“Never!” exclaimed El-Râmi passionately. “Never, while I live! I defy the heavens to rob me of her!—by every law in nature, she is mine!”
“Peace!” said the monk sternly—“Nothing is yours,—except the fate you have made for yourself.Thatis yours; and that must and will be fulfilled. That, in its own appointed time, will deprive you of Lilith.”
El-Râmi’s eyes flashed wrath and pain.
“What have you to do with my fate?” he demanded—“How should you know what is in store for me? You are judged to have a marvellous insight into spiritual things, but it is not insight after all so much as imagination and instinct. These may lead you wrong,—you have gained them, as you yourself admit, through nothing but inward, concentration and prayer—mydiscoveries are the result of scientific exploration,—there is no science in prayer!”
“Is there not?”—and the monk, rising from his chair, confronted El-Râmi with the reproachful majesty of a king who faces some recreant vassal—“Then with all your wisdom you are ignorant,—ignorant of the commonest laws of simple Sound. Do you not yet know—have you not yet learned that Sound vibrates in a million million tones through every nook and corner of the Universe? Not a whisper, not a cry from human lips is lost—not even the trill of a bird or the rustle of a leaf. All is heard—all is kept,—all is reproduced at will for ever and ever. What is the use of your modern toys, the phonograph and the telephone, if they do not teach you the fundamental and eternal law by which these adjuncts to civilisation are governed? God—the great, patient, loving God—hears the huge sounding-board of space re-echo again and yet again with rough curses on His Name,—with groans and wailings; shouts, tears, and laughter send shuddering discord through His Everlasting Vastness, but amid it all there is a steady strain of music,—full, sweet, and pure—the music of perpetual prayer. No science in prayer! Such science there is, that by its power the very ether parts asunder as by a lightning stroke—the highest golden gateways are unbarred,—and the connecting-link ’twixt God and Man stretches itself through Space, between and round all worlds, defying any force to break the current of its messages.”
He spoke with fervour and passion,—El-Râmi listened silent and unconvinced.
“I waste my words, I know—” continued the monk—“For you, Yourself suffices. What your brain dares devise,—what your hand dares attempt, that you will do, unadvisedly, sure of your success without the help of God or man. Nevertheless—you may not keep the Soul of Lilith.”
His voice was very solemn yet sweet; El-Râmi, lifting his head, looked full at him, wonderingly, earnestly, and as one in doubt. Then his mind seemed to grasp more completely his visitor’s splendid presence,—the noble face, the soft commanding eyes,—and instinctively he bent his proud head with a sudden reverence.
“Truly you are a god-like man—” he said slowly—“God-like in strength, and pure-hearted as a child. I would trust you in many things, if not in all. Therefore,—as by some strange means you have possessed yourself of my secret,—come with me,—and I will show you the chiefest marvel of my science—the life I claim—the spirit I dominate. Your warning I cannot accept, because you warn me of what is impossible. Impossible—I say, impossible!—for the human Lilith, God’s Lilith,died—according to God’s will;myLilith lives, according to My will. Come and see,—then perhaps you will understand how it is that I—I, and not God any longer,—claim and possess the Soul I saved!”
With these words, uttered in a thrilling tone of pride and passion, he opened the study door and, with a mute inviting gesture, led the way out. In silence and with a pensive step, the monk slowly followed.
Intothe beautiful room, glowing with its regal hues of gold and purple, where the spell-bound Lilith lay, El-Râmi led his thoughtful and seemingly reluctant guest. Zaroba met them on the threshold and was about to speak,—but at an imperative sign from her master she refrained, and contented herself merely with a searching and inquisitive glance at the stately monk, the like of whom she had never seen before. She had good cause to be surprised,—for, in all the time she had known him, El-Râmi had never permitted any visitor to enter the shrine of Lilith’s rest. Now he had made a new departure,—and in the eagerness of her desire to know why this stranger was thus freely admitted into the usually forbidden precincts she went her way downstairs to seek Féraz, and learn from him the explanation of what seemed so mysterious. But it was now past ten o’clock at night, and Féraz was asleep,—fast locked in such a slumber that, though Zaroba shook him and called him several times, she could not rouse him from his deep and almost death-like torpor. Baffled in her attempt, she gave it up at last, and descended to the kitchen to prepare her own frugal supper,—resolving, however, that as soon as she heard Féraz stirring she would put him through such a catechism that she would find out, in spite of El-Râmi’s haughty reticence, the name of the unknown visitor and the nature of his errand.
Meanwhile, El-Râmi himself and his grave companion stood by the couch of Lilith, and looked upon her in all her peaceful beauty for some minutes in silence. Presently El-Râmi grew impatient at the absolute impassiveness of the monk’s attitude and the strange look in his eyes—a look which expressed nothing but solemn compassion and reverence.
“Well!” he exclaimed almost brusquely—“Now you see Lilith, as she is.”
“Not so!” said the monk quietly—“I do not see her as she is. But Ihaveseen her,—whereas, ... you have not!”
El-Râmi turned upon him somewhat angrily.
“Why will you always speak in riddles?” he said—“In plain language, what do you mean?”
“In plain language I mean what I say”—returned the monk composedly—“And I tell you I have seen Lilith. The Soul of LilithisLilith;—not this brittle casket made of earthly materials which we now look upon, and which is preserved from decomposition by an electric fluid. But—beautiful as it is—it is a corpse—and nothing more.”
El-Râmi regarded him with an expression of haughty amazement.
“Can a corpse breathe?” he inquired—“Can a corpse have colour and movement? This Body was the body of a child when first I began my experiment,—now it is a woman’s form full grown and perfect—and you tell me it is a corpse!”
