“awake, féraz! to-day dreams end, and life begins.”
the words sounded so distinctly in his ears that the half-roused féraz turned drowsily on his pillows and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the speaker of them in his room. but there was no one. it was early morning,—the birds were twittering in the outer yard, and bright sunshine poured through the window. he had had a long and refreshing sleep,—and sitting up in his bed he stretched himself with a sense of refreshment and comfort, the while he tried to think what had so mysteriously and unpleasantly oppressed him with forebodings on the previous night. by and by he remembered the singing voices in the air and smiled.
“all my fancy of course!” he said lightly, springing up and beginning to dash the fresh cold water of his morning bath over his polished bronze-like skin, till all his nerves tingled with the pleasurable sensation—“i am always hearing music of some sort or other. i believe music is pent up in the air, and loosens itself at intervals like the rain. why not? there must be such a wealth of melody aloft,—all the songs of all the birds,—all the whisperings of all the leaves;—all the dash and rush of the rivers, waterfalls and oceans,—it is all in the air, and i believe it falls in a shower sometimes and penetrates the brains of musicians like beethoven, schumann and wagner.”
amused with his own fantastic imaginings he hummed a tune sotto voce as he donned his easy and picturesque attire,—then he left his room and went to his brother’s study to set it in order for the day, as was his usual custom.
he opened the door softly and with caution, because el-râmi often slept there on the hard soldier’s couch that occupied one corner,—but this morning all was exactly as it had been left at night,—the books and papers were undisturbed,—and, curiously enough, the little sanctum presented a vacant and deserted appearance, as though it would dumbly express a fear that its master was gone from it for ever. how such a notion suggested itself to féraz, he could not tell,—but he was certainly conscious of a strange sinking at the heart, as he paused in the act of throwing open one of the windows, and looked round the quiet room. had anything been moved or displaced during the night that he should receive such a general impression of utter emptiness? nothing—so far as he could judge;—there was his brother’s ebony chair wheeled slightly aside from the desk,—there were the great globes, terrestrial and celestial,—there were the various volumes lately used for reference,—and, apart from these, on the table, was the old vellum book in arabic that féraz had once before attempted to read. it was open,—a circumstance that struck féraz with some surprise, for he could not recall having seen it in that position last evening. perhaps el-râmi had come down in the night to refer to it and had left it there by accident? féraz felt he must examine it more nearly, and, approaching, he rested his elbows on the table and fixed his eyes on the arabic page before him which was headed in scrolled lettering “the mystery of death.” as he read the words, a beautiful butterfly flew in through the open window and circled joyously round his head, till, presently espying the bunch of heliotrope in the glass where féraz had set it the previous day, it fluttered off to that, and settled on the scented purple bloom, its pretty wings quivering with happiness. mechanically féraz watched its flight,—then his eyes returned and dwelt once more on the time-stained lettering before him; “the mystery of death,”—and following the close lines with his forefinger, he soon made out the ensuing passages. “the mystery of death. whereas, of this there is no mystery at all, as the ignorant suppose, but only a clearing up of many intricate matters. when the body dies,—or to express it with more pertinacious exactitude, when the body resolves itself into the living organisms of which earth is composed, it is because the soul has outgrown its mortal habitation and can no longer endure the cramping narrowness of the same. we speak unjustly of the aged, because by their taciturnity and inaptitude for worldly business, they seem to us foolish, and of a peevish weakness; it should however be remembered that it is a folly to complain of the breaking of the husk when the corn is ripe. in old age the soul is weary of and indifferent to earthly things, and makes of its tiresome tenement a querulous reproach,—it has exhausted earth’s pleasures and surpassed earth’s needs, and palpitates for larger movement. when this is gained, the husk falls, the grain sprouts forth—the soul is freed,—and all nature teaches this lesson. to call the process ‘death’ and a ‘mystery’ is to repeat the error of barbarian ages,—for once the soul has no more use for the body, you cannot detain it,—you cannot compress its wings,—you cannot stifle its nature,—and, being eternal, it demands eternity.”
“all that is true enough;”—murmured féraz—“as true as any truth possible, and yet people will not accept or understand it. all the religions, all the preachers, all the teachers seem to avail them nothing,—and they go on believing in death far more than in life. what a sad and silly world it is!—always planning for itself and never for god, and only turning to god in imminent danger like a coward schoolboy who says he is sorry because he fears a whipping.”
here he lifted his eyes from the book, feeling that some one was looking at him, and, true enough, there in the doorway stood zaroba. her withered face had an anxious expression and she held up a warning finger.
“hush! ...” she said whisperingly. ... “no noise! ... where is el-râmi?”
féraz replied by a gesture, indicating that he was still upstairs at work on his mysterious “experiment.”
zaroba advanced slowly into the room, and seated herself on the nearest chair.
