At these words, pronounced slowly and with emphatic1 distinctness, Féraz staggered back dizzily and sank into a chair,—drops of perspiration2 bedewed his forehead, and a sick faint feeling overcame him. He said nothing,—he could find no words in which to express his mingled3 horror and amazement4. El-Râmi watched him keenly,—and presently Féraz, looking up, caught the calm, full, and fiery5 regard of his brother’s eyes. With a smothered6 cry, he raised his hands as though to shield himself from a blow.
“I will not have it;”—he muttered faintly—“You shall not force my thoughts,—I will believe nothing against my own will. You shall no longer delude7 my eyes and ears—I have read—I know,—I know how such trickery is done!”
El-Râmi uttered an impatient exclamation8, and paced once or twice up and down the room.
“See here, Féraz;”—he said, suddenly stopping before the chair in which his brother sat,—“I swear to you that I am not exercising one iota9 of my influence upon you. When I do, I will tell you that you may be prepared to resist me if you choose. I am using no power of any kind upon you—be satisfied of that. But, as you have forced your way into the difficult labyrinth10 of my life’s work, it is as well that you should have an explanation of what seems to you full of mysterious evil and black magic. You accuse me of wickedness,—you tell me I am guilty of a deed worse than murder. Now this is mere11 rant12 and nonsense,—you speak in such utter ignorance of the facts that I forgive you, as one is bound to forgive all faults committed through sheer want of instruction. I do not think I am a wicked man”—he paused, with an earnest, almost pathetic expression on his face—“at least I strive not to be. I am ambitious and sceptical—and I am not altogether convinced of there being any real intention of ultimate good in the arrangements of this world as they at present exist,—but I work without any malicious13 intention; and without undue14 boasting I believe I am as honest and conscientious15 as the best of my kind. But that is neither here nor there,—as I said before, you have broken into a secret not intended for your knowledge—and, that you may not misunderstand me yet more thoroughly16 than you seem to do, I will tell you what I never wished to bother your brains with. For you have been very happy till now, Féraz—happy in the beautiful simplicity17 of the life you led—the life of a poet and dreamer,—the happiest life in the world!”
He broke off, with a short sigh of mingled vexation and regret—then he seated himself immediately opposite his brother and went on—
“You were too young to understand the loss it was to us both when our parents died,—or to know the immense reputation our father Nadir18 Zarânos had won throughout the East for his marvellous skill in natural science and medicine. He died in the prime of his life,—our mother followed him within a month,—and you were left to my charge,—you a child then, and I almost a man. Our father’s small but rare library came into my possession, together with his own manuscripts treating of the scientific and spiritual organisation19 of Nature in all its branches,—and these opened such extraordinary vistas20 of possibility to me, as to what might be done if such and such theories could be practically carried out and acted upon, that I became fired with the ardour of discovery. The more I studied, the more convinced and eager I became in the pursuit of such knowledge as is generally deemed supernatural, and beyond the reach of all human inquiry21. One or two delicate experiments in chemistry of a rare and subtle nature were entirely22 successful,—and by and by I began to look about for a subject on whom I could practise the power I had attained23. There was no one whom I could personally watch and surround with my hourly influence except yourself,—therefore I made my first great trial upon you.”
Féraz moved uneasily in his chair,—his face wore a doubtful, half-sullen24 expression, but he listened to El-Râmi’s every word with vivid and almost painful interest.
“At that time you were a mere boy—” pursued El-Râmi—“but strong and vigorous, and full of the mischievous25 pranks26 and sports customary to healthy boyhood. I began by slow degrees to educate you—not with the aid of schools or tutors—but simply by my Will. You had a singularly unretentive brain,—you were never fond of music—you would never read,—you had no taste for study. Your delight was to ride—to swim like a fish,—to handle a gun—to race, to leap,—to play practical jokes on other boys of your own age and fight them if they resented it;—all very amusing performances no doubt, but totally devoid27 of intelligence. Judging you dispassionately, I found that you were a very charming gamesome animal,—physically perfect—with a Mind somewhere if one could only discover it, and a Soul or Spirit behind the Mind—if one could only discover that also. I set myself the task of finding out both these hidden portions of your composition—and of not only finding them, but moulding and influencing them according to my desire and plan.”