“I tell you no more than you told Féraz,” said the monk coldly—“When the boy transgressed your command and yielded to the suggestion of your servant Zaroba, did you not assure him that Lilith wasdead?”
El-Râmi started;—these words certainly gave him a violent shock of amazement.
“God!” he exclaimed—“How can you know all this? Where did you hear it? Does the very air convey messages to you from a distance?—Does the light copy scenes for you, or what is it that gives you such a superhuman faculty for knowing everything you choose to know?”
The monk smiled gravely.
“I have only one method of work, El-Râmi”—he said—“And that method you are perfectly aware of, though you would not adopt it when I would have led you into its mystery. ‘No man cometh to the Father, but by Me.’ You know that old well-worn text—read so often, heard so often, that its true meaning is utterly lost sight of and forgotten. ‘Coming to the Father’ means the attainment of a superhuman intuition—a superhuman knowledge,—but, as you do not believe in these things, let them pass. But you were perfectly right when you told Féraz that this Lilith is dead;—of course she is dead,—dead as a plant that is dried but has its colour preserved, and is made to move its leaves by artificial means. This body’s breath is artificial,—the liquid in its veins is not blood, but a careful compound of the electric fluid that generates all life,—and it might be possible to preserve it thus for ever. Whether its growth would continue is a scientific question; it might and it might not,—probably it would cease if the Soul held no more communication with it. For its growth, which you consider so remarkable, is simply the result of a movement of the brain;—when you force back the Spirit to converse through its medium, the brain receives an impetus, which it communicates to the spine and nerves,—the growth and extension of the muscles is bound to follow. Nevertheless, it is really a chemically animated corpse; it is not Lilith. Lilith herself I know.”
“Lilith herself you know!” echoed El-Râmi, stupefied, “You know ...! What is it that you would imply?”
“I know Lilith”—said the monk steadily, “as you have never known her. I have seen her as you have never seen her. She is a lonely creature,—a wandering angel, for ever waiting,—for ever hoping. Unloved, save by the Highest Love, she wends her flight from star to star, from world to world,—a spirit beautiful, but incomplete as a flower without its stem,—a bird without its mate. But her destiny is changing,—she will not be alone for long,—the hours ripen to their best fulfilment,—and Love, the crown and completion of her being, will unbind her chains and send her soaring to the Highest Joy in the glorious liberty of the free!”
While he spoke thus, softly, yet with eloquence and passion, a dark flush crept over El-Râmi’s face,—his eyes glittered and his hand trembled—he seemed to be making some fierce inward resolve. He controlled himself, however, and asked with a studied indifference—
“Is this your prophecy?”
“It is not a prophecy; it is a truth;” replied the monk gently—“If you doubt me, why not ask Her? She is here.”
“Here?” El-Râmi looked about vaguely, first at the speaker, then at the couch where the so-called “corpse” lay breathing tranquilly—“Here, did you say? Naturally,—of course she is here.”
And his glance reverted again to Lilith’s slumbering form.
“No—nothere—” said the monk with a gesture towards the couch—“but—there!”
And he pointed to the centre of the room where the lamp shed a mellow golden lustre on the pansy-embroidered carpet, and where, from the tall crystal vase of Venice ware, a fresh branching cluster of pale roses exhaled their delicious perfume. El-Râmi stared, but could see nothing,—nothing save the lamp-light and the nodding flowers.
“There?” he repeated bewildered—“Where?”
“Alas for you, that you cannot see her!” said the monk compassionately. “This blindness of your sight proves that for you the veil has not yet been withdrawn. Lilith is there, I tell you;—she stands close to those roses,—her white form radiates like lightning—her hair is like the glory of the sunshine on amber,—her eyes are bent upon the flowers, which are fully conscious of her shining presence. For flowers are aware of angels’ visits, when men see nothing! Round her and above her are the trailing films of light caught from the farthest stars,—she is alone as usual,—her looks are wistful and appealing,—will you not speak to her?”
El-Râmi’s surprise, vexation, and fear were beyond all words as he heard this description,—then he became scornful and incredulous.
“Speak to her!” he repeated—“Nay—if you see her as plainly as you say—letherspeak!”
“You will not understand her speech—” said the monk—“Not unless it be conveyed to you in earthly words through that earthly medium there—” and he pointed to the fair form on the couch—“But, otherwise you will not know what she is saying. Nevertheless—if you wish it,—she shall speak.”
“I wish nothing—” said El-Râmi quickly and haughtily—“If you imagine you see her,—and if you can command this creature of your imagination to speak, why, do so; but Lilith, asIknow her, speaks to none save me.”
The monk lifted his hands with a solemn movement as of prayer—
“Soul of Lilith!” he said entreatingly—“Angel-wanderer in the spheres beloved of God—if, by the Master’s grace, I have seen the vision clearly—speak!”
Silence followed. El-Râmi fixed his eyes on Lilith’s visible recumbent form; no voice could make reply, he thought, save that which must issue from those lovely lips curved close in placid slumber,—but the monk’s gaze was fastened in quite an opposite direction. All at once a strain of music, soft as a song played on the water by moonlight, rippled through the room. With mellow richness the cadence rose and fell,—it had a marvellous sweet sound, rhythmical and suggestive of words,—unimaginable words, fairies’ language,—anything that was removed from mortal speech, but that was all the same capable of utterance. El-Râmi listened perplexed;—he had never heard anything so convincingly, almost painfully sweet,—till suddenly it ceased as it had begun, abruptly, and the monk looked round at him.
“You heard her?” he inquired—“Did you understand?”
