“long, long ago, in a far-away province of the eastern world, there was once a priest named philemon. early and late he toiled to acquire wisdom—early and late he prayed and meditated on things divine and unattainable. to the great unknown his aspirations turned; with all the ardour of his soul he sought to penetrate behind the mystic veil of the supreme centre of creation; and the joys and sorrows, hopes and labours of mortal existence seemed to him but worthless and contemptible trifles when compared with the eternal marvels of the incomprehensible hereafter, on which, in solitude, he loved to dream and ponder.”
here féraz paused,—and, touching the keys of the piano with a caressing lightness, played a soft minor melody, which, like a silver thread of sound, accompanied his next words.
“and so, by gradual and almost imperceptible degrees, the wise priest philemon forgot the world;—forgot men, and women, and little children,—forgot the blueness of the skies, the verdure of the fields,—forgot the grace of daisies growing in the grass,—forgot the music of sweet birds singing in the boughs,—forgot indeed everything, except—himself!—and his prayers, and his wisdom, and his burning desire to approach more closely every hour to that wondrous goal of the divine from whence all life doth come, and to which all life must, in due time, return.”
here the musical accompaniment changed to a plaintive tenderness.
“but, by and by, news of the wise priest philemon began to spread in the town near where he had his habitation,—and people spoke of his fastings and his watchings with awe and wonder, with hope and fear,—until at last there came a day when a great crowd of the sick and sorrowful and oppressed surrounded his abode, and called upon him to pray for them, and give them comfort.
“‘bestow upon us some of the divine consolation!’ they cried, kneeling in the dust and weeping as they spoke—‘for we are weary and worn with labour,—we suffer with harsh wounds of the heart and spirit,—many of us have lost all that makes life dear. pity us, o thou wise servant of the supreme—and tell us out of thy stores of heavenly wisdom whether we shall ever regain the loves that we have lost!’
“then the priest philemon rose up in haste and wrath, and going out before them said—
“‘depart from me, ye accursed crew of wicked worldlings! why have ye sought me out, and what have i to do with your petty miseries? lo, ye have brought the evils of which ye complain upon yourselves, and justice demands that ye should suffer. ask not from me one word of pity—seek not from me any sympathy for sin. i have severed myself from ye all, to escape pollution,—my life belongs to god, not to humanity!’
“and the people hearing him were wroth, and went their way homewards, sore at heart, and all uncomforted. and philemon the priest, fearing lest they might seek him out again, departed from that place for ever, and made for himself a hut in the deep thickness of the forest where never a human foot was found to wander save his own. here in the silence and deep solitude he resolved to work and pray, keeping his heart and spirit sanctified from every soiling touch of nature that could separate his thoughts from the divine.”
again the music changed, this time to a dulcet rippling passage of notes like the flowing of a mountain stream,—and féraz continued,—
“one morning, as, lost in a rapture of holy meditation, he prayed his daily prayer, a small bird perched upon his window-sill, and began to sing. not a loud song, but a sweet song—full of the utmost tenderness and playful warbling,—a song born out of the leaves and grasses and gentle winds of heaven,—as delicate a tune as ever small bird sang. the priest philemon listened, and his mind wandered. the bird’s singing was sweet; oh, so sweet, that it recalled to him many things he had imagined long ago forgotten,—almost he heard his mother’s voice again,—and the blithe and gracious days of his early youth suggested themselves to his memory like the lovely fragments of a poem once familiar, but now scarce remembered. presently the bird flew away, and the priest philemon awoke as from a dream,—his prayer had been interrupted; his thoughts had been drawn down to earth from heaven, all through the twittering of a foolish feathered thing not worth a farthing! angry with himself, he spent the day in penitence,—and on the following morning betook himself to his devotions with more than his usual ardour. stretched on his prayer-mat he lay entranced; when suddenly a low sweet trill of sound broke gently through the silence,—the innocent twittering voice of the little bird once more aroused him,—first to a sense of wonder, then of wrath. starting up impatiently he looked about him, and saw the bird quite close, within his reach,—it had flown inside his hut, and now hopped lightly over the floor towards him, its bright eyes full of fearless confidence, its pretty wings still quivering with the fervour of its song. then the priest philemon seized a heavy oaken staff, and slew it where it stood with one remorseless blow, and flung the little heap of ruffled feathers out into the woodland, saying fiercely—
“‘thou, at least, shalt never more disturb my prayers!’
“and, even as he thus spoke, a great light shone forth suddenly, more dazzling than the brightness of the day, and lo! an angel stood within the hut, just where the dead bird’s blood had stained the floor. and the priest philemon fell upon his face and trembled greatly, for the vision was more glorious than the grandest of his dreams. and a voice called aloud, saying—
“‘philemon, why hast thou slain my messenger?’
