el-râmi meanwhile slowly ascended the stairs to the first floor, and there on the narrow landing paused, listening. there was not a sound in the house,—the delicious music of the strange “harvest-song” had ceased, though to el-râmi’s ears there still seemed to be a throb of its melody in the air, like perfume left from the carrying by of flowers. and with this vague impression upon him he listened,—listened as it were to the deep silence; and as he stood in this attentive attitude, his eyes rested on a closed door opposite to him,—a door which might, if taken off its hinges and exhibited at some museum, have carried away the palm for perfection in panel-painting. it was so designed as to resemble a fine trellis-work, hung with pale clambering roses and purple passion-flowers,—on the upper half among the blossoms sat a meditative cupid, pressing a bud against his pouting lips, while below him, stretched in full-length desolation on a bent bough, his twin brother wept childishly over the piteous fate of a butterfly that lay dead in his curled pink palm. el-râmi stared so long and persistently at the pretty picture that it might have been imagined he was looking at it for the first time and was absorbed in admiration, but truth to tell he scarcely saw it. his thoughts were penetrating beyond all painted semblances of beauty,—and,—as in the case of his young brother féraz,—those thoughts were speedily answered. a key turned in the lock,—the door opened, and a tall old woman, bronze-skinned, black-eyed, withered, uncomely yet imposing of aspect, stood in the aperture.
“enter, el-râmi!” she said in a low yet harsh voice—“the hour is late,—but when did ever the lateness of hours change or deter your sovereign will! yet, truly as god liveth, it is hard that i should seldom be permitted to pass a night in peace!”
el-râmi smiled indifferently, but made no reply, as it was useless to answer zaroba. she was stone-deaf, and therefore not in a condition to be argued with. she preceded him into a small ante-room, provided with no other furniture than a table and chair;—one entire side of the wall, however, was hung with a magnificent curtain of purple velvet bordered in gold. on the table were a slate and pencil, and these implements el-râmi at once drew towards him.
“has there been any change to-day?” he wrote.
zaroba read the words.
“none,” she replied.
“she has not moved?”
“not a finger.”
he paused, pencil in hand,—then he wrote—
“you are ill-tempered. you have your dark humour upon you.”
zaroba’s eyes flashed, and she threw up her skinny hands with a wrathful gesture.
“dark humour!” she cried in accents that were almost shrill—“ay!—and if it be so, el-râmi, what is my humour to you? am i anything more to you than a cipher,—a mere slave? what have the thoughts of a foolish woman, bent with years and close to the dark gateways of the tomb, to do with one who deems himself all wisdom? what are the feelings of a wretched perishable piece of flesh and blood to a self-centred god and opponent of nature like el-râmi-zarânos?” she laughed bitterly. “pay no heed to me, great master of the fates invisible!—superb controller of the thoughts of men!—pay no heed to zaroba’s ‘dark humours,’ as you call them. zaroba has no wings to soar with—she is old and feeble, and aches at the heart with a burden of unshed tears,—she would fain have been content with this low earth whereon to tread in safety,—she would fain have been happy with common joys,—but these are debarred her, and her lot is like that of many a better woman,—to sit solitary among the ashes of dead days and know herself desolate!”
she dropped her arms as suddenly as she had raised them. el-râmi surveyed her with a touch of derision, and wrote again on the slate:
“i thought you loved your charge?”
zaroba read, and drew herself up proudly, looking almost as dignified as el-râmi himself.
“does one love a statue?” she demanded. “shall i caress a picture? shall i rain tears or kisses over the mere semblance of a life that does not live,—shall i fondle hands that never return my clasp? love! love is in my heart—yes! like a shut-up fire in a tomb,—but you hold the key, el-râmi, and the flame dies for want of air.”