“Understand what?” asked El-Râmi impatiently—“I heard music—nothing more.”
The monk’s eyes rested upon him in grave compassion.
“Your spiritual perception does not go far, El-Râmi Zarânos—” he said gently—“Lilith spoke;—her voice was the music.”
El-Râmi trembled;—for once his strong nerves were somewhat shaken. The man beside him was one whom he knew to be absolutely truthful, unselfishly wise,—one who scorned “trickery” and who had no motive for deceiving him,—one also who was known to possess a strange and marvellous familiarity with “things unproved and unseen.” In spite of his sceptical nature, all he dared assume against his guest was that he was endowed with a perfervid imagination which persuaded him of the existence of what were really only the “airy nothings” of his brain. The irreproachable grandeur, purity, and simplicity of the monk’s life as known among his brethren were of an ideal perfection never before attempted or attained by man,—and as he met the steady, piercingfaithfullook of his companion’s eyes,—clear fine eyes such as, reverently speaking, one might have imagined the Christ to have had when in the guise of humanity He looked love on all the world,—El-Râmi was fairly at a loss for words. Presently he recovered himself sufficiently to speak, though his accents were hoarse and tremulous.
“I will not doubt you;—” he said slowly—“But if the Soul of Lilith is here present as you say,—and if it spoke, surely I may know the purport of its language!”
“Surely you may!” replied the monk—“Ask her in your own way to repeat what she said just now. There—” and he smiled gravely as he pointed to the couch—“there is your human phonograph!”
Perplexed, but willing to solve the mystery, El-Râmi bent above the slumbering girl, and, taking her hands in his own, called her by name in his usual manner. The reply came soon—though somewhat faintly.
“I am here!”
“How long have you been here?” asked El-Râmi.
“Since my friend came.”
“Who is that friend, Lilith?”
“One that is near you now—” was the response.
“Did you speak to this friend a while ago?”
“Yes!”
The answer was more like a sigh than an assent.
“Can you repeat what you said?”
Lilith stretched her fair arms out with a gesture of weariness.
“I said I was tired—” she murmured—“Tired of the search through Infinity for things that are not. A wayward will bids me look for evil—I search, but cannot find it;—for Hell, a place of pain and torment,—up and down, around and around the everlasting circles I wend my way, and can discover no such abode of misery. Then I bring back the messages of truth,—but they are rejected, and I am sorrowful. All the realms of God are bright with beauty save this one dark prison of Man’s fantastic Dream. Why am I bound here? I long to reach the light!—I am tired of the darkness!” She paused—then added—“This is what I said to one who is my friend.”
Vaguely pained, and stricken with a sudden remorse, El-Râmi asked:
“Am not I your friend, Lilith?”
A shudder ran through her delicate limbs. Then the answer came distinctly, yet reluctantly:
“No!”
El-Râmi dropped her hands as though he had been stung;—his face was very pale. The monk touched him on the shoulder.
“Why are you so moved?” he asked—“A spirit cannot lie;—an angel cannot flatter. How should she call you friend?—you, who detain her here solely for your own interested purposes?—To you she is a ‘subject’ merely,—no more than the butterfly dissected by the naturalist. The butterfly has hopes, ambitions, loves, delights, innocent wishes, nay, even a religion,—what are all these to the grim spectacled scientist who breaks its delicate wings? The Soul of Lilith, like a climbing flower, strains instinctively upward,—but you (for a certain time only)—according to the natural magnetic laws which compel the stronger to subdue the weaker, have been able to keep this, her ethereal essence, a partial captive under your tyrannical dominance. Yes—I say ‘tyrannical,’—great wisdom should inspire love,—but in you it only inspires despotism. Yet with all your skill and calculation you have strangely overlooked one inevitable result of your great experiment.”
El-Râmi looked up inquiringly, but said nothing.
“How it is that you have not foreseen this thing I cannot imagine”—continued the monk—“The body of Lilith has grown under your very eyes from the child to the woman by the merest material means,—the chemicals which Nature gives us, and the forces which Nature allows us to employ. How then should you deem it possible for the Soul to remain stationary? With every fresh experience its form expands—its desires increase,—its knowledge widens,—and the everlasting necessity of Love compels its life to Love’s primeval source. The Soul of Lilith is awakening to its fullest immortal consciousness,—she realises her connection with the great angelic worlds—her kindredship with those worlds’ inhabitants, and, as she gains this glorious knowledge more certainly, so she gains strength. And this is the result I warn you of—her force will soon baffle yours, and you will have no more influence over her than you have over the highest Archangel in the realms of the Supreme Creator.”
“A woman’s Soul!—only a woman’s soul, remember that!” said El-Râmi dreamily—“How should it baffle mine? Of slighter character—of more sensitive balance—and always prone to yield,—how should it prove so strong? Though, of course, you will tell me that Souls, like Angels, are sexless.”
“I will tell you nothing of the sort”—said the monk quietly. “Because it would not be true. All created things have sex, even the angels. ‘Male and Female created He them’—recollect that,—when it is said God made Man in ‘His Own Image.’”
El-Râmi’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“What! Is it possible you would endow God Himself with the Feminine attributes as well as the Masculine?”
