, black, piercing and brilliant, were fixed on him steadfastly. something in her look compelled his attention,—something in his compelled hers. they stared across the room at each other, as though a thought had sprung between them like an armed soldier with drawn sword, demanding from each the pass-word to a mystery. in and out, across and across went the filmy glistening threads in zaroba’s wrinkled hands, but her eyes never moved from el-râmi’s face, and she looked like some weird sorceress weaving a web of destiny.
“for you were the days of ashtaroth!” she said in a low, monotonous, yet curiously thrilling tone—“you are born too late, el-râmi,—the youth of the world has departed and the summer seasons of the heart are known on earth no more. you are born too late—too late!—the christ claims all,—the body, the blood, the nerve and the spirit,—every muscle of his white limbs on the cross must be atoned for by the dire penance and torture of centuries of men. so that now even love is a thorn in the flesh and its prick must be paid with a price,—these are the hours of woe preceding the end. the blood that runs in your veins, el-râmi, has sprung from kings and strong rulers of men,—and the pale faint spirits of this dull day have naught to do with its colour and glow. and it rebels, o el-râmi!—as god liveth, it rebels!—it burns in your heart—the proud, strong heart,—like ruddy wine in a ruby cup; it rebels, el-râmi!—it rises to passion as rise the waves of the sea to the moon, by a force and an impulse in nature stronger than yours! ay, ay!—for you were the days of ashtaroth”—and her voice sank into a wailing murmur—“but now—now—the christ claims all.”
he heard her as one may hear incoherencies in a nightmare vision;—only a few weeks ago he would have been angry with her for what he would then have termed her foolish jargon,—but he was not angry now. why should he be angry? he wondered dully—had he time to even think of anger while thus unnerved by that keen tremor that quivered through his frame—a tremor he strove in vain to calm? his hand fell from the curtain,—the sweet distracting song of poe’s “annabel lee” had ceased,—and he advanced into the room again, his heart beating painfully still, his head a little drooped as though with a sense of conscious shame. he moved slowly to where the roses in the venetian vase exhaled their odours on the air, and breaking one off its branch toyed with it aimlessly, letting its pale pink leaves flutter down one by one on the violet carpet at his feet. suddenly, as though he had resolved a doubt and made up his mind to something, he turned towards zaroba, who watched him fixedly,—and with a mute signal bade her leave the apartment. she rose instantly, and crossing her hands upon her breast made her customary obeisance and waited,—for he looked at her with a meditative expression which implied that he had not yet completed his instructions. presently, and with some hesitation, he made her another sign—a sign which had the effect of awakening a blaze of astonishment in her dark sunken eyes.
“no more to-night!” she repeated aloud—“it is your will that i return here no more to-night?”
he gave a slow but decided gesture of assent,—there was no mistaking it.
zaroba paused an instant, and then with a swift noiseless step went to the couch of lilith and bent yearningly above that exquisite sleeping form.
“star of my heart!” she muttered—“child whose outward fairness i have ever loved, unheedful of the soul within,—may there still be strength enough left in the old gods to bid thee wake!”
el-râmi caught her words, and a faint smile, proud yet bitter, curved his delicate lips.
“the old gods or the new—does it matter which?” he mused vaguely.—“and what is their strength compared with the will of man by which the very elements are conquered and made the slaves of his service? ‘my will is god’s will’ should be every strong man’s motto. but i—am i strong—or the weakest of the weak? ... and ... shall the christ claim all?”
the soft fall of the velvet portière startled him as it dropped behind the retreating figure of zaroba—she had left the room, and he was alone,—alone with lilith.
