Читать книгу The Soul of Lilith - Marie Corelli - Страница 9

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THAT afternoon El-Râmi prepared to go out as was his usual custom, immediately after the mid-day meal, which was served to him by Féraz, who stood behind his chair like a slave all the time he ate and drank, attending to his needs with the utmost devotion and assiduity. Féraz indeed was his brother's only domestic,--Zaroba's duties being entirely confined to the mysterious apartments upstairs and their still more mysterious occupant. El-Râmi was in a taciturn mood,--the visit of the Reverend Francis Anstruther seemed to have put him out, and he scarcely spoke, save in monosyllables. Before leaving the house, however, his humour suddenly softened, and noting the wistful and timorous gaze with which Féraz regarded him, he laughed outright.

"You are very patient with me, Féraz!" he said--"And I know I am as sullen as a bear."

"You think too much;"--replied Féraz gently--"And you work too hard."

"Both thought and labour are necessary," said El-Râmi--"You would not have me live a life of merely bovine repose?"

Féraz gave a deprecating gesture.

"Nay--but surely rest is needful. To be happy, God Himself must sometimes sleep."

"You think so?" and El-Râmi smiled--"Then it must be during His hours of repose and oblivion that the business of life goes wrong, and Darkness and the Spirit of Confusion walk abroad. The Creator should never sleep."

"Why not, if He has dreams?" asked Féraz--"For if Eternal Thought becomes Substance, so a God's Dream may become Life."

"Poetic as usual, my Féraz"--replied his brother--"and yet perhaps you are not so far wrong in your ideas. That Thought becomes substance, even with man's limited powers, is true enough;--the thought of a perfect, form grows up embodied in the weight and Substance of marble, with the sculptor,--the vague fancies of a poet, being set in ink on paper, become Substance in book-shape, solid enough to pass from one hand to the other;--even so may a God's mere Thought of a world create a Planet. It is my own impression that thoughts, like atoms, are imperishable, and that even dreams, being forms of thought, never die. But I must not stay here talking,--adieu! Do not sit up for me to-night--I shall not return,--I am going down to the coast."

"To Ilfracombe?" questioned Féraz--"So long a journey, and all to see that poor mad soul?"

El-Râmi looked at him stedfastly.

"No more 'mad,' Féraz, than you are with your notions about your native star! Why should a scientist who amuses himself with the reflections on a Disc of magnetic crystal be deemed 'mad'? Fifty years ago the electric inventions of Edison would have been called 'impossible,'--and he, the in--ventor, considered hopelessly insane. But now we know these seeming 'miracles' are facts, we cease to wonder at them. And my poor friend with his Disc is a harmless creature;--his 'craze,' if it be a craze, is as innocent as yours."

"But I have no craze"--said Féraz composedly,--"all that I know and see, lives in my brain like music,--and though I remember it perfectly, I trouble no one with the story of my past."

"And he troubles no one with what he deems may be the story of the future"--said El-Râmi--"Call no one 'mad' because he happens to have a new idea--for time may prove such 'madness' a merely perfected method of reason. I must hasten, or I shall lose my train."

"If it is the 2.40 from Waterloo, you have time," said Féraz--"It is not yet two o'clock. Do you leave any message for Zaroba?"

"None. She has my orders."

Féraz looked full at his brother, and a warm flush coloured his handsome face.

"Shall I never be worthy of your con--fidence?" he asked in a low voice--"Can you never trust me with your great secret, as well as Zaroba?"

El-Râmi frowned darkly.

"Again, this vulgar vice of curiosity? I thought you were exempt from it by this time."

"Nay, but hear me, El-Râmi"--said Féraz eagerly, distressed at the anger in his brother's eyes--"It is not curiosity,--it is something else,--something that I can hardly explain, except.... Oh, you will only laugh at me if I tell you...but yet--"

"But what?" demanded El-Râmi sternly.

"It is as if a voice called me,"--answered Féraz dreamily--"a voice from those upper chambers, which you keep closed, and of which only Zaroba has the care--a voice that asks for freedom and for peace. It is such a sorrowful voice,--but sweet,--more sweet than any singing. True, I hear it but seldom,--only when I do, it haunts me for hours and hours. I know you are at some great work up there,--but can you make such voices ring from a merely scientific laboratory? Now you are angered!"

