Only Zaroba,—gaunt, grim, fierce-eyed Zaroba, old and unlovely, yet possessing withal an air of savage1 dignity, as she stood erect2, her amber-coloured robe bound about her with a scarlet3 girdle, and her gray hair gathered closely under a small coif of the same vivid hue4. Her wrinkled visage had more animation5 in it than on the previous night, and her harsh voice grew soft as she looked at the picturesque6 glowing beauty of the young man beside her, and addressed him.
“El-Râmi has gone?” she asked.
Féraz nodded. He generally made her understand him either by signs, or the use of the finger-alphabet, at which he was very dexterous7.
“On what quest?” she demanded.
Féraz explained rapidly and mutely that he had gone to visit a friend residing at a distance from town.
“Then he will not return to-night;”—muttered Zaroba thoughtfully—“He will not return to-night.”
She sat down, and, clasping her hands across her knees, rocked herself to and fro for some minutes in silence. Then she spoke8, more to herself than to her listener.
“He is an angel or a fiend,” she said in low meditative9 accents. “Or maybe he is both in one. He saved me from death once—I shall never forget that. And by his power he sent me back to my native land last night—I bound my black tresses with pearl and gold, and laughed and sang,—I was young again!”—and with a sudden cry she raised her hands above her head and clapped them fiercely together, so that the silver bangles on her arms jangled like bells;—“As God liveth, I was young! You know what it is to be young”—and she turned her dark orbs10 half enviously11 upon Féraz, who, leaning against his brother’s writing-table, regarded her with interest and something of awe—“or you should know it! To feel the blood leap in the veins12, while the happy heart keeps time like the beat of a joyous13 cymbal,—to catch the breath and tremble with ecstasy14 as the eyes one loves best in the world flash lightning-passion into your own,—to make companions of the roses, and feel the pulses quicken at the songs of birds,—to tread the ground so lightly as to scarcely know whether it is earth or air—this is to be young!—young!—and I was young last night. My love was with me,—my love, my more than lover—‘Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’ he said, and his kisses were as honey on my lips—‘Zaroba, pearl of passion! fountain of sweetness in a desert land!—thine eyes are fire in which I burn my soul,—thy round arms the prison in which I lock my heart! Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’—Beautiful! Ay!—through the power of El-Râmi I was fair to see—last night! ... only last night!”
Her voice sank down into a feeble wailing15, and Féraz gazed at her compassionately16 and in a little wonder,—he was accustomed to see her in various strange and incomprehensible moods, but she was seldom so excited as now.
“Why do you not laugh?” she asked suddenly and with a touch of defiance—“Why do you not laugh at me?—at me, the wretched Zaroba,—old and unsightly—bent18 and wrinkled!—that I should dare to say I was once beautiful!—It is a thing to make sport of—an old forsaken19 woman’s dream of her dead youth.”
With an impulsive20 movement that was as graceful21 as it was becoming, Féraz, for sole reply, dropped on one knee beside her, and, taking her wrinkled hand, touched it lightly but reverently22 with his lips. She trembled, and great tears rose in her eyes.
“Poor boy!” she muttered—“Poor child!—a child to me, and yet a man! As God liveth, a man!” She looked at him with a curious steadfastness23. “Good Féraz, forgive me—I did you wrong—I know you would not mock the aged24, or make wanton sport of their incurable25 woes,—you are too gentle. I would in truth you were less mild of spirit—less womanish of heart!”
“Womanish!” and Féraz leaped up, stung by the word, he knew not why. His heart beat strangely—his blood tingled,—it seemed to him that if he had possessed26 a weapon his instinct would have been to draw it then. Never had he looked so handsome; and Zaroba, watching his expression, clapped her withered27 hands in a sort of witch-like triumph.
“Ha!”—she cried—“The man’s mettle28 speaks! There is something more than the dreamer in you then—something that will help you to explain the mystery of your existence—something that says—‘Féraz, you are the slave of destiny—up! be its master! Féraz, you sleep—awake!’” and Zaroba stood up tall and imposing29, with the air of an inspired sorceress delivering a prophecy—“Féraz, you have manhood—prove it!—Féraz, you have missed the one joy of life—Love!—Win it!”
Féraz stared at her amazed. Her words were such as she had never addressed to him before, and yet they moved him with a singular uneasiness. Love? Surely he knew the meaning of love? It was an ideal passion, like the lifting up of life in prayer. Had not his brother told him that perfect love was unattainable on this planet?—and was it not a word the very suggestions of which could only be expressed in music? These thoughts ran through his mind while he stood inert30 and wondering—then, rousing himself a little from the effects of Zaroba’s outburst, he sat down at the table, and, taking up a pencil, wrote as follows—
“You talk wildly, Zaroba—you cannot be well. Let me hear no more—you disturb my peace. I know what love is—I know what life is. But the best part of my life and love is not here,—but elsewhere.”
Zaroba took the paper from his hand, read it, and tore it to bits in a rage.
“O foolish youth!” she exclaimed—“Your love is the love of a Dream,—your life is the life of a Dream! You see with another’s eyes—you think through another’s brain. You are a mere31 machine, played upon by another’s will! But not for ever shall you be deceived—not for ever,—” here she gave a slight start and looked around her nervously32 as though she expected some one to enter the room suddenly—“Listen! Come to me to-night,—to-night when all is dark and silent,—when every sound in the outside street is stilled,—come to me—and I will show you a marvel33 of the world!—one who, like you, is the victim of a Dream!” She broke off abruptly34 and glanced from right to left in evident alarm,—then, with a fresh impetus35 of courage, she bent towards her companion again and whispered in his ear—“Come!”