“and philemon looked up in fear and wonderment, answering—
“‘dread lord, what messenger? i have slain nothing but a bird.’
“and the voice spake again, saying—
“‘o thou remorseless priest!—knowest thou not that every bird in the forest is mine,—every leaf on the trees is mine,—every blade of grass and every flower is mine, and is a part of me! the song of that slain bird was sweeter than thy many prayers;—and when thou didst listen to its voice thou wert nearer heaven than thou hast ever been! thou hast rebelled against my law;—in rejecting love, thou hast rejected me,—and when thou didst turn the poor and needy from thy doors, refusing them all comfort, even so did i turn my face from thee and refuse thy petitions. wherefore hear now thy punishment. for the space of a thousand years thou shalt live within this forest;—no human eye shall ever find thee,—no human foot shall ever track thee—no human voice shall ever sound upon thy ears. no companions shalt thou have but birds and beasts and flowers,—from these shalt thou learn wisdom, and through thy love of these alone shalt thou make thy peace with heaven! pray no more,—fast no more,—for such things count but little in the eternal reckonings,—but love!—and learn to make thyself beloved, even by the least and lowest, and by this shalt thou penetrate at last the mystery of the divine!’
“the voice ceased—the glory vanished, and when the priest philemon raised his eyes he was alone.”
here, altering by a few delicate modulations the dreamy character of the music he had been improvising, féraz reverted again to the quaint, simple, and solemn chords with which he had opened the recitation.
“humbled in spirit, stricken at heart, conscious of the justice of his doom, yet working as one not without hope, philemon began his heaven-appointed task. and to this day travellers’ legends tell of a vast impenetrable solitude, a forest of giant trees, where never a human step has trod, but where, it is said, strange colonies of birds and beasts do congregate,—where rare and marvellous plants and flowers flourish in their fairest hues,—where golden bees and dazzling butterflies gather by thousands,—where all the songsters of the air make the woods musical,—where birds of passage, outward or homeward bound, rest on their way, sure of a pleasant haven,—and where all the beautiful, wild, and timid inhabitants of field, forest, and mountain are at peace together, mutually content in an eden of their own. there is a guardian of the place,—so say the country people,—a spirit, thin and white, and silver-haired, who understands the language of the birds, and knows the secrets of the flowers, and in whom all the creatures of the woods confide—a mystic being whose strange life has lasted nearly a thousand years. generations have passed—cities and empires have crumbled to decay,—and none remember him who was once called philemon,—the ‘wise’ priest, grown wise indeed at last, with the only wisdom god ever sanctifies—the wisdom of love.”
with a soft impressive chord the music ceased,—the story was ended,—and féraz rose from the piano to be surrounded at once by a crowd of admirers, all vying with each other in flattering expressions of applause and delight; but, though he received these compliments with unaffected and courteous grace enough, his eyes perpetually wandered to his brother’s face,—that dark, absorbed beloved face,—yes, beloved!—for, rebel as he might against el-râmi’s inflexible will and despotic power, féraz knew he could never wrench from out his heart the deep affection and reverence for him which were the natural result of years of tender and sympathetic intercourse. if his brother had commanded him, he had also loved him,—there could be no doubt of that. was he displeased or unhappy now, that he looked so sad and absorbed in gloomy and perplexed thought? a strange pained emotion stirred féraz’s sensitive soul,—some intangible vague sense of separation seemed to have arisen between himself and el-râmi, and he grew impatient with this brilliant assembly of well-dressed chattering folk, whose presence prevented him from giving vent to the full expression of his feelings. lady melthorpe talked to him in dulcet languid tones, fanning herself the while, and telling him sweetly what a “wonderful touch” he had,—what an “exquisite speaking voice”—and so forth, all which elegantly turned phrases he heard as in a dream. as soon as he could escape from her and those of her friends who were immediately round him, he made his way to el-râmi and touched his arm.
“let me stay beside you!” he said in a low tone in which there was a slight accent of entreaty.
el-râmi turned, and looked at him kindly.
“dear boy, you had better make new friends while you can, lest the old be taken from you.”
“friends!” echoed féraz—“friends—here?” he gave a gesture more eloquent than speech, of doubt and disdain,—then continued, “might we not go now? is it not time to return home and sleep?”
el-râmi smiled.
“nay, are we not seeing life? here we are among pretty women, well-bred men—the rooms are elegant,—and the conversation is as delightfully vague and nearly as noisy as the chattering of monkeys—yet, with all these advantages, you talk of sleep!”
féraz laughed a little.
