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 entirely1 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 spoke2, save in monosyllables. Before leaving the house, however, his humour suddenly softened3, and, noting the wistful and timorous4 gaze with which Féraz regarded him, he laughed outright5.
“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 bovine8 repose9?”
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.”
“Poetic10 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 embodied11 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 mere7 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 steadfastly12.
“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 inventor, 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 perfectly13, 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 worthy14 of your confidence?” he asked in a low voice—“Can you never trust me with your great secret, as well as Zaroba?”
El-Râmi frowned darkly.
“Nay, but hear me, El-Râmi”—said Féraz eagerly, distressed17 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 chambers18, 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 rigid19.
“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 determined20 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 margins21. 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 specimen22 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 fixed23 them on a 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, touching24 illusions and impressions, as also strong emotions of love, hatred25, jealousy26, or revenge, these nerve and brain sensations are easily conveyed from one human subject to another by Suggestion. The first process is to numb27 the optic nerve. This is done in two ways—I. By causing the subject to fix his eyes steadily28 on a round shining case containing a magnet, while you shall count two hundred beats of time. II. By wilfully29 making your own eyes the magnet, and fixing your subject thereto. Either of these operations will temporarily paralyse the optic nerves, and arrest the motion of the blood in the vessels30 pertaining31. Thus the brain becomes insensible to external impressions, and is only awake to internal suggestions, which you may make as many and as devious32 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.”[1]
Féraz read this over and over again,—then, returning to the table, laid the book upon it with a deeply engrossed33 air. It had given him unpleasant matter for reflection.
“A dreamer—a visionary, he calls me—” he mused34, his thoughts reverting35 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 subservient36 to him, as I am, or is my submission37 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 dreary38 sensation, unusual to his bright and fervid39 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.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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2
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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3
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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4
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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5
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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6
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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8
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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9
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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10
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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11
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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12
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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13
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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14
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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15
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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16
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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17
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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18
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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19
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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20
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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21
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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22
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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23
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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24
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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25
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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26
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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27
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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28
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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29
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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30
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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31
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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32
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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33
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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34
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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35
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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36
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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37
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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38
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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39
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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