he remained quite still, standing near the tall vase that held the clustered roses,—in his hand he grasped unconsciously the stalk of the one he had pulled to pieces. he was aware of his own strange passiveness,—it was a sort of inexplicable inertia which like temporary paralysis seemed to incapacitate him from any action. it would have appeared well and natural to him that he should stay there so, dreamily, with the scented rose-stalk in his hand, for any length of time. a noise in the outer street roused him a little,—the whistling, hooting, and laughing of drunken men reeling homewards,—and, lifting his eyes from their studious observation of the floor, he sighed deeply.
“that is the way the great majority of men amuse themselves,”—he mused. “drink, stupidity, brutality, sensuality—all blatant proofs of miserable unresisted weakness,—can it be possible that god can care for such? could even the pity of christ pardon such wilful workers of their own ruin? the pity of christ, said i?—nay, at times even he was pitiless. did he not curse a fig-tree because it was barren?—though truly we are not told the cause of its barrenness. of course the lesson is that life—the fig-tree—has no right to be barren of results,—but why curse it, if it is? what is the use of a curse at any time? and what, may equally be asked, is the use of a blessing? neither are heard; the curse is seldom, if ever, wreaked,—and the blessing, so the sorrowful say, is never granted.”
the noise and the laughter outside died away,—and a deep silence ensued. he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and noted his own reflective attitude,—his brooding visage; and studied himself critically as he would have studied a picture.
“you are no antinous, my friend”—he said aloud, addressing his own reflection with some bitterness—“a mere suntanned oriental with a pair of eyes in which the light is more of hell than heaven. what should you do with yourself, frowning at fate? you are a superb egoist,—no more.”
as he spoke, the roses in the vase beside him swayed lightly to and fro, as though a faint wind had fanned them, and their perfume stole upon the air like the delicate breath of summer wafted from some distant garden.
there was no window open—and el-râmi had not stirred, so that no movement on his part could have shaken the vase,—and yet the roses quivered on their stalks as if brushed by a bird’s wing. he watched them with a faint sense of curiosity—but with no desire to discover why they thus nodded their fair heads to an apparently causeless vibration. he was struggling with an emotion that threatened to overwhelm him,—he knew that he was not master of himself,—and instinctively he kept his face turned away from the tranced lilith.
“i must not look upon her—i dare not;” he whispered to the silence—“not yet—not yet.”
there was a low chair close by, and he dropped into it wearily, covering his eyes with one hand. he tried to control his thoughts—but they were rebellious, and ran riot in spite of him. the words of zaroba rang in his ears—“for you were the days of ashtaroth.” the days of ashtaroth!—for what had they been renowned? for jove and the feasts of love,—for mirth and song and dance—for crowns of flowers, for shouting of choruses and tinkling of cymbals, for exquisite luxury and voluptuous pleasures,—for men and women who were not ashamed of love and took delight in loving;—were there not better, warmer ways of life in those old times than now—now when cautious and timid souls make schemes for marriage as they scheme for wealth,—when they snigger at “love” as though it were some ludicrous defect in mortal composition, and when real passion of any kind is deemed downright improper, and not to be spoken of before cold and punctilious society?
“ay, but the passion is there all the same;”—thought el-râmi—“under the ice burns the fire,—all the fiercer and the more dangerous for its repression.”
and he still kept his hand over his eyes, thinking.
“the christ claims all”—had said zaroba. nay, what has christ done that he should claim all? “he died for us!” cry the preachers. well,—others can die also. “he was divine!” proclaim the churches. we are all divine, if we will but let the divinity in us have way. and moved by these ideas, el-râmi rose up and crossed to a niche in the purple-pavilioned walls of the room, before which hung a loose breadth of velvet fringed with gold,—this he drew aside, and disclosed a picture very finely painted, of christ standing near the sea, surrounded by his disciples—underneath it were inscribed the words—“whom say ye that i am?”
the dignity and beauty of the face and figure were truly marvellous, the expression of the eyes had something of pride as well as sweetness, and el-râmi confronted it as he had confronted it many times before, with a restless inquisitiveness.
“whom say ye that i am?”
the painted christ seemed to audibly ask the question.