“yes, i am tired,” he said. “it does not seem to me real, all this—there is something shadowy and unsubstantial about it. i think sleep is better.”
at that moment irene vassilius came up to them.
“i am just going,” she said, letting her soft serious eyes dwell on féraz with interest, “but i feel i must thank you for your story of the ‘priest philemon.’ is it your own idea?—or does such a legend exist?”
“nothing is really new,” replied féraz—“but, such as it is, it is my own invention.”
“then you are a poet and musician at one and the same time,” said irene. “it seems a natural combination of gifts, yet the two do not always go together. i hope”—she now addressed herself to el-râmi—“i hope very much you will come and see me, though i’m afraid i’m not a very popular person. my friends are few, so i cannot promise you much entertainment. indeed, as a rule, people do not like me.”
“i like you!” said féraz, quickly and impulsively.
she smiled.
“yes? that is good of you. and i believe you, for you are too unworldly to deal in flatteries. but i assure you that, generally speaking, literary women are never social favourites.”
“not even when they are lovely like you?” questioned féraz, with simple frankness.
she coloured at the evident sincerity of his admiration and the boyish openness with which it was thus expressed. then she laughed a little.
“loveliness is not acknowledged as at all existent in literary females,” she replied lightly, yet with a touch of scorn,—“even if they do possess any personal charm, it only serves as a peg for the malicious to hang a slander on. and, of the two sexes, men are most cruel to a woman who dares to think for herself.”
“are you sure of that, madame?” asked el-râmi gently. “may not this be an error of your judgment?”
“i would that it were!” she said with intense expression—“heaven knows how sincerely i should rejoice to be proved wrong! but i am not wrong. men always judge women as their inferiors, not only physically (which they are) but mentally (which they are not), and always deny them an independent soul and independent emotions,—the majority of men, indeed, treat them pretty much as a sort of superior cattle;—but, nevertheless, there is a something in what the french call ‘l’éternel féminin.’ women are distinctly the greatest sufferers in all suffering creation,—and i have often thought that for so much pain and so much misjudgment, endured often with such heroic silence and uncomplaining fortitude, the compensation will be sweeter and more glorious than we, half drowned in our own tears, can as yet hope for, or imagine!”
she paused—her eyes were dark with thought and full of a dreamy sorrow,—then, smiling gently, she held out her hand.
“i talk too much, you will say—women always do! come and see me if you feel disposed—not otherwise; i will send you my card through lady melthorpe—meantime, good-night!”
el-râmi took her hand, and, as he pressed it in his own, felt again that curious thrill which had before communicated itself to his nerves through the same contact.
“surely you must be a visionary, madame!” he said, abruptly and with a vague sense of surprise—“and you see things not at all of this world!”
her faint roseate colour deepened, giving singular beauty to her face.
“what a tell-tale hand mine is!” she replied, withdrawing it slowly from his clasp. “yes—you are right,—if i could not see things higher than this world, i could not endure my existence for an hour. it is because i feel the future so close about me that i have courage for, and indifference to, the present.”
with that, she left them, and both el-râmi and féraz followed her graceful movements with interested eyes, as she glided through the rooms in her snowy trailing robes, with the frosty flash of diamonds in her hair, till she had altogether disappeared; then the languid voice of lady melthorpe addressed them.
“isn’t she an odd creature, that irene vassilius? so quaint and peculiar in her ideas! people detest her, you know—she is so dreadfully clever!”
“there could not be a better reason for hatred!” said el-râmi.
“you see, she says such unpleasant things,” went on lady melthorpe, complacently fanning herself,—“she has such decided opinions, and will not accommodate herself to people’s ways. i must confess i always find her de trop myself.”
“she was your guest to-night,” said féraz suddenly, and with such a sternness in his accent as caused her ladyship to look at him in blank surprise.
“certainly! one must always ask a celebrity.”
“if one must always ask, then one is bound always to respect,” said féraz coldly. “in our code d’honneur, we never speak ill of those who have partaken of our hospitality.”
so saying, he turned on his heel and walked away with so much haughtiness of demeanour that lady melthorpe stood as though rooted to the spot, staring speechlessly after him. then rousing herself, she looked at el-râmi and shrugged her shoulders.