“There are two governing forces of the Universe,” replied the monk deliberately—“One, the masculine, is Love,—the other, feminine, is Beauty. These Two, reigning together, are GOD;—just as man and wife are One. From Love and Beauty proceed Law and Order. You cannot away with it—it is so. Love and Beauty produce and reproduce a million forms with more than a million variations—and when God made Man in His Own Image it was as Male and Female. From the very first growths of life in all worlds,—from the small, almost imperceptible beginning of that marvellous evolution which resulted in Humanity,—evolution which to us is calculated to have taken thousands of years, whereas in the eternal countings it has occupied but a few moments, Sex was proclaimed in the lowliest sea-plants, of which the only remains we have are in the Silurian formations,—and was equally maintained in the humblestlingulainhabiting its simple bivalve shell. Sex is proclaimed throughout the Universe with an absolute and unswerving regularity through all grades of nature. Nay, there are even male and female Atmospheres which when combined produce forms of life.”
“You go far,—I should say much too far in your supposed law!” said El-Râmi wonderingly and a little derisively.
“And you, my good friend, stop short,—and oppose yourself against all law, when it threatens to interfere with your work”—retorted the monk—“The proof is, that you are convinced you can keep the Soul of Lilith to wait upon your will at pleasure like another Ariel. Whereas the law is, that at the destined moment she shall be free. Wise Shakespeare can teach you this,—Prospero had to give his ‘fine spirit’ liberty in the end. If you could shut Lilith up in her mortal frame again, to live a mortal life, the case might be different; but that you cannot do, since the mortal frame is too dead to be capable of retaining such a Fire-Essence as hers is now.”
“You think that?” queried El-Râmi,—he spoke mechanically,—his thoughts were travelling elsewhere in a sudden new direction of their own.
The monk regarded him with friendly but always compassionate eyes.
“I not only think it—I know it!” he replied.
El-Râmi met his gaze fixedly.
“You would seem to know most things,”—he observed—“Now in this matter I consider that I am more humble-minded than yourself. For I cannot say I ‘know’ anything,—the whole solar system appears to me to be in a gradually changing condition,—and each day one set of facts is followed by another entirely new set which replace the first and render them useless——”
“There is nothing useless,” interposed the monk—“not even a so-called ‘fact’ disproved. Error leads to the discovery of Truth. And Truth always discloses the one great unalterable fact,—GOD.”
“As I told you, I must have proofs of God”—said El-Râmi with a chill smile—“Proofs that satisfyme, personally speaking. At present I believe in Force only.”
“And how is Force generated?” inquired the monk.
“That we shall discover in time. And not only the How, but also the Why. In the meantime we must prove and test all possibilities, both material and spiritual. And as far as such proving goes I think you can scarcely deny that this experiment of mine on the girl Lilith is a wonderful one?”
“I cannot grant you that;”—returned the monk gravely—“Most Eastern magnetists can do what you have done, provided they have the necessary Will. To detach the Soul from the body, and yet keep the body alive, is an operation that has been performed by others and will be performed again,—but to keep Body and Soul struggling against each other in unnatural conflict requires cruelty as well as Will. It is, as I before observed, the vivisection of a butterfly. The scientist does not think himself barbarous—but his barbarity outweighs his science all the same.”
“You mean to say there is nothing surprising in my work?”
“Why should there be?” said the monk curtly—“Barbarism is not wonderful! What is truly a matter for marvel is Yourself. You are the most astonishing example of self-inflicted blindness I have ever known!”
El-Râmi breathed quickly,—he was deeply angered, but he had self-possession enough not to betray it. As he stood, sullenly silent, his guest’s hand fell gently on his shoulder—his guest’s eyes looked earnest love and pity into his own.
“El-Râmi Zarânos,” he said softly—“You know me. You know I would not lie to you. Hear then my words;—As I see a bird on the point of flight, or a flower just ready to break into bloom, even so I see the Soul of Lilith. She is on the verge of the Eternal Light—its rippling wave,—the great sweet wave that lifts us upward,—has already touched her delicate consciousness,—her aerial organism. You—with your brilliant brain, your astonishing grasp and power over material forces—you are on the verge of darkness,—such a gulf of it as cannot be measured—such a depth as cannot be sounded. Why will you fall? Why do you choose Darkness rather than Light?”
“Because my ‘deeds are evil,’ I suppose,” retorted El-Râmi bitterly—“You should finish the text while you are about it. I think you misjudge me,—however, you have not heard all. You consider my labour as vain, and my experiment futile,—but I have some strange results yet to show you in writing. And what I have written I desire to place in your hands that you may take all to the monastery, and keep my discoveries,—if theyarediscoveries, among the archives. What may seem the wildest notions to the scientists of to-day may prove of practical utility hereafter.”
He paused, and, bending over Lilith, took her hand and called her by name. The reply came rather more quickly than usual.
“I am here!”
“Be here no longer, Lilith”—said El-Râmi, speaking with unusual gentleness,—“Go home to that fair garden you love, on the high hills of the bright world called Alcyone. There rest, and be happy till I summon you to earth again.”
He released her hand,—it fell limply in its usual position on her breast,—and her face became white and rigid as sculptured marble. He watched her lying so for a minute or two, then turning to the monk, observed—
“She has left us at once, as you see. Surely you will own that I do not grudge her her liberty?”
“Her liberty is not complete”—said the monk quietly—“Her happiness therefore is only temporary.”
El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“What does that matter if, as you declare, her time of captivity is soon to end? According to your prognostications she will ere long set herself free.”
The monk’s fine eyes flashed forth a calm and holy triumph.
“Most assuredly she will!”
El-Râmi looked at him and seemed about to make some angry retort, but, checking himself, he bowed with a kind of mingled submissiveness and irony, saying—
“I will not be so discourteous as to doubt your word! But—I would only remind you that nothing in this world is certain——”
“Except the Law of God!” interrupted the monk with passionate emphasis—“That is immutable,—and against that, El-Râmi Zarânos, you contend in vain! Opposed to that, your strength and power must come to naught,—and all they who wonder at your skill and wisdom shall by and by ask one another the old question—‘What went ye out for to see?’ And the answer shall describe your fate—‘A reed shaken by the wind!’”