“o noble mystery of a man, i cannot tell!” exclaimed el-râmi suddenly and aloud—“i cannot say who you are, or who you were. a riddle for all the world to wonder at,—a white sphinx with a smile inscrutable,—all the secrets of egypt are as nothing to your secret, o simple, pure-souled nazarene! you, born in miserable plight in miserable bethlehem, changed the aspect of the world, altered and purified the modes of civilisation, and thrilled all life with higher motives for work than it had ever been dowered with before. all this in three years’ work, ending in a criminal’s death! truly, if there was not something divine in you, then god himself is an error!”
the grand face seemed to smile upon him with a deep and solemn pity, and “whom say ye that i am?” sounded in his ears as though it were spoken by some one in the room.
“i must be getting nervous;”—he muttered, drawing the curtain softly over the picture again, and looking uneasily round about him, “i think i cannot be much more than the weakest of men,—after all.”
a faint tremor seized him as he turned slowly but resolutely round towards the couch of lilith, and let his eyes rest on her enchanting loveliness. step by step he drew nearer and nearer till he bent closely over her, but he did not call her by name. a loose mass of her hair lay close to his arm,—with an impetuous suddenness he gathered it in his hands and kissed it.
“a sheaf of sunbeams!”—he whispered, his lips burning as they caressed the shining wealth of silken curls—“a golden web in which kisses might be caught and killed! ah heaven, have pity on me!” and he sank by the couch, stifling his words beneath his breath—“if i love this girl—if all this mad tumult in my soul is love—let her never know it, o merciful fates!—or she is lost, and so am i. let me be bound,—let her be free,—let me fight down my weakness, but let her never know that i am weak, or i shall lose her long obedience. no, no! i will not summon her to me now—it is best she should be absent,—this body of hers, this fair fine casket of her spirit is but a dead thing when that spirit is elsewhere. she cannot hear me,—she does not see me—no, not even when i lay this hand—this ‘shadow of a hand,’ as she once called it, here, to quell my foolish murmurings.”
and, lifting lilith’s hand as he spoke, he pressed its roseate palm against his lips,—then on his forehead. a strange sense of relief and peace came upon him with the touch of those delicate fingers—it was as though a cool wind blew, bringing freshness from some quiet mountain lake or river. silently he knelt,—and presently, somewhat calmed, lifted his eyes again to look at lilith,—she smiled in her deep trance—she was the very picture of some happy angel sleeping. his arm sank in the soft satin coverlet as he laid back the little hand he held upon her breast,—and with eager scrutiny he noted every tint and every line in her exquisite face;—the lovely long lashes that swept the blush-rose of her cheeks,—the rounded chin, dimpled in its curve,—the full white throat, the perfect outline of the whole fair figure as it rested like a branched lily in a bed of snow,—and, as he looked, he realised that all this beauty was his—his, if he chose to take love and let wisdom go. if he chose to resign the chance of increasing his knowledge of the supernatural,—if he were content to accept earth for what it is, and heaven for what it may be, lilith, the bodily incarnation of loveliness, purity and perfect womanhood, was his—his only. he grew dizzy at the thought,—then by an effort conquered the longing of his heart. he remembered what he had sworn to do,—to discover the one great secret before he seized the joy that tempted him,—to prove the actual, individual, conscious existence of the being that is said to occupy a temporary habitation in flesh. he knew and he saw the body of lilith,—he must know, and he must see her soul. and while he leaned above her couch, entranced, a sudden strain of music echoed through the stillness,—music solemn and sweet, that stirred the air into rhythmic vibrations as of slow and sacred psalmody. he listened, perplexed but not afraid,—he was not afraid of anything in earth or heaven save—himself. he knew that man has his worst enemy in his own ego,—beyond that, there is very little in life that need give cause for alarm. he had, till now, been able to practise the stoical philosophy of an epictetus while engaged in researches that would have puzzled the brain of a plato,—but his philosophy was just now at fault and his self-possession gone to the four winds of heaven—and why? he knew not—but he was certain the fault lay in himself, and not in others. of an arrogant temper and a self-reliant haughty disposition he had none of that low cowardice which people are guilty of, who, finding themselves in a dilemma, cast the blame at once on others, or on “circumstances” which, after all, were most probably of their own creating. and the strange music that ebbed and flowed in sonorous pulsations through the air around him troubled him not at all,—he attributed it at once to something or other that was out of order in his own mental perceptions. he knew how, in certain conditions of the brain, some infinitesimal trifle gone wrong in the aural nerves will persuade one that trumpets are blowing, violins playing, birds singing or bells ringing in the distance,—just as a little disorder of the visual organs will help to convince one of apparitions. he knew how to cast a “glamour” better than any so-called “theosophist” in full practice of his trickery,—and, being thus perfectly aware how the human sense can be deceived, listened to the harmonious sounds he heard with speculative interest, wondering how long this “fancy” of his would last. much more startled was he when amid the rising and falling of the mysterious melody he heard the voice of lilith saying softly in her usual manner—
“i am here!”