he shrugged his shoulders, and, putting the pencil aside, wrote no more. moving towards the velvet curtain that draped the one side of the room he made an imperious sign. zaroba, obeying the gesture mechanically and at once, drew a small pulley, by means of which the rich soft folds of stuff parted noiselessly asunder, displaying such a wonderful interior of luxury and loveliness as seemed for the moment almost unreal. the apartment opened to view was lofty and perfectly circular in shape, and was hung from top to bottom with silken hangings of royal purple embroidered all over with curious arabesque patterns in gold. the same rich material was caught up from the edges of the ceiling to the centre, like the drapery of a pavilion or tent, and was there festooned with golden fringes and tassels. from out the midst of this warm mass of glistening colour swung a gold lamp which shed its light through amber-hued crystal,—while the floor below was carpeted with the thickest velvet pile, the design being pale purple pansies on a darker ground of the same almost neutral tint. a specimen of everything beautiful, rare, and costly seemed to have found its way into this one room, from the exquisitely-wrought ivory figure of a psyche on her pedestal, to the tall vase of venetian crystal which held lightly up to view dozens of magnificent roses that seemed born of full midsummer, though as yet, in the capricious english climate, it was scarcely spring. and all the beauty, all the grace, all the evidences of perfect taste, art, care, and forethought were gathered together round one centre,—one unseeing, unresponsive centre,—the figure of a sleeping girl. pillowed on a raised couch such as might have served a queen for costliness, she lay fast bound in slumber,—a matchless piece of loveliness,—stirless as marble,—wondrous as the ideal of a poet’s dream. her delicate form was draped loosely in a robe of purest white, arranged so as to suggest rather than conceal its exquisite outline,—a silk coverlet was thrown lightly across her feet, and her head rested on cushions of the softest, snowiest satin. her exceedingly small white hands were crossed upon her breast over a curious jewel,—a sort of giant ruby cut in the shape of a star, which scintillated with a thousand sparkles in the light, and coloured the under-tips of her fingers with a hue like wine, and her hair, which was of extraordinary length and beauty, almost clothed her body down to the knee, as with a mantle of shimmering gold. to say merely that she was lovely would scarcely describe her,—for the loveliness that is generally understood as such was here so entirely surpassed and intensified that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to express its charm. her face had the usual attributes of what might be deemed perfection,—that is, the lines were purely oval,—the features delicate, the skin most transparently fair, the lips a dewy red, and the fringes of the closed eyes were long, dark, and delicately upcurled;—but this was not all. there was something else,—something quite undefinable, that gave a singular glow and radiance to the whole countenance, and suggested the burning of a light through alabaster,—a creeping of some subtle fire through the veins which made the fair body seem the mere reflection of some greater fairness within. if those eyes were to open, one thought, how wonderful their lustre must needs be!—if that perfect figure rose up and moved, what a harmony would walk the world in maiden shape!—and yet,—watching that hushed repose, that scarcely perceptible breathing, it seemed more than certain that she would never rise,—never tread earthly soil in common with earth’s creatures,—never be more than what she seemed,—a human flower, gathered and set apart—for whom? for god’s love? or man’s pleasure? either, neither, or both?
el-râmi entered the rich apartment, followed by zaroba, and stood by the couch for some minutes in silence. whatever his thoughts were, his face gave no clue to them,—his features being as impassive as though cast in bronze. zaroba watched him curiously, her wrinkled visage expressive of some strongly-suppressed passion. the sleeping girl stirred and smiled in her sleep,—a smile that brightened her countenance as much as if a sudden glory had circled it with a halo.
“ay, she lives for you!” said zaroba. “and she grows fairer every day. she is the sun and you the snow. but the snow is bound to melt in due season,—and even you, el-râmi-zarânos, will hardly baffle the laws of nature!”
el-râmi turned upon her with a fierce mute gesture that had something of the terrible in it,—she shrank from the cold glance of his intense eyes, and in obedience to an imperative wave of his hand moved away to a farther corner of the room, where, crouching down upon the floor, she took up a quaint implement of work, a carved triangular frame of ebony, with which she busied herself, drawing glittering threads in and out of it with marvellous speed and dexterity. she made a weird picture there, squatted on the ground in her yellow cotton draperies, her rough gray hair gleaming like spun silk in the light, and the shining threadwork in her withered hands. el-râmi looked at her sitting thus, and was suddenly moved with compassion—she was old and sad,—poor zaroba! he went up to her where she crouched, and stood above her, his ardent fiery eyes seeming to gather all their wonderful lustre into one long, earnest, and pitiful regard. her work fell from her hands, and as she met that burning gaze a vague smile parted her lips,—her frowning features smoothed themselves into an expression of mingled placidity and peace.
“desolate zaroba!” said el-râmi, slowly lifting his hands. “widowed and solitary soul! deaf to the outer noises of the world, let the ears of thy spirit be open to my voice—and hear thou all the music of the past! lo, the bygone years return to thee and picture themselves afresh upon thy tired brain!—again thou dost listen to the voices of thy children at play,—the wild arabian desert spreads out before thee in the sun like a sea of gold,—the tall palms lift themselves against the burning sky—the tent is pitched by the cool spring of fresh water,—and thy savage mate, wearied out with long travel, sleeps, pillowed on thy breast. thou art young again, zaroba!—young, fair, and beloved!—be happy so! dream and rest!”
as he spoke he took the aged woman’s unresisting hands and laid her gently, gently, by gradual degrees down in a recumbent posture, and placing a cushion under her head watched her for a few seconds.
“by heaven!” he muttered, as he heard her regular breathing and noted the perfectly composed expression of her face. “are dreams after all the only certain joys of life? a poet’s fancies,—a painter’s visions—the cloud-castles of a boy’s imaginings—all dreams!—and only such dreamers can be called happy. neither fate nor fortune can destroy their pleasure,—they make sport of kings and hold great nations as the merest toys of thought—oh sublime audacity of vision! would i could dream so!—or rather, would i could prove my dreams not dreams at all, but the reflections of the absolute real! hamlet again!
“‘to die—to sleep;—
to sleep!—perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub!’
imagine it!—to die and dream of heaven—or hell—and all the while if there should be no reality in either!”
with one more glance at the now soundly slumbering zaroba, he went back to the couch, and gazed long and earnestly at the exquisite maiden there reclined,—then bending over her, he took her small fair left hand in his own, pressing his fingers hard round the delicate wrist.
“lilith!—lilith!” he said in low, yet commanding accents. “lilith!—speak to me! i am here!”