He turned away as he spoke and, without another look at the beautiful Lilith, he left the room. El-Râmi stood irresolute for a moment, thinking deeply,—then, touching the bell which would summon Zaroba back to her usual duty of watching the tranced girl, he swiftly followed his mysterious guest.
Hefound him quietly seated in the study, close beside the window, which he had thrown open for air. The rain had ceased,—a few stars shone out in the misty sky, and there was a fresh smell of earth and grass and flowers, as though all were suddenly growing together by some new impetus.
“‘The winter is past,—the rain is over and gone!—Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!’” quoted the monk softly, half to himself and half to El-Râmi as he saw the latter enter the room—“Even in this great and densely-peopled city of London, Nature sends her messengers of spring—see here!”
And he held out on his hand a delicate insect with shining iridescent wings that glistened like jewels.
“This creature flew in as I opened the window,” he continued, surveying it tenderly. “What quaint and charming stories of Flower-land it could tell us if we could but understand its language! Of the poppy-palaces, and rose-leaf saloons coloured through by the kindly sun,—of the loves of the ladybirds and the political controversies of the bees! How dare we make a boast of wisdom!—this tiny denizen of air baffles us—it knows more than we do.”
“With regard to the things of its own sphere it knows more, doubtless,” said El-Râmi—“but concerningourpart of creation it knows less. These things are equally balanced. You seem to me to be more of a poet than either a devotee or a scientist.”
“Perhaps I am!” and the monk smiled, as he carefully wafted the pretty insect out into the darkness of the night again—“Yet poets are often the best scientists, because they neverknowthey are scientists. They arrive by a sudden intuition at the facts which it takes several Professors Dry-as-Dust years to discover. When once you feel you are a scientist, it is all over with you. You are a clever biped who has got hold of a crumb out of the universal loaf, and for all your days afterwards you are turning that crumb over and over under your analytical lens. But a poet takes up the whole loaf unconsciously, and hands portions of it about at haphazard and with the abstracted behaviour of one in a dream,—a wild and extravagant process,—but then, what would you?—his nature could not do with a crumb. No—I dare not call myself ‘poet’; if I gave myself any title at all, I would say, with all humbleness, that I am a sympathiser.”
“You do not sympathise withme,” observed El-Râmi gloomily.
“My friend, at the immediate moment, you do not need my sympathy. You are sufficient for yourself. But, should you ever make a claim upon me, be sure I shall not fail.”
He spoke earnestly and cheerily, and smiled,—but El-Râmi did not return the smile. He was bending over a deep drawer in his writing-table, and after a little search he took out two bulky rolls of manuscript tied and sealed.
“Look there!” he said, indicating the titles with an air of triumph.
The monk obeyed and read aloud:
“‘The Inhabitants of Sirius. Their Laws, Customs and Progress.’ Well?”
“Well!” echoed El-Râmi.—“Is such information, gained from Lilith in her wanderings, ofnovalue?”
The monk made no direct reply, but read the title of the second MS.
“‘The World of Neptune. How it is composed of One Thousand Distinct Nations, united under one reigning Emperor, known at the present era as Ustalvian the Tenth.’ And again I say—well? What of all this, except to hazard the remark that Ustalvian is a great creature, and supports his responsibilities admirably?”
El-Râmi gave a gesture of irritation and impatience.
“Surely it must interest you?” he said.—“Surely you cannot have known these things positively——”
“Stop, stop, my friend!” interposed the monk—“Doyouknow thempositively? Do you accept any of Lilith’s news aspositive? Come,—you are honest—confess you do not! You cannot believe her, though you are puzzled to make out as to where she obtains information which has certainly nothing to do with this world, or any external impression. And that is why she is really a sphinx to you still, in spite of your power over her. As for being interested, of course I am interested. It is impossible not to be interested in everything, even in the development of a grub. But you have not made any discovery that is specially new—tome. I have my own messenger!” He raised his eyes one moment with a brief devout glance—then resumed quietly—“There are other ‘detached’ spirits, besides that of your Lilith, who have found their way to some of the planets, and have returned to tell the tale. In one of our monasteries we have a very exact description of Mars obtained in this same way—its landscapes, its cities, its people, its various nations—all very concisely given. These are but the beginnings of discoveries—the feeling for the clue,—the clue itself will be found one day.”
“The clue to what?” demanded El-Râmi. “To the stellar mysteries, or to Life’s mystery?”
“To everything!” replied the monk firmly. “To everything that seems unclear and perplexing now. It will all be unravelled for us in such a simple way that we shall wonder why we did not discover it before. As I told you, my friend, I am, above all things, asympathiser. I sympathise—God knows how deeply and passionately,—with what I may call the unexplained woe of the world. The other day I visited a poor fellow who had lost his only child. He told me he could believe in nothing,—he said that what people call the goodness of God was only cruelty. ‘Why take this boy?’ he cried, rocking the pretty little corpse to and fro on his breast—‘Why rob me of the chief thing I had to live for? Oh, if I onlyknew—as positively as I know day is day, and night is night—that I should see my living child again, and possess his love in another world than this, should I repine as I do? No,—I should believe in God’s wisdom,—and I should try to be a good man instead of a bad. But it is because I do not know, that I am broken-hearted. If there is a God, surely He might have given us some littlecertainclue by way of help and comfort!’ Thus he wailed,—and my heart ached for him. Nevertheless, the clue is to be had,—and I believe it will be found suddenly in some little, deeply-hidden unguessed law,—we are on the track of it, and I fancy we shall soon find it.”