His large soft brilliant eyes rested appealingly upon his brother, whose features had grown pale and rigid.

"Angered!" he echoed, speaking as it seemed with some effort,--"Am I ever angered at your--your fancies? For fancies they are, Féraz,--the voice you hear is like the imagined home in that distant star you speak of,--an image and an echo on your brain--no more. My 'great work,' as you call it, would have no interest for you;--it is nothing but a test-experiment, which, if it fails, then I fail with it, and am no more El-Râmi-Zarânos, but the merest fool that ever clamoured for the moon." He said this more to himself than to his brother, and seemed for the moment to have forgotten where he was,--till suddenly rousing himself with a start, he forced a smile.

"Farewell for the present, gentle visionary!" he said kindly,--"You are happier with your dreams than I with my facts,--do not seek out sorrow for yourself by rash and idle questioning."

With a parting nod he went out, and Féraz, closing the door after him, remained in the hall for a few moments in a sort of vague reverie. How silent the house seemed, he thought with a half-sigh. The very atmosphere of it was depressing, and even his favourite occupation, music, had just now no attraction for him. He turned listlessly into his brother's study,--he determined to read for an hour or so, and looked about in search of some entertaining volume. On the table he found a book open,--a manuscript, written on vellum in Arabic, with curious uncanny figures and allegorical designs on the headings and margins. El-Râmi had left it there by mistake,--it was a particularly valuable treasure which he generally kept under lock and key. Féraz sat down in front of it, and resting his head on his two hands, began to read at the page where it lay open. Arabic was his native tongue,--yet he had some difficulty in making out this especial specimen of the language, because the writing was anything but distinct, and some of the letters had a very odd way of vanishing before his eyes, just as he had fixed them on at word. This was puzzling as well as irritating,--he must have something the matter with his sight or his brain, he concluded, as these vanishing letters always came into position again after a little. Worried by the phenomenon, he seized the book and carried it to the full light of the open window, and there succeeded in making out the meaning of one passage which was quite sufficient to set him thinking. It ran as follows:

* "Wherefore, touching illusions and impressions, as also strong emotions of love, hatred, jealousy or revenge, these nerve and brain sensations are easily conveyed from one human subject to another by Suggestion. The first process is to numb the optic nerve. This is done in two ways--I. By causing the subject to fix his eyes steadily on a round shining case containing a magnet, while you shall count two hundred beats of time. II. By wilfully making your own eyes the magnet, and fixing your subject thereto. Either of these operations will temporarily paralyze the optic nerves, and arrest the motion of the blood in the vessels pertaining. Thus the brain becomes insensible to external impressions, and is only awake to internal suggestions, which you may make as many and as devious as you please. Your subject will see exactly what you choose him to see, hear what you wish him to hear, do what you bid him do, so long as you hold him by your power, which if you understand the laws of light, sound, and air-vibrations, you may be able to retain for an indefinite period. The same force applies to the magnetising of a multitude as of a single individual."

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* From "The Natural Law of Miracles," written in Arabic 400 B.C.

Féraz read this over and over again,--then returning to the table, laid the book upon it with a deeply engrossed air. It had given him unpleasant matter for reflection.

"A dreamer--a visionary, he calls me--" he mused, his thoughts reverting to his absent brother--"Full of fancies poetic and musical,--now can it be that I owe my very dreams to his dominance? Does he make me subservient to him, as I am, or is my submission to his will, my own desire? Is my 'madness' or 'craze,' or whatever he calls it, of his working? and should I be more like other men if I were separated from him? And yet what has he ever done to me, save make me happy? Has he placed me under the influence of any magnet such as this book describes? Certainly not that I am aware of. He has made my inward spirit clearer of comprehension, so that I hear him call me even by a thought,--I see and know beautiful things of which grosser souls have no perception,--and am I not content?--Yes, surely I am!--surely I should be,--though at times there seems a something missing,--a something to which I cannot give a name."

He sighed,--and again buried his head between his hands,--he was conscious of a dreary sensation, unusual to his bright and fervid nature,--the very sunshine streaming through the window seemed to lack true brilliancy. Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder,--he started and rose to his feet with a bewildered air,--then smiled, as he saw that the intruder was only Zaroba.