his heart beat rapidly, and he rose slowly from his kneeling position by her side. “i did not call you, lilith!” he said tremblingly.
“no!” and her sweet lips smiled—“you did not call, ... i came!”
“why did you come?” he asked, still faintly.
“for my own joy and yours!” she answered in thrilling tones—“sweeter than all the heavens is love, and love is here!”
an icy cold crept through him as he heard the rapture in her accents,—such rapture!—like that of a lark singing in the sunlight on a fresh morning of may. and like the dim sound of a funeral bell came the words of the monk, tolling solemnly across his memory, in spite of his efforts to forget them, “with lilith’s love comes lilith’s freedom.”
“no, no!” he muttered within himself—“it cannot be,—it shall not be!—she is mine, mine only. her fate is in my hands; if there be justice in heaven, who else has so much right to her body or her soul as i?”
and he stood, gazing irresolutely at the girl, who stirred restlessly and flung her white arms upward on her pillows, while the music he had heard suddenly ceased. he dared not speak,—he was afraid to express any desire or impose any command upon this “fine sprite” which had for six years obeyed him, but which might now, for all he could tell, be fluttering vagrantly on the glittering confines of realms far beyond his ken.
her lips moved,—and presently she spoke again.
“wonderful are the ways of divine law!” she murmured softly—“and infinite are the changes it works among its creatures! an old man, despised and poor, by friends rejected, perplexed in mind, but pure in soul; such was the spirit that now is. passing me flame-like on its swift way heavenward,—saved and uplifted, not by wisdom, but by love.”
el-râmi listened, awed and puzzled. her words surely seemed to bear some reference to kremlin?
“of the knowledge of the stars and the measuring of light there is more than enough in the universe;”—went on lilith dreamily—“but of faithful love, such as keeps an angel for ever by one’s side, there is little; therefore the angels on earth are few.”
he could no longer restrain his curiosity.
“do you speak of one who is dead, lilith?” he asked—“one whom i knew——”
“i speak of one who is living,”—she replied—“and one whom you know. for none are dead; and knowledge has no past, but is all present.”
her voice sank into silence. el-râmi bent above her, studying her countenance earnestly—her lashes trembled as though the eyelids were about to open,—but the tremor passed and they remained shut. how lovely she looked!—how more than lovely!
“lilith!” he whispered, suddenly oblivious of all his former forebodings, and unconscious of the eager passion vibrating in his tone—“sweet lilith!”
she turned slightly towards him, and, lifting her arms from their indolently graceful position on the pillows, she clasped her hands high above her head in apparent supplication.
“love me!” she cried, with such a thrill in her accent that it rang through the room like a note of music—“oh my belovëd, love me!”
el-râmi grew faint and dizzy,—his thoughts were all in a whirl, ... was he made of marble or ice that he should not respond? scarcely aware of what he did, he took her clasped hands in his own.
“and do i not, lilith?” he murmured, half anguished, half entranced—“do i not love you?”
“no, no!” said lilith with passionate emphasis—“not me,—not me, myself! oh my belovëd! love me, not my shadow!”
he loosened her hands, and recoiled, awed and perplexed. her appeal struck at the core of all his doubts,—and for one moment he was disposed to believe in the actual truth of the immortal soul without those “proofs” for which he constantly searched,—the next he rallied himself on his folly and weakness. he dared not trust himself to answer her, so he was silent,—but she soon spoke again with such convincing earnestness of tone that almost ... almost he believed—but not quite.