“But where?” asked Féraz in the language of signs.
“Up yonder!” said Zaroba firmly, regardless of the utter amazement36 with which Féraz greeted this answer—“Up, where El-Râmi hides his great secret. Yes—I know he has forbidden you to venture there,—even so has he forbidden me to speak of what he cherishes so closely,—but are we slaves, you and I? Do you purpose always to obey him? So be it, an you will? But if I were you,—a man—I would defy both gods and fiends if they opposed my liberty of action. Do as it pleases you,—I, Zaroba, have given you the choice,—stay and dream of life—or come and live it! Till to-night—farewell!”
She had reached the door and vanished through it, before Féraz could demand more of her meaning,—and he was left alone, a prey37 to the most torturing emotions. “The vulgar vice38 of curiosity!” That was the phrase his brother had used to him scarcely an hour agone,—and yet, here he was, yielding to a fresh fit of the intolerable desire that had possessed him for years to know El-Râmi’s great secret. He dropped wearily into a chair and thought all the circumstances over. They were as follows:—
In the first place he had never known any other protector or friend than his brother, who, being several years older than himself, had taken sole charge of him after the almost simultaneous death of their father and mother, an event which he knew had occurred somewhere in the East, but how or when, he could not exactly remember, nor had he ever been told much about it. He had always been very happy in El-Râmi’s companionship, and had travelled with him nearly all over the world,—and, though they had never been rich, they always had sufficient wherewith to live comfortably, though how even this small competence39 was gained Féraz never knew. There had been no particular mystery about his brother’s life, however, till on one occasion, when they were travelling together across the Syrian desert, where they had come upon a caravan40 of half-starved Arab wanderers in dire41 distress42 from want and sickness. Among them was an elderly woman at the extreme point of death, and an orphan43 child named Lilith, who was also dying. El-Râmi had suddenly, for no special reason, save kindness of heart and compassion17, offered his services as physician to the stricken little party, and had restored the elderly woman, a widow, almost miraculously44 to health and strength in a day or two. This woman was no other than Zaroba. The sick child however, a girl of about twelve years old, died. And here began the puzzle. On the day of this girl’s death, El-Râmi, with sudden and inexplicable45 haste, had sent his young brother on to Alexandria, bidding him there take ship immediately for the Island of Cyprus, and carry to a certain monastery46 some miles from Famagousta a packet of documents, which he stated were of the most extraordinary value and importance. Féraz had obeyed, and, according to further instructions, had remained as a visitor in that Cyprian religious retreat, among monks47 unlike any other monks he had ever seen or heard of, till he was sent for, whereupon, according to command, he rejoined El-Râmi in London. He found him, somewhat to his surprise, installed in the small house where they now were,—with the woman Zaroba, whose presence was another cause of blank astonishment48, especially as she seemed to have nothing to do but keep certain rooms upstairs in order. But all the questions Féraz poured out respecting her, and everything that had happened since their parting in the Syrian desert, were met by equivocal replies or absolute silence on his brother’s part, and by and by the young man grew accustomed to his position. Day by day he became more and more subservient49 to El-Râmi’s will, though he could never quite comprehend why he was so willingly submissive. Of course he knew that his brother was gifted with certain powers of physical magnetism,—because he had allowed himself to be practised upon, and he took a certain interest in the scientific development of those powers, this being, as he quite comprehended, one of the branches of study on which El-Râmi was engaged. He knew that his brother could compel response to thought from a distance,—but, as there were others of his race who could do the same thing, and as that sort of mild hypnotism was largely practised in the East, where he was born, he attached no special importance to it. Endowed with various gifts of genius such as music and poetry, and a quick perception of everything beautiful and artistic50, Féraz lived in a tranquil51 little Eden of his own,—and the only serpent in it that now and then lifted its head to hiss52 doubt and perplexity was the inexplicable mystery of those upstair rooms over which Zaroba had guardianship53. The merest allusion54 to the subject excited El-Râmi’s displeasure; and during the whole time they had lived together in that house, now nearly six years, he had not dared to speak of it more than a very few times, while Zaroba, on her part, had faithfully preserved the utmost secrecy55. Now, she seemed disposed to break the long-kept rules,—and Féraz knew not what to think of it.
“Is everything destiny, as El-Râmi says?” he mused—“Or shall I follow my own desires in the face of destiny? Shall I yield to temptation—or shall I overcome it? Shall I break his command,—lose his affection and be a free man,—or shall I obey him still, and be his slave? And what should I do with my liberty if I had it, I wonder? Womanish! What a word! Am I womanish?” He paced up and down the room in sudden irritation56 and haughtiness;—the piano stood open, but its ivory keys failed to attract him,—his brain was full of other suggestions than the making of sweet harmony.
“Do not seek out sorrow for yourself by rash and idle questioning.”
So his brother had said at parting And the words rang in his ears as he walked to and fro restlessly, thinking, wondering, and worrying his mind with vague wishes and foreboding anxieties, till the shining afternoon wore away and darkness fell.
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1
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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2
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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4
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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6
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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7
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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8
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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9
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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10
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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11
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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12
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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13
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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14
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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15
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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16
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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17
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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18
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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19
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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20
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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21
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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22
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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23
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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24
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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25
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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26
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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27
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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28
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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29
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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30
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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33
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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34
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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36
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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37
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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38
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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39
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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40
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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41
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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42
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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43
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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44
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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45
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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46
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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47
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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48
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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49
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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50
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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51
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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52
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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53
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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54
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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55
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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56
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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