“Ah!—and what of the millions of creatures who, in the bygone eras, having no clue, have passed away without any sort of comfort?” asked El-Râmi.
“Nature takes time to manifest her laws,” replied the monk.—“And it must be remembered that whatwecall ‘time’ is not Nature’s counting at all. The method Nature has of counting time may be faintly guessed by proven scientific fact,—as, for instance, take the comet which appeared in 1744. Strict mathematicians calculated that this brilliant world (for it is a world) needs 122,683 years to perform one single circuit! And yet the circuit of a comet is surely not so much time to allow for God and Nature to declare a meaning!”
El-Râmi shuddered slightly.
“All the same, it is horrible to think of,” he said.—“All those enormous periods,—those eternal vastnesses! For, during the 122,683 years we die, and pass into the silence.”
“Into the silence or the explanation?” queried the monk softly.—“For thereisan Explanation,—and we are all bound to know it at some time or other, else Creation would be but a poor and bungling business.”
“Ifweare bound to know,” said El-Râmi, “then every living creature is bound to know, since every living creature suffers cruelly, in wretched ignorance of the cause of its suffering. To every atom, no matter how infinitely minute, must be given this ‘explanation,’—to dogs and birds as well as men—nay, even to flowers must be declared the meaning of the mystery.”
“Unless the flowers know already!” suggested the monk with a smile.—“Which is quite possible!”
“Oh, everything is ‘possible’ according to your way of thinking,” said El-Râmi somewhat impatiently. “If one is a visionary, one would scarcely be surprised to see the legended ‘Jacob’s ladder’ leaning against that dark midnight sky and the angels descending and ascending upon it. And so—” here he touched the two rolls of manuscript lying on the table, “you find no use in these?”
“I personally have no use for them,” responded his guest, “but, as you desire it, I will take charge of them and place them in safe keeping at the monastery. Every little link helps to forge the chain of discovery, of course. By the way, while on this subject, I must not forget to speak to you about poor old Kremlin. I had a letter from him about two months ago. I very much fear that famous disc of his will be his ruin.”
“Such an intimation will console him vastly!” observed El-Râmi sarcastically.
“Consolation has nothing to do with the matter. If a man rushes wilfully into danger, danger will not move itself out of the way for him. I always told Kremlin that his proposed design was an unsafe one, even before he went out to Africa fifteen years ago in search of the magnetic spar—a crystalline formation whose extraordinary reflection-power he learned from me. However, it must be admitted that he has come marvellously close to the unravelling of the enigma at which he works. And when you see him next you may tell him from me that if he can—mind, it is a very big ‘if’—if he can follow the movements of the Third Ray on his disc he will be following the signals from Mars. To make out the meaning of those signals is quite another matter—but he can safely classify them as the light-vibrations from that particular planet.”
“How is he to tell which is the Third Ray that falls, among a fleeting thousand?” asked El-Râmi dubiously.
“It will be difficult of course, but he can try,” returned the monk.—“Let him first cover the disc with thick, dark drapery, and then, when it is face to face with the stars in the zenith, uncover it quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on its surface. In one minute there will be three distinct flashes—the third is from Mars. Let him endeavour to follow that third ray in its course on the disc, and probably he will arrive at something worth remark. This suggestion I offer by way of assisting him, for his patient labour is both wonderful and pathetic,—but,—it would be far better and wiser were he to resign his task altogether. Yet—who knows!—the ordained end may be the best!”
“And do you know this ‘ordained end’?” questioned El-Râmi.
The monk met his incredulous gaze calmly.
“I know it as I know yours,” he replied. “As I know my own, and the end (or beginning) of all those who are, or who have been, in any way connected with my life and labours.”
“Howcanyou know!” exclaimed El-Râmi brusquely.—“Who is there to tell you these things that are surely hidden in the future?”
“Even as a picture already hangs in an artist’s brain before it is painted,” said the monk,—“so does every scene of each human unit’s life hang, embryo-like, in air and space, in light and colour. Explanations of these things are well-nigh impossible—it is not given to mortal speech to tell them. One mustsee,—and to see clearly, one must not become wilfully blind.” He paused,—then added—“For instance, El-Râmi, I would that you could see this room as I see it.”
El-Râmi looked about half carelessly, half wonderingly.
“And do I not?” he asked.
The monk stretched out his hand.
“Tell me first,—is there anything visible between this my extended arm and you?”
El-Râmi shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Whereupon the monk raised his eyes, and in a low thrilling voice said solemnly—
“O God with whom Thought is Creation and Creation Thought, for one brief moment be pleased to lift material darkness from the sight of this man Thy subject-creature, and by Thy sovereign-power permit him to behold with mortal eyes, in mortal life, Thy deathless Messenger!”
Scarcely had these words been pronounced than El-Râmi was conscious of a blinding flash of fire as though sudden lightning had struck the room from end to end. Confused and dazzled, he instinctively covered his eyes with his hand, then removing it, looked up, stupefied, speechless, and utterly overwhelmed at what he saw. Clear before him stood a wondrous Shape, seemingly human, yet unlike humanity,—a creature apparently composed of radiant colour, from whose transcendent form great shafts of gold and rose and purple spread upward and around in glowing lines of glory. This marvellous Being stood, or rather was poised in a steadfast attitude, between him, El-Râmi, and the monk,—its luminous hands were stretched out on either side as though to keep those twain asunder—its starry eyes expressed an earnest watchfulness—its majestic patience never seemed to tire. A thing of royal stateliness and power, it stayed there immovable, parting with its radiant intangible Presence the two men who gazed upon it, one with fearless, reverent, yet accustomed eyes—the other with a dazzled and bewildered stare. Another moment and El-Râmi at all risks would have spoken,—but that the Shining Figure lifted its light-crowned head and gazed at him. The wondrous look appalled him,—unnerved him,—the straight, pure brilliancy and limpid lustre of those unearthly orbs sent shudders through him,—he gasped for breath—thrust out his hands, and fell on his knees in a blind, unconscious, swooning act of adoration, mingled with a sense of awe and something like despair,—when a dense chill darkness as of death closed over him, and he remembered nothing more.
