He found him quietly seated in the study, close beside the window, which he had thrown open for air. The rain had ceased,—a few stars shone out in the misty1 sky, and there was a fresh smell of earth and grass and flowers, as though all were suddenly growing together by some new impetus2.
“‘The winter is past,—the rain is over and gone!—Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!’” quoted the monk3 softly, half to himself and half to El-Râmi as he saw the latter enter the room—“Even in this great and densely-peopled city of London, Nature sends her messengers of spring—see here!”
And he held out on his hand a delicate insect with shining iridescent5 wings that glistened6 like jewels.
“This creature flew in as I opened the window,” he continued, surveying it tenderly. “What quaint7 and charming stories of Flower-land it could tell us if we could but understand its language! Of the poppy-palaces, and rose-leaf saloons coloured through by the kindly8 sun,—of the loves of the ladybirds and the political controversies9 of the bees! How dare we make a boast of wisdom!—this tiny denizen10 of air baffles us—it knows more than we do.”
“With regard to the things of its own sphere it knows more, doubtless,” said El-Râmi—“but concerning our part of creation it knows less. These things are equally balanced. You seem to me to be more of a poet than either a devotee or a scientist.”
“Perhaps I am!” and the monk smiled, as he carefully wafted11 the pretty insect out into the darkness of the night again—“Yet poets are often the best scientists, because they never know they are scientists. They arrive by a sudden intuition at the facts which it takes several Professors Dry-as-Dust years to discover. When once you feel you are a scientist, it is all over with you. You are a clever biped who has got hold of a crumb12 out of the universal loaf, and for all your days afterwards you are turning that crumb over and over under your analytical13 lens. But a poet takes up the whole loaf unconsciously, and hands portions of it about at haphazard14 and with the abstracted behaviour of one in a dream,—a wild and extravagant15 process,—but then, what would you?—his nature could not do with a crumb. No—I dare not call myself ‘poet’; if I gave myself any title at all, I would say, with all humbleness16, that I am a sympathiser.”
“You do not sympathise with me,” observed El-Râmi gloomily.
“My friend, at the immediate17 moment, you do not need my sympathy. You are sufficient for yourself. But, should you ever make a claim upon me, be sure I shall not fail.”
He spoke18 earnestly and cheerily, and smiled,—but El-Râmi did not return the smile. He was bending over a deep drawer in his writing-table, and after a little search he took out two bulky rolls of manuscript tied and sealed.
“Look there!” he said, indicating the titles with an air of triumph.
The monk obeyed and read aloud:
“‘The Inhabitants of Sirius. Their Laws, Customs and Progress.’ Well?”
“Well!” echoed El-Râmi.—“Is such information, gained from Lilith in her wanderings, of no value?”
The monk made no direct reply, but read the title of the second MS.
“‘The World of Neptune20. How it is composed of One Thousand Distinct Nations, united under one reigning21 Emperor, known at the present era as Ustalvian the Tenth.’ And again I say—well? What of all this, except to hazard the remark that Ustalvian is a great creature, and supports his responsibilities admirably?”
“Surely it must interest you?” he said.—“Surely you cannot have known these things positively24——”
“Stop, stop, my friend!” interposed the monk—“Do you know them positively? Do you accept any of Lilith’s news as positive? Come,—you are honest—confess you do not! You cannot believe her, though you are puzzled to make out as to where she obtains information which has certainly nothing to do with this world, or any external impression. And that is why she is really a sphinx to you still, in spite of your power over her. As for being interested, of course I am interested. It is impossible not to be interested in everything, even in the development of a grub. But you have not made any discovery that is specially25 new—to me. I have my own messenger!” He raised his eyes one moment with a brief devout26 glance—then resumed quietly—“There are other ‘detached’ spirits, besides that of your Lilith, who have found their way to some of the planets, and have returned to tell the tale. In one of our monasteries27 we have a very exact description of Mars obtained in this same way—its landscapes, its cities, its people, its various nations—all very concisely28 given. These are but the beginnings of discoveries—the feeling for the clue,—the clue itself will be found one day.”
“The clue to what?” demanded El-Râmi. “To the stellar mysteries, or to Life’s mystery?”
“To everything!” replied the monk firmly. “To everything that seems unclear and perplexing now. It will all be unravelled29 for us in such a simple way that we shall wonder why we did not discover it before. As I told you, my friend, I am, above all things, a sympathiser. I sympathise—God knows how deeply and passionately,—with what I may call the unexplained woe30 of the world. The other day I visited a poor fellow who had lost his only child. He told me he could believe in nothing,—he said that what people call the goodness of God was only cruelty. ‘Why take this boy?’ he cried, rocking the pretty little corpse31 to and fro on his breast—‘Why rob me of the chief thing I had to live for? Oh, if I only knew—as positively as I know day is day, and night is night—that I should see my living child again, and possess his love in another world than this, should I repine as I do? No,—I should believe in God’s wisdom,—and I should try to be a good man instead of a bad. But it is because I do not know, that I am broken-hearted. If there is a God, surely He might have given us some little certain clue by way of help and comfort!’ Thus he wailed,—and my heart ached for him. Nevertheless, the clue is to be had,—and I believe it will be found suddenly in some little, deeply-hidden unguessed law,—we are on the track of it, and I fancy we shall soon find it.”
“Ah!—and what of the millions of creatures who, in the bygone eras, having no clue, have passed away without any sort of comfort?” asked El-Râmi.
“Nature takes time to manifest her laws,” replied the monk.—“And it must be remembered that what we call ‘time’ is not Nature’s counting at all. The method Nature has of counting time may be faintly guessed by proven scientific fact,—as, for instance, take the comet which appeared in 1744. Strict mathematicians32 calculated that this brilliant world (for it is a world) needs 122,683 years to perform one single circuit! And yet the circuit of a comet is surely not so much time to allow for God and Nature to declare a meaning!”