“my mind misgives me;”—she said in low awe-stricken tones,—“my mind misgives me; i have had dreams—such dreams! all night i have tossed and turned,—my head throbs here,”—and she pressed both hands upon her brow,—“and my heart—my heart aches! i have seen strange creatures clad in white,—ghostly faces of the past have stared at me,—my dead children have caressed me,—my dead husband has kissed me on the lips,—a kiss of ice, freezing me to the marrow. what does it bode? no good—no good!—but ill! like the sound of the flying feet of the whirlwind that brings death to the sons of the desert, there is a sound in my brain which says—‘sorrow! sorrow!’ again and yet again ‘sorrow!’”
sighing, she clasped her hands about her knees and rocked herself to and fro, as though she were in pain. féraz stood gazing at her wistfully and with a somewhat troubled air,—her words impressed him uncomfortably,—her very attitude suggested misery. the sunlight beaming across her bent figure, flashed on the silver bangles that circled her brown arms, and touched her rough gray hair to flecks of brightness,—her black eyes almost hid themselves under their tired drooping lids,—and when she ceased speaking her lips still moved as though she inwardly muttered some weird incantation. growing impatient with her, he knew not why, the young man paced slowly up and down the room; her deafness precluded him from speaking to her, and he just now had no inclination to communicate with her in the usual way by writing. and while he thus walked about, she continued her rocking movement, and peered at him dubiously from under her bushy gray brows.
“it is ill work meddling with the gods;”—she began again presently—“in old time they were vengeful,—and have they changed because the times are new? nay, nay! the nature of a man may alter with the course of his passions,—but the nature of a god!—who shall make it otherwise than what it has been from the beginning? cruel, cruel are the ways of the gods when they are thwarted;—there is no mercy in the blind eyes of fate! to tempt destiny is to ask the thunderbolt to fall and smite you,—to oppose the gods is as though a babe’s hand should essay to lift the universe. have i not prayed the master, the wise and the proud el-râmi zarânos, to submit and not contend? as god liveth, i say, let us submit while we can like the slaves that we are, for in submission alone is safety!”
féraz heard her with increasing irritation,—why need she come to him with all this melancholy jabbering, he thought angrily. he leaned far out of the open window and looked at the ugly houses of the little square,—at the sooty trees, the sparrows hopping and quarrelling in the road, the tradesmen’s carts that every now and again dashed to and from their various customers’ doors in the aggravatingly mad fashion they affect, and tried to realise that he was actually in busy practical london, and not, as seemed at the moment more likely, in some cavern of an eastern desert, listening to an ancient sibyl croaking misfortune. just then a neighbouring clock struck nine, and he hastily drew in his head from the outer air, and, making language with his eloquent fingers, he mutely asked zaroba if she were going upstairs now, or whether she meant to wait till el-râmi himself came down?
she left off rocking to and fro, and half rose from her chair,—then she hesitated.
“i have never waited”—she said—“before,—and why? because the voice of the master has roused me from my deepest slumbers,—and, like a finger of fire laid on my brain, his very thought has summoned my attendance. but this morning no such voice has called,—no such burning touch has stirred my senses,—how should i know what i must do? if i go unbidden, will he not be angered?—and his anger works like a poison in my blood! ... yet ... it is late, ... and his silence is strange——”
she paused, passing her hand wearily across her eyes,—then stood up, apparently resolved.
“i will obey the voices that whisper to me,”—she said, with a certain majestic resignation and gravity—“the voices that cry to my heart ‘sorrow! sorrow!’ and yet again ‘sorrow!’ if grief must come, then welcome, grief!—one cannot gainsay the fates. i will go hence and prove the message of the air,—for the air holds invisible tongues that do not lie.”
with a slow step she moved across the room,—and on a sudden impulse féraz sprang towards her exclaiming, “zaroba!—stay!”—then recollecting she could not hear a word, he checked himself and drew aside to let her pass, with an air of indifference which he was far from feeling. he was in truth wretched and ill at ease,—the exhilaration with which he had arisen from sleep had given way to intense depression, and he could not tell what ailed him.
“awake, féraz! to-day dreams end, and life begins.” those were the strange words he had heard the first thing on awaking that morning,—what could they mean, he wondered rather sadly? if dreams were indeed to end, he would be sorry,—and if life, as mortals generally lived it, were to begin for him, why then, he would be sorrier still. troubled and perplexed, he began to set the breakfast in order, hoping by occupation to divert his thoughts and combat the miserable feeling of vague dread which oppressed him, and which, though he told himself how foolish and unreasonable it was, remained increasingly persistent. all at once such a cry rang through the house as almost turned his blood to ice,—a cry wild, despairing and full of agony. it was repeated with piercing vehemence,—and féraz, his heart beating furiously, cleared the space of the room with one breathless bound and rushed upstairs, there to confront zaroba tossing her arms distractedly and beating her breast like a creature demented.
“lilith!” she gasped,—“lilith has gone ... gone! ... and el-râmi is dead!”