Whenhe came to himself, it was full daylight. His head was resting on some one’s knee,—some one was sprinkling cold water on his face and talking to him in an incoherent mingling of Arabic and English,—who was that some one? Féraz? Yes!—surely it was Féraz! Opening his eyes languidly, he stared about him and attempted to rise.
“What is the matter?” he asked faintly. “What are you doing to me? I am quite well, am I not?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Féraz eagerly, delighted to hear him speak.—“You are well,—it was a swoon that seized you—nothing more! But I was anxious,—I found you here insensible——”
With an effort El-Râmi rose to his feet, steadying himself on his brother’s arm.
“Insensible!” he repeated vaguely.—“Insensible!—that is strange!—I must have been very weak and tired—and overpowered. But,—where is He?”
“If you mean the Master,” said Féraz, lowering his voice to an almost awe-stricken whisper—“He has gone, and left no trace,—save that sealed paper there upon your table.”
El-Râmi shook himself free of his brother’s hold and hurried forward to possess himself of the indicated missive,—seizing it, he tore it quickly open,—it contained but one line—“Beware the end! With Lilith’s love comes Lilith’s freedom.”
That was all. He read it again and again—then deliberately striking a match, he set fire to it and burnt it to ashes. A rapid glance round showed him that the manuscripts concerning Neptune and Sirius were gone,—the mysterious monk had evidently taken them with him as desired. Then he turned again to his brother.
“When could he have gone?” he demanded.—“Did you not hear the street-door open and shut?—no sound at all of his departure?”
Féraz shook his head.
“I slept heavily,” he said apologetically. “But in my dreams it seemed as though a hand touched me, and I awoke. The sun was shining brilliantly—some one called ‘Féraz! Féraz!’—I thought it was your voice, and I hurried into the room to find you, as I thought, dead,—oh! the horror of that moment of suspense!”
El-Râmi looked at him kindly, and smiled.
“Why feel horror, my dear boy?” he inquired.—“Death—or what we call death,—is the best possible fortune for everybody. Even if there were no afterwards, it would still be an end—an end of trouble and tedium and infinite uncertainty. Could anything be happier?—I doubt it!”
And, sighing, he threw himself into his chair with an air of exhaustion. Féraz stood a little apart, gazing at him somewhat wistfully—then he spoke—
“I too have thought that, El-Râmi,” he said softly.—“As to whether this end, which the world and all men dread, might not be the best thing? And yet my own personal sensations tell me that life means something good for me if I only learn how best to live it.”
“Youth, my dear fellow!” said El-Râmi lightly. “Delicious youth,—which you share in common with the scampering colt who imagines all the meadows of the world were made for him to race upon. This is the potent charm which persuades you that life is agreeable. But unfortunately it will pass,—this rosy morning-glory. And the older you grow the wiser and the sadder you will be,—I, your brother, am an excellent example of the truth of this platitude.”
“You are not old,” replied Féraz quickly. “But certainly you are often sad. You overwork your brain. For example, last night of course you did not sleep—will you sleep now?”
“No—I will breakfast,” said El-Râmi, rousing himself to seem cheerful.—“A good cup of coffee is one of the boons of existence—and no one can make it as you do. It will put the finishing touch to my complete recovery.”
Féraz took this hint, and hastened off to prepare the desired beverage,—while El-Râmi, left alone, sat for a few moments wrapped in a deep reverie. His thoughts reverted to and dwelt upon the strange and glorious Figure he had seen standing in that very room between him and the monk,—he wondered doubtfully if such a celestial visitant were anywhere near him now? Shaking off the fantastic impression, he got up and walked to and fro.
“What a fool I am!” he exclaimed half aloud—“As ifmyeyes could not be as much deluded for once in a way as the eyes of any one else! It was a strange shape,—a marvellously divine-looking apparition;—butheevolved it—he is as great a master in the art of creating phantasma as Moses himself, and could, if he chose, make thunder echo at his will on another Mount Sinai. Upon my word, the things that mencando are as wonderful as the things that they would fain attempt; and the only miraculous part of this particular man’s force is that he should have overpoweredMe, seeing I am so strong. And then one other marvel—(if it be true),—he couldseethe Soul of Lilith.”
Here he came to a full stop in his walk, and with his eyes fixed on vacancy he repeated musingly—
“He couldseethe Soul of Lilith. If that is so—if that is possible, then I will see it too, if I die in the attempt. Toseethe Soul—to look upon it and know its form—to discern the manner of its organisation, would surely be to prove it. Sight can be deceived, we know—we look upon a star (or think we look upon it), that may have disappeared some thirty thousand years ago, as it takes thirty thousand years for its reflex to reach us—all that is true—but there are ways of guarding against deception.”
He had now struck upon a new line of thought,—ideas more daring than he had ever yet conceived began to flit through his brain,—and when Féraz came in with the breakfast he partook of that meal with avidity and relish, his excellent appetite entirely reassuring his brother with regard to his health.