“to love the seeming and not the real,”—she said—“is the curse of all sad humanity. it is the glamour of the air,—the barrier between earth and heaven. the body is the shadow—the soul is the substance. the reflection i cast on earth’s surface for a little space is but a reflection only,—it is not me:—i am beyond it!”
for a moment el-râmi stood irresolute,—then gathering up his scattered thoughts, he began to try and resolve them into order and connection. surely the time was ripe for his great experiment?—and, as he considered this, his nerves grew more steady,—his self-reliance returned—all his devotion to scientific research pressed back its claim upon his mind,—if he were to fail now, he thought, after all his patience and study,—fail to obtain any true insight into the spiritual side of humanity, would he not be ashamed, ay, and degraded in his own eyes? he resolved to end all his torture of pain and doubt and disquietude,—and, sitting on the edge of lilith’s couch, he drew her delicate hands down from their uplifted position, and laid them one above the other cross-wise on his own breast.
“then you must teach me, lilith”—he said softly and with tender persuasiveness—“you must teach me to know you. if i see but your reflection here,—let me behold your reality. let me love you as you are, if now i only love you as you seem. show yourself to me in all your spiritual loveliness, lilith!—it may be i shall die of the glory,—or—if there is no death as you say,—i shall not die, but simply pass away into the light which gives you life. lift the veil that is between us, lilith, and let me see you face to face. if this that seems you”—and he pressed the little hands he held—“is naught, let me realise the nothingness of so much beauty beside the greater beauty that engenders it. come to me as you are, lilith!—come!”
as he spoke, his heart beat fast with a nervous thrill of expectancy; what would she answer? ... what would she do? he could not take his eyes from her face—he half fancied he should see some change there; for the moment he even thought it possible that she might transform herself into some surpassing being, which, like the gods of the greek mythology, should consume by its flame-like splendour whatever of mortality dared to look upon it. but she remained unaltered, and sculpturally calm,—only her breathing seemed a little quicker, and the hands that he held trembled against his breast.
her next words, however, startled him—
“i will come!” she said, and a faint sigh escaped her lips—“be ready for me. pray!—pray for the blessing of christ,—for, if christ be with us, all is well.”
at this, his brow clouded,—his eyes drooped gloomily.
“christ!” he muttered more to himself than to her—“what is he to me? who is he that he should be with us?”
“this world’s rescue and all worlds’ glory!”
the answer rang out like a silver clarion, with something full and triumphant in the sound, as though not only lilith’s voice had uttered it, but other voices had joined in a chorus. at the same moment, her hands moved, as if in an effort to escape from his hold. but he held them closely in a jealous and masterful grasp.
“when will you come to me, lilith?” he demanded in low but eager accents—“when shall i see you and know you as lilith? ... my lilith, my own for ever?”
“god’s lilith—god’s own for ever!” murmured lilith dreamily, and then was silent.
an angry sense of rebellion began to burn in el-râmi’s mind. summoning up all the force of his iron will, he unclasped her hands and laid them back on each side of her, and placed his own hand on her breast, just where the ruby talisman shone and glowed.
“answer me, lilith!” he said, with something of the old sternness which he had used to employ with her on former occasions—“when will you come to me?”
her limbs trembled violently as though some inward cold convulsed her, and her answer came slowly, though clearly—
“when you are ready.”
“i am ready now!” he cried recklessly.
“no—no!” she murmured, her voice growing fainter and fainter—“not yet ... not yet! love is not strong enough, high enough, pure enough. wait, watch and pray. when the hour has come, a sign will be given—but o my belovëd, if you would know me, love me—love me! not my shadow!”
a pale hue fell on her face, robbing it of its delicate tint,—el-râmi knew what that pallor indicated.
“lilith! lilith!” he exclaimed, “why leave me thus if you love me? stay with me yet a little!”
but lilith—or rather the strange spirit that made the body of lilith speak,—was gone. and all that night not another sound, either of music or speech, stirred the silence of the room. dawn came, misty and gray, and found the proud el-râmi kneeling before the unveiled picture of the christ,—not praying, for he could not bring himself down to the necessary humiliation for prayer,—but simply wondering vaguely as to what could be and what might be the one positive reply to that question propounded of old—
“whom say ye that i am?”
