a dim red light burned in the narrow hall, just sufficient to enable him to see the wooden peg on which he was accustomed to hang his hat and overcoat,—and as soon as he had divested himself of his outdoor garb he extinguished even that faint glimmer of radiance. opening a side-door, he entered his own room—a picturesque apartment running from east to west, the full length of the house. from its appearance it had evidently once served as drawing-room and dining-room, with folding-doors between; but the folding-doors had been dispensed with, and the place they had occupied was now draped with heavy amber silk. this silk seemed to be of some peculiar and costly make, for it sparkled with iridescent gleams of silver like diamond-dust when el-râmi turned on the electric burner, which, in the form of a large flower, depended from the ceiling by quaintly-worked silver chains, and was connected by a fine wire with a shaded reading-lamp on the table. there was not much of either beauty or value in the room,—yet, without being at all luxurious, it suggested luxury. the few chairs were of the most ordinary make, all save one, which was of finely carved ebony, and was piled with silk cushions of amber and red,—the table was of plain painted deal, covered with a dark woollen cloth worked in and out with threads of gold,—there were a few geometrical instruments about,—a large pair of globes,—a rack on the wall stocked with weapons for the art of fence,—and one large bookcase full of books. an ebony-cased pianette occupied one corner,—and on a small side-table stood a heavily-made oaken chest, brass-bound and double-locked. the furniture was completed by a plain camp-bedstead such as soldiers use, which at the present moment was partly folded up and almost hidden from view by a rough bear-skin thrown carelessly across it.
el-râmi sat down in the big ebony chair and looked at a pile of letters lying on his writing-table. they were from all sorts of persons,—princes, statesmen, diplomats, financiers, and artists in all the professions,—he recognised the handwriting on some of the envelopes, and his brows contracted in a frown as he tossed them aside still unopened.
“they must wait,” he said half aloud. “curious that it is impossible for a man to be original without attracting around him a set of unoriginal minds, as though he were a honey-pot and they the flies! who would believe that i, poor in worldly goods, and living in more or less obscurity, should, without any wish of my own, be in touch with kings?—should know the last new policy of governments before it is made ripe for public declaration?—should hold the secrets of ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady’ apart from each other’s cognisance, and be able to amuse myself with their little ridiculous matrimonial differences, as though they were puppets playing their parts for use at a marionette show? i do not ask these people to confide in me,—i do not want them to seek me out,—and yet the cry is, ‘still they come!’—and the attributes of my own nature are such that, like a magnet, i attract, and so am never left in peace. yet perhaps it is well it should be thus,—i need the external distraction,—otherwise my mind would be too much like a bent bow,—fixed on the one centre,—the great secret,—and its powers might fail me at the last. but no!—failure is impossible now. steeled against love,—hate,—and all the merely earthly passions of mankind as i am,—i must succeed—and i will!”
he leaned his head on one hand, and seemed to suddenly concentrate his thoughts on one particular subject,—his eyes dilated and grew luridly brilliant as though sparks of fire burnt behind them. he had not sat thus for more than a couple of minutes, when the door opened gently, and a beautiful youth, clad in a loose white tunic and vest of eastern fashion, made his appearance, and standing silently on the threshold seemed to wait for some command.
“so, féraz! you heard my summons?” said el-râmi gently.
“i heard my brother speak,”—responded féraz in a low melodious voice that had a singularly dreamy far-away tone within it—“through a wall of cloud and silence his beloved accents fell like music on my ears;—he called me and i came.”
and, sighing lightly, he folded his arms cross-wise on his breast and stood erect and immovable, looking like some fine statue just endowed by magic with the flush of life. he resembled el-râmi in features, but was fairer-skinned,—his eyes were softer and more femininely lovely,—his hair, black as night, clustered in thick curls over his brow, and his figure, straight as a young palm-tree, was a perfect model of strength united with grace. but just now he had a strangely absorbed air,—his eyes, though they were intently fixed on el-râmi’s face, looked like the eyes of a sleep-walker, so dreamy were they while wide-open,—and as he spoke he smiled vaguely as one who hears delicious singing afar off.
el-râmi studied him intently for a minute or two,—then, removing his gaze, pressed a small silver hand-bell at his side. it rang sharply out on the silence.
“féraz!”
féraz started,—rubbed his eyes,—glanced about him, and then sprang towards his brother with quite a new expression,—one of grace, eagerness, and animation, that intensified his beauty and made him still more worthy the admiration of a painter or a sculptor.
“el-râmi! at last! how late you are! i waited for you long—and then i slept. i am sorry! but you called me in the usual way, i suppose?—and i did not fail you? ah no! i should come to you if i were dead!”
he dropped on one knee, and raised el-râmi’s hand caressingly to his lips.
“where have you been all the evening?” he went on. “i have missed you greatly—the house is so silent.”
el-râmi touched his clustering curls tenderly.
“you could have made music in it with your lute and voice, féraz, had you chosen,” he said. “as for me, i went to see hamlet.”
“oh, why did you go?” demanded féraz impetuously. “i would not see it—no! not for worlds! such poetry must needs be spoilt by men’s mouthing of it,—it is better to read it, to think it, to feel it,—and so one actually sees it,—best.”
“you talk like a poet,”—said el-râmi indulgently. “you are not much more than a boy, and you think the thoughts of youth. have you any supper ready for me?”
féraz smiled and sprang up, left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a daintily-arranged tray of refreshments, which he set before his brother with all the respect and humility of a well-trained domestic in attendance on his master.
