into the 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 i have seen 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 lilith is lilith;—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 was dead?”
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—not here—” 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—let her speak!”
“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, as i know 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, piercing faithful look 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 humblest lingula inhabiting 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 satisfy me, 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 they are discoveries, 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.