“You are attending to me closely, I hope?” said El-Râmi pointedly—“because you must distinctly understand that this conversation is the first and last we shall have on the matter. After to-day, the subject must drop between us for ever, and I shall refuse to answer any more questions. You hear?”
“I hear—” he answered with an effort—“And what I hear seems strange and terrible!”
“Strange and terrible?” echoed El-Râmi. “How so? What is there strange or terrible in the pursuit of Wisdom? Yet—perhaps you are right, and the blank ignorance of a young child is best,—for there is something appalling31 in the infinitude of knowledge—an infinitude which must remain infinite, if it be true that there is a God who is for ever thinking, and whose thoughts become realities.”
He paused, with a rapt look,—then resumed in the same even tone,—
“When I had made up my mind to experimentalise upon you, I lost no time in commencing my work. One of my chief desires was to avoid the least risk of endangering your health—your physical condition was admirable, and I resolved to keep it so. In this I succeeded. I made life a joy to you—the mere act of breathing a pleasure—you grew up before my eyes like the vigorous sapling of an oak that rejoices in the mere expansion of its leaves to the fresh air. The other and more subtle task was harder,—it needed all my patience—all my skill,—but I was at last rewarded. Through my concentrated influence, which surrounded you as with an atmosphere in which you moved, and slept, and woke again, and which forced every fibre of your brain to respond to mine, the animal faculties32, which were strongest in you, became subdued33 and tamed,—and the mental slowly asserted themselves. I resolved you should be a poet and musician—you became both; you developed an ardent35 love of study, and every few months that passed gave richer promise of your ripening36 intelligence. Moreover, you were happy,—happy in everything—happiest perhaps in your music, which became your leading passion. Having thus, unconsciously to yourself, fostered your mind by the silent workings of my own, and trained it to grow up like a dower to the light, I thought I might make my next attempt, which was to probe for that subtle essence we call the Soul—the large wings that are hidden in the moth’s chrysalis;—and influence that too;—but there—there, by some inexplicable37 opposition38 of forces, I was baffled.”
Féraz raised himself half out of his chair, his lips parted in breathless eagerness—his eyes dilated39 and sparkling.
“Baffled?” he repeated hurriedly—“How do you mean?—in what way?”
“Oh, in various ways—” replied El-Râmi, looking at him with a somewhat melancholy40 expression—“Ways that I myself am not able to comprehend. I found I could influence your Inner Self to obey me,—but only to a very limited extent, and in mere trifles,—for example, as you yourself know, I could compel you to come to me from a certain distance in response to my thought,—but in higher things you escaped me. You became subject to long trances,—this I was prepared for, as it was partially41 my work,—and, during these times of physical unconsciousness, it was evident that your Soul enjoyed a life and liberty superior to anything these earth-regions can offer. But you could never remember all you saw in these absences,—indeed, the only suggestions you seem to have brought away from that other state of existence are the strange melodies you play sometimes, and that idea you have about your native Star.”
A curious expression flitted across Féraz’s face as he heard—and his lips parted in a slight smile, but he said nothing.
“Therefore,”—pursued his brother meditatively—“as I could get no clear exposition of other worlds from you, as I had hoped to do, I knew I had failed to command you in a spiritual sense. But my dominance over your mind continued; it continues still,—nay, my good Féraz!”—this, as Féraz seemed about to utter some impetuous word—“Pray that you may never be able to shake off my force entirely,—for, if you do, you will lose what the people of a grander and poetic42 day called Genius—and what the miserable43 Dry-as-Dusts of our modern era call Madness—the only gift of the gods that has ever served to enlighten and purify the world. But your genius, Féraz, belongs to me;—I gave it to you, and I can take it back again if I so choose;—and leave you as you originally were—a handsome animal with no more true conception of art or beauty than my Lord Melthorpe, or his spendthrift young cousin Vaughan.”
Féraz had listened thus far in silence—but now he sprang out of his chair with a reckless gesture.
“I cannot bear it!” he said—“I cannot bear it! El-Râmi, I cannot—I will not!”