“you have supped?” el-râmi asked, as he poured out wine from the delicately-shaped italian flask beside him.
féraz nodded.
“yes. zaroba supped with me. but she was cross to-night—she had nothing to say.”
el-râmi smiled. “that is unusual!”
féraz went on. “there have been many people here,—they all wanted to see you. they have left their cards. some of them asked me my name and who i was. i said i was your servant—but they would not believe me. there were great folks among them—they came in big carriages with prancing horses. have you seen their names?”
“not i.”
“ah, you are so indifferent,” said féraz gaily,—he had no quite lost his dreamy and abstracted look, and talked on in an eager boyish way that suited his years,—he was barely twenty. “you are so bent on great thoughts that you cannot see little things, but these dukes and earls who come to visit you do not consider themselves little,—not they!”
“yet many of them are the least among little men,” said el-râmi with a touch of scorn in his mellow accents. “dowered with great historic names which they almost despise, they do their best to drag the memory of their ancient lineage into dishonour by vulgar passions, low tastes, and a scorn as well as lack of true intelligence. let us not talk of them. the english aristocracy was once a magnificent tree, but its broad boughs are fallen,—lopped off and turned into saleable timber,—and there is but a decaying stump of it left. and so zaroba said nothing to you to-night?”
“scarce a word. she was very sullen. she bade me tell you all was well,—that is her usual formula. i do not understand it;—what is it that should be well or ill? you never explain your mystery!”
he smiled, but there was a vivid curiosity in his fine eyes,—he looked as if he would have asked more had he dared to do so.
el-râmi evaded his questioning glance. “speak of yourself,” he said. “did you wander at all into your dreamland to-day?”
“i was there when you called me,” replied féraz quickly. “i saw my home,—its trees and flowers,—i listened to the ripple of its fountains and streams. it is harvest-time there, do you know? i heard the reapers singing as they carried home the sheaves.”
his brother surveyed him with a fixed and wondering scrutiny.
“how absolute you are in your faith!” he said half enviously. “you think it is your home,—but it is only an idea after all,—an idea, born of a vision.”
“does a mere visionary idea engender love and longing?” exclaimed féraz impetuously. “oh no, el-râmi,—it cannot do so! i know the land i see so often in what you call a ‘dream,’—its mountains are familiar to me,—its people are my people; yes!—i am remembered there, and so are you,—we dwelt there once,—we shall dwell there again. it is your home as well as mine,—that bright and far-off star where there is no death but only sleep,—why were we exiled from our happiness, el-râmi? can your wisdom tell?”
“i know nothing of what you say,” returned el-râmi brusquely. “as i told you, you talk like a poet,—harsher men than i would add, like a madman. you imagine you were born or came into being in a different planet from this,—that you lived there,—that you were exiled from thence by some mysterious doom, and were condemned to pass into human existence here;—well, i repeat, féraz,—this is your own fancy,—the result of the strange double life you lead, which is not by my will or teaching. i believe only in what can be proved—and this that you tell me is beyond all proof.”
“and yet,” said féraz meditatively,—“though i cannot reason it out, i am sure of what i feel. my ‘dream’ is more life-like than life itself,—and as for my beloved people yonder, i tell you i have heard them singing the harvest-home.”
and with a quick soft step he went to the piano, opened it, and began to play. el-râmi leaned back in his chair mute and absorbed,—did ever common keyed instrument give forth such enchanting sounds? was ever written music known that could, when performed, utter such divine and dulcet eloquence? there was nothing earthly in the tune, it seemed to glide from under the player’s fingers like a caress upon the air,—and an involuntary sigh broke from el-râmi’s lips as he listened. féraz heard that sigh, and turned round smiling.
“is there not something familiar in the strain?” he asked. “do you not see them all, so fair and light and lithe of limb, coming over the fields homewards as the red ring burns low in the western sky? surely—surely you remember?”
a slight shudder shook el-râmi’s frame,—he pressed his hands over his eyes, and seemed to collect himself by a strong effort,—then, walking over to the piano, he took his young brother’s hands from the keys and held them for a moment against his breast.
“keep your illusions”—he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. “keep them,—and your faith,—together. it is for you to dream, and for me to prove. mine is the hardest lot. there may be truth in your dreams,—there may be deception in my proofs—heaven only knows! were you not of my own blood, and dearer to me than most human things, i should, like every scientist worthy of the name, strive to break off your spiritual pinions and make of you a mere earth-grub even as most of us are made,—but i cannot do it,—i have not the heart to do it,—and if i had the heart”—he paused a moment,—then went on slowly—“i have not the power. good-night!”
he left the room abruptly without another word or look,—and the beautiful young féraz gazed after his retreating figure doubtfully and with something of wondering regret. was it worth while, he thought, to be so wise, if wisdom made one at times so sad?—was it well to sacrifice faith for fact, when faith was so warm and fact so cold? was it better to be a dreamer of things possible, or a worker-out of things positive? and how much was positive after all? and how much possible? he balanced the question lightly with himself,—it was like a discord in the music of his mind, and disturbed his peace. he soon dismissed the jarring thought, however, and, closing the piano, glanced round the room to make sure that nothing more was required for his brother’s service or comfort that night, and then he went away to resume his interrupted slumbers,—perchance to take up the chorus of his “people” singing in what he deemed his native star.