“really,” she began,—“really, mr. el-râmi, your brother’s manner is very strange——”
“it is,” returned el-râmi quickly—“i admit it. his behaviour is altogether unpolished—and he is quite unaccustomed to society. i told lord melthorpe so,—and i was against his being invited here. he says exactly what he thinks, without fear or favour, and in this regard is really a mere barbarian. allow me to apologise for him!”
lady melthorpe bowed stiffly,—she saw, or fancied she saw, a faint ironical smile playing on el-râmi’s lips beneath his dark moustache. she was much annoyed,—the idea of a “boy,” like féraz, presuming to talk to her, a leader of london fashion, about a code d’honneur! the thing was monstrous,—absurd! and as for irene vassilius, why should not she be talked about?—she was a public person; a writer of books which mrs. grundy in her church-going moods had voted as “dangerous.” truly lady melthorpe considered she had just cause to be ruffled, and she began to regret having invited these “eastern men,” as she termed them, to her house at all. el-râmi perceived her irritation, but he made no further remark; and, as soon as he could conveniently do so, he took his formal leave of her. quickly threading his way through the now rapidly thinning throng, he sought out féraz, whom he found in the hall talking to roy ainsworth and making final arrangements for the sitting he was to give the artist next day.
“i should like to make a study of your head too,” said roy, with a keen glance at el-râmi as he approached—“but i suppose you have no time.”
“no time—and still less inclination!” responded el-râmi laughingly; “for i have sworn that no ‘counterfeit presentment’ of my bodily form shall ever exist. it would always be a false picture—it would never be me, because it would only represent the perishable, whilst i am the imperishable.”
“singular man!” said roy ainsworth. “what do you mean?”
“what should i mean,” replied el-râmi quickly, “save what all your religions and churches mean, if in truth they have any meaning. is there not something else besides this fleshly covering? if you can paint the imagined soul of a man looking out of his eyes, you are a great artist,—but if you could paint the soul itself, stripped of its mortal disguise, radiant, ethereal, brilliant as lightning, beautiful as dawn, you would be greater still. and the soul is the me,—these features of mine, this appearance, is mere covering,—we want a portrait, not a costume.”
“your argument applies to your brother as well as yourself,” said ainsworth, wondering at the eloquent wildness of this strange el-râmi’s language, and fascinated by it in spite of himself.
“just so! only the earth-garment of féraz is charming and becoming—mine is not. it is a case of ‘my hair is white but not with years’—the ‘prisoner of chillon’ sort of thing. good-night!”
“good-night!” and the artist shook hands warmly with both brothers, saying to féraz as he parted from him—“i may expect you then to-morrow? you will not fail?”
“you may rely upon me!” and féraz nodded lightly in adieu, and followed el-râmi out of the house into the street, where they began to walk homeward together at a rapid rate. as they went, by some mutual involuntary instinct they lifted their eyes to the dense blue heavens, where multitudes of stars were brilliantly visible. féraz drew a long deep breath.
“there,” he said, “is the infinite and real,—what we have seen of life to-night is finite and unreal.”
el-râmi made no reply.
“do you not think so?” persisted féraz earnestly.
“i cannot say definitely what is real and what is unreal,” said el-râmi slowly—“both are so near akin. féraz, are you aware you offended lady melthorpe to-night?”
“why should she be offended? i only said just what i thought.”
“good heavens, my dear boy, if you always go about saying just what you think, you will find the world too hot to hold you. to say the least of it, you will never be fit for society.”
“i don’t want to be fit for it,” said féraz disdainfully, “if lady melthorpe’s ‘at home’ is a picture of it. i want to forget it,—the most of it, i mean. i shall remember madame vassilius because she is sympathetic and interesting. but for the rest!—my dearest brother, i am far happier with you.”
el-râmi took his arm gently.
“yet you leave me to-morrow to gratify an artist’s whim!” he said. “have you thought of that?”
“oh, but that is nothing—only an hour or two’s sitting. he was so very anxious that i could not refuse. does it displease you?”
“my dear féraz, i am displeased at nothing. you complained of my authority over you once—and i have determined you shall not complain again. consider yourself free.”
“i do not want my liberty,” said féraz almost petulantly.
“try it!” responded el-râmi with a smile and half a sigh. “liberty is sweet,—but, like other things, it brings its own responsibilities.”
they walked on till they had almost reached their own door.
“your story of the priest philemon was very quaint and pretty,” said el-râmi then abruptly. “you meant it as a sort of allegory for me, did you not?”
féraz looked wistfully at him, but hesitated to reply.
“it does not quite fit me,” went on el-râmi gently. “i am not impervious to love—for i love you. perhaps the angels will take that fact into consideration when they are settling my thousand or million years’ punishment.”
there was a touch of quiet pathos in his voice which moved féraz greatly, and he could not trust himself to speak. when they entered their own abode, el-râmi said the usual “good-night” in his usual kindly manner,—but féraz reverently stooped and kissed the hand extended to him,—the potent hand that had enriched his life with poesy and dowered it with dreams.