“Cannot bear what?” inquired his brother with a touch of satire44 in his tone—“Pray be calm!—there is no necessity for such melodramatic excitement. Cannot bear what?”
“I will not owe everything to you!” went on Féraz passionately—“How can I endure to know that my very thoughts are not my own, but emanate45 from you?—that my music has been instilled46 into me by you?—that you possess me by your power, body and brain,—great Heaven! it is awful—intolerable—impossible!”
El-Râmi rose and laid one hand gently on his shoulder—he recoiled47 shudderingly—and the elder man sighed heavily.
“You tremble at my touch,—” he said sadly—“the touch of a hand that has never wilfully48 wrought49 you harm, but has always striven to make life beautiful to you? Well!—be it so!—you have only to say the word, Féraz, and you shall owe me nothing. I will undo50 all I have done,—and you shall reassume the existence for which Nature originally made you—an idle voluptuous51 wasting of time in sensualism and folly52. And even that form of life you must owe to Some One,—even that you must account for—to God!”
The young man’s head drooped,—a faint sense of shame stirred in him, but he was still resentful and sullen.
“What have I done to you,” went on El-Râmi, “that you should turn from me thus, all because you have seen a dead woman’s face for an hour? I have made your thoughts harmonious—I have given you pleasure such as the world’s ways cannot give—your mind has been as a clear mirror in which only the fairest visions of life were reflected. You would alter this?—then do so, if you decide thereon,—but weigh the matter well and long, before you shake off my touch, my tenderness, my care.”
“I must ask you to sit down again and hear me out patiently to the end of my story. At present I have only told you what concerns yourself—and how the failure of my experiment upon the spiritual part of your nature obliged me to seek for another subject on whom to continue my investigations54. As far as you are personally concerned, no failure is apparent—for your spirit is allowed frequent intervals55 of supernatural freedom, in which you have experiences that give you peculiar56 pleasure, though you are unable to impart them to me with positive lucidity57. You visit a Star—so you say—with which you really seem to have some home connection—but you never get beyond this, so that it would appear that any higher insight is denied you. Now what I needed to obtain was not only a higher insight, but the highest knowledge that could possibly be procured58 through a mingled combination of material and spiritual essences, and it was many a long and weary day before I found what I sought. At last my hour came—as it comes to all who have the patience and fortitude59 to wait for it.”
He paused a moment—then went on more quickly—
“You remember of course that occasion on which we chanced upon a party of Arab wanderers who were journeying across the Syrian desert?—all poor and ailing60, and almost destitute61 of food or water?”
“I remember it perfectly62!” and Féraz, seating himself opposite his brother again, listened with renewed interest and attention.
“They had two dying persons with them,” continued El-Râmi—“An elderly woman—a widow, known as Zaroba,—the other an orphan63 girl of about twelve years of age named Lilith. Both were perishing of fever and famine. I came to the rescue. I saved Zaroba,—and she, with the passionate28 impulsiveness64 of her race, threw herself in gratitude65 at my feet, and swore by all her most sacred beliefs that she would be my slave from henceforth as long as she lived. All her people were dead, she told me—she was alone in the world—she prayed me to let her be my faithful servant. And truly, her fidelity66 has never failed—till now. But of that hereafter. The child Lilith, more fragile of frame and weakened to the last extremity67 of exhaustion—in spite of my unremitting care—died. Do you thoroughly understand me—she died.”
“She died!” repeated Féraz slowly—“Well—what then?”