“You are right, Féraz,” he said, as he sipped his coffee.—“Life can be made enjoyable after a fashion, no doubt. But the best way to get enjoyment out of it is to be always at work—always putting a brick in to help the universal architecture.”
Féraz was silent. El-Râmi looked at him inquisitively.
“Don’t you agree with me?” he asked.
“No—not entirely”—and Féraz pushed the clustering hair off his brow with a slightly troubled gesture.—“Work may become as monotonous and wearisome as anything else if we have too much of it. If we are always working—that is, if we are always obtruding ourselves into affairs and thinking they cannot get on without us, we make an obstruction in the way, I think—we are not a help. Besides, we leave ourselves no time to absorb suggestions, and I fancy a great deal is learned by simply keeping the brain quiet and absorbing light.”
“‘Absorbing light’?” queried his brother perplexedly—“What do you mean?”
“Well, it is difficult to explain my meaning,” said Féraz with hesitation—“but yet I feel there is truth in what I try to express. You see, everything absorbs something, and you will assuredly admit that the brain absorbs certain impressions?”
“Of course,—but impressions are not ‘light’?”
“Are they not? Not even the effects of light? Then what is the art of photography? However, I do not speak of the impressions received from our merely external surroundings. If you can relieve the brain fromconsciousthought,—if you have the power to shake off outward suggestions and be willing to think of nothing personal, your brain will receive impressions which are to some extent new, and with which you actually have very little connection. It is strange,—but it is so;—you become obediently receptive, and perhaps wonder where your ideas come from. I say they are the result of light. Light can use up immense periods of time in travelling from a far distant star into our area of vision, and yet at last we see it,—shall not God’s inspiration travel at a far swifter pace than star-beams, and reach the human brain as surely? This thought has often startled me,—it has filled me with an almost apprehensive awe,—the capabilities it opens up are so immense and wonderful. Even a man can suggest ideas to his fellow-man and cause them to germinate in the mind and blossom into action,—how can we deny to God the power to do the same? And so,—imagine it!—the first strain of the gloriousTannhäusermay have been played on the harps of Heaven, and rolling sweetly through infinite space may have touched in fine far echoes the brain of the musician who afterwards gave it form and utterance—ah yes!—I would love to think it were so!—I would love to think that nothing,—nothing is truly ours; but that all the marvels of poetry, of song, of art, of colour, of beauty, were only the echoes and distant impressions of that eternal grandeur which comes hereafter!”
His eyes flashed with all a poet’s enthusiasm,—he rose from the table and paced the room excitedly, while his brother, sitting silent, watched him meditatively.
“El-Râmi, you have no idea,” he continued—“of the wonders and delights of the land I call my Star! You think it is a dream—an unexplained portion of a splendid trance,—and I am now fully aware of what I owe to your magnetic influence,—your forceful spell that rests upon my life;—but see you!—when I am alone—quite, quite alone, when you are absent from me, when you are not influencing me, it is then I see the landscapes best,—it is then I hear my people sing! I let my brain rest;—as far as it is possible, I think of nothing,—then suddenly upon me falls the ravishment and ecstasy,—this world rolls up as it were in a whirling cloud and vanishes, and lo! I find myself at home. There is a stretch of forest-land in this Star of mine,—a place all dusky green with shadows, and musical with the fall of silvery waters,—that is my favourite haunt when I am there, for it leads me on and on through grasses and tangles of wild flowers to what I know and feel must be my own abode, where I should rest and sleep if sleep were needful; but this abode I never reach; I am debarred from entering in, and I do not know the reason why. The other day, when wandering there, I met two maidens bearing flowers,—they stopped, regarding me with pleased yet doubting eyes, and one said—‘Look you, our lord is now returned!’ And the other sighed and answered—‘Nay! he is still an exile and may not stay with us.’ Whereupon they bent their heads, and, shrinking past me, disappeared. When I would have called them back I woke!—to find that this dull earth was once again my house of bondage.”
El-Râmi heard him with patient interest.
“I do not deny, Féraz,” he said slowly, “that your impressions are very strange——”
“Very strange? Yes!” cried Féraz. “But very true!”
He paused—then on a sudden impulse came close up to his brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“And do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “that you who have studied so much, and have mastered so much, yet receivenosuch impressions as those I speak of?”
A faint flush coloured El-Râmi’s olive skin.
“Certain impressions come to me at times, of course,” he answered slowly.—“And there have been certain seasons in my life when I have had visions of the impossible. But I have a coldly-tempered organisation, Féraz,—I am able to reason these things away.”
“Oh, you can reason the whole world away if you choose,” said Féraz.—“For it is nothing after all but a pinch of star-dust.”
“If you can reason a thing away it does not exist,” observed El-Râmi drily.—“Reduce the world, as you say, to a pinch of star-dust, still the pinch of star-dust isthere—it Exists.”
“Some people doubt even that!” said Féraz, smiling.
“Well, everything can be over-done,” replied his brother,—“even the process of reasoning. We can, if we choose, ‘reason’ ourselves into madness. There is a boundary-line to every science which the human intellect dare not overstep.”
“I wonder what and where isyourboundary-line?” questioned Féraz lightly.—“Have you laid one down for yourself at all? Surely not!—for you are too ambitious.”
El-Râmi made no answer to this observation, but betook himself to his books and papers. Féraz meanwhile set the room in order and cleared away the breakfast,—and, these duties done, he quietly withdrew. Left to himself, El-Râmi took from the centre drawer of his writing-table a medium-sized manuscript book which was locked, and which he opened by means of a small key that was attached to his watch-chain, and bending over the title-page he critically examined it. Its heading ran thus—