“I was supporting her in my arms”—said El-Râmi, the ardour of his description growing upon him, and his black eyes dilating68 and burning like great jewels under the darkness of his brows—“when she drew her last breath and sank back—a corpse69. But before her flesh had time to stiffen,—before the warmth had gone out of her blood,—an idea, wild and daring, flashed across my mind. ‘If this child has a Soul,’ I said to myself—‘I will stay it in its flight from hence! It shall become the new Ariel of my wish and will—and not till it has performed my bidding to the utmost extent will I, like another Prospero, give it its true liberty. And I will preserve the body, its mortal shell, by artificial means, that through its medium I may receive the messages of the Spirit in mortal language such as I am able to understand.’ No sooner had I conceived my bold project than I proceeded to carry it into execution. I injected into the still warm veins70 of the dead girl a certain fluid whose properties I alone know the working of—and then I sought and readily obtained permission from the Arabs to bury her in the desert, while they went on their way. They were in haste to continue their journey, and were grateful to me for taking this office off their hands. That very day—the day the girl died—I sent you from me, as you know, bidding you make all possible speed, on an errand which I easily invented, to the Brethren of the Cross in the Island of Cyprus,—you went obediently enough,—surprised perhaps, but suspecting nothing. That same evening, when the heats abated71 and the moon rose, the caravan72 resumed its pilgrimage, leaving Lilith’s dead body with me, and also the woman Zaroba, who volunteered to remain and serve me in my tent, an offer which I accepted, seeing that it was her own desire, and that she would be useful to me. She, poor silly soul, took me then for a sort of god, because she was unable to understand the miracle of her own recovery from imminent73 death, and I felt certain I could rely upon her fidelity. Part of my plan I told her,—she heard with mingled fear and reverence,—the magic of the East was in her blood, however, and she had a superstitious74 belief that a truly ‘wise man’ could do anything. So, for several days we stayed encamped in the desert—I passing all my hours beside the dead Lilith,—dead, but to a certain extent living through artificial means. As soon as I received proof positive that my experiment was likely to be successful, I procured means to continue my journey on to Alexandria, and thence to England. To all inquirers I said the girl was a patient of mine who was suffering from epileptic trances, and the presence of Zaroba, who filled her post admirably as nurse and attendant, was sufficient to stop the mouths of would-be scandal-mongers. I chose my residence in London, because it is the largest city in the world, and the one most suited to pursue a course of study in, without one’s motives75 becoming generally known. One can be more alone in London than in a desert if one chooses. Now, you know all. You have seen the dead Lilith,—the human chrysalis of the moth,—but there is a living Lilith too—the Soul of Lilith, which is partly free and partly captive, but in both conditions is always the servant of my Will!”
“El-Râmi,”—he said tremulously—“What you tell me is wonderful—terrible—almost beyond belief,—but, I know something of your power and I must believe you. Only—surely you are in error when you say that Lilith is dead? How can she be dead, if you have given her life?”
“Can you call that life which sleeps perpetually and will not wake?” demanded El-Râmi.
“Would you have her wake?” asked Féraz, his heart beating quickly.
El-Râmi bent his burning gaze upon him.
“Not so,—for if she wakes, in the usual sense of waking—she dies a second death from which there can be no recall. There is the terror of the thing. Zaroba’s foolish teaching, and your misguided yielding to her temptation, might have resulted in the fatal end to my life’s best and grandest work. But—I forgive you;—you did not know,—and she—she did not wake.”
“She did not wake,” echoed Féraz softly. “No—but—she smiled!”
El-Râmi still kept his eyes fixed77 upon him,—there was an odd sense of irritation78 in his usually calm and coldly balanced organisation—a feeling he strove in vain to subdue34. She smiled!—the exquisite79 Lilith—the life-in-death Lilith smiled, because Féraz had called her by some endearing name! Surely it could not be!—and, smothering80 his annoyance81, he turned towards the writing-table and feigned82 to arrange some books and papers there.
“El-Râmi—” murmured Féraz again, but timidly—“If she was a child when she died as you say—how is it she has grown to womanhood?”
“By artificial vitality83,”—said El-Râmi—“As a flower is forced under a hothouse,—and with no more trouble, and less consciousness of effort than a rose under a glass dome84.”
“Then she lives,—” declared Féraz impetuously. “She lives,—artificial or natural, she has vitality. Through your power she exists, and if you chose, oh, if you chose, El-Râmi, you could wake her to the fullest life—to perfect consciousness,—to joy—to love!—Oh, she is in a blessed trance—you cannot call her dead!”
“Be silent!” he said sternly—“I read your thoughts,—control them, if you are wise! You echo Zaroba’s prating—Zaroba’s teaching. Lilith is dead, I tell you,—dead to you,—and, in the sense you mean—dead to me.”
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1
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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thoroughly
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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nadir
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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pranks
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devoid
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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49
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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51
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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52
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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53
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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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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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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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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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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