“All the same, it is horrible to think of,” he said.—“All those enormous periods,—those eternal vastnesses! For, during the 122,683 years we die, and pass into the silence.”
“Into the silence or the explanation?” queried34 the monk softly.—“For there is an Explanation,—and we are all bound to know it at some time or other, else Creation would be but a poor and bungling35 business.”
“If we are bound to know,” said El-Râmi, “then every living creature is bound to know, since every living creature suffers cruelly, in wretched ignorance of the cause of its suffering. To every atom, no matter how infinitely36 minute, must be given this ‘explanation,’—to dogs and birds as well as men—nay, even to flowers must be declared the meaning of the mystery.”
“Unless the flowers know already!” suggested the monk with a smile.—“Which is quite possible!”
“Oh, everything is ‘possible’ according to your way of thinking,” said El-Râmi somewhat impatiently. “If one is a visionary, one would scarcely be surprised to see the legended ‘Jacob’s ladder’ leaning against that dark midnight sky and the angels descending37 and ascending38 upon it. And so—” here he touched the two rolls of manuscript lying on the table, “you find no use in these?”
“I personally have no use for them,” responded his guest, “but, as you desire it, I will take charge of them and place them in safe keeping at the monastery39. Every little link helps to forge the chain of discovery, of course. By the way, while on this subject, I must not forget to speak to you about poor old Kremlin. I had a letter from him about two months ago. I very much fear that famous disc of his will be his ruin.”
“Such an intimation will console him vastly!” observed El-Râmi sarcastically40.
“Consolation has nothing to do with the matter. If a man rushes wilfully41 into danger, danger will not move itself out of the way for him. I always told Kremlin that his proposed design was an unsafe one, even before he went out to Africa fifteen years ago in search of the magnetic spar—a crystalline formation whose extraordinary reflection-power he learned from me. However, it must be admitted that he has come marvellously close to the unravelling42 of the enigma43 at which he works. And when you see him next you may tell him from me that if he can—mind, it is a very big ‘if’—if he can follow the movements of the Third Ray on his disc he will be following the signals from Mars. To make out the meaning of those signals is quite another matter—but he can safely classify them as the light-vibrations from that particular planet.”
“How is he to tell which is the Third Ray that falls, among a fleeting44 thousand?” asked El-Râmi dubiously45.
“It will be difficult of course, but he can try,” returned the monk.—“Let him first cover the disc with thick, dark drapery, and then, when it is face to face with the stars in the zenith, uncover it quickly, keeping his eyes fixed46 on its surface. In one minute there will be three distinct flashes—the third is from Mars. Let him endeavour to follow that third ray in its course on the disc, and probably he will arrive at something worth remark. This suggestion I offer by way of assisting him, for his patient labour is both wonderful and pathetic,—but,—it would be far better and wiser were he to resign his task altogether. Yet—who knows!—the ordained47 end may be the best!”
“And do you know this ‘ordained end’?” questioned El-Râmi.
The monk met his incredulous gaze calmly.
“I know it as I know yours,” he replied. “As I know my own, and the end (or beginning) of all those who are, or who have been, in any way connected with my life and labours.”
“How can you know!” exclaimed El-Râmi brusquely.—“Who is there to tell you these things that are surely hidden in the future?”
“Even as a picture already hangs in an artist’s brain before it is painted,” said the monk,—“so does every scene of each human unit’s life hang, embryo-like, in air and space, in light and colour. Explanations of these things are well-nigh impossible—it is not given to mortal speech to tell them. One must see,—and to see clearly, one must not become wilfully blind.” He paused,—then added—“For instance, El-Râmi, I would that you could see this room as I see it.”
El-Râmi looked about half carelessly, half wonderingly.
“And do I not?” he asked.
The monk stretched out his hand.
“Tell me first,—is there anything visible between this my extended arm and you?”
El-Râmi shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Whereupon the monk raised his eyes, and in a low thrilling voice said solemnly—
“O God with whom Thought is Creation and Creation Thought, for one brief moment be pleased to lift material darkness from the sight of this man Thy subject-creature, and by Thy sovereign-power permit him to behold48 with mortal eyes, in mortal life, Thy deathless Messenger!”
Scarcely had these words been pronounced than El-Râmi was conscious of a blinding flash of fire as though sudden lightning had struck the room from end to end. Confused and dazzled, he instinctively49 covered his eyes with his hand, then removing it, looked up, stupefied, speechless, and utterly50 overwhelmed at what he saw. Clear before him stood a wondrous51 Shape, seemingly human, yet unlike humanity,—a creature apparently52 composed of radiant colour, from whose transcendent form great shafts53 of gold and rose and purple spread upward and around in glowing lines of glory. This marvellous Being stood, or rather was poised54 in a steadfast55 attitude, between him, El-Râmi, and the monk,—its luminous56 hands were stretched out on either side as though to keep those twain asunder—its starry57 eyes expressed an earnest watchfulness—its majestic58 patience never seemed to tire. A thing of royal stateliness and power, it stayed there immovable, parting with its radiant intangible Presence the two men who gazed upon it, one with fearless, reverent59, yet accustomed eyes—the other with a dazzled and bewildered stare. Another moment and El-Râmi at all risks would have spoken,—but that the Shining Figure lifted its light-crowned head and gazed at him. The wondrous look appalled60 him,—unnerved him,—the straight, pure brilliancy and limpid61 lustre62 of those unearthly orbs63 sent shudders64 through him,—he gasped65 for breath—thrust out his hands, and fell on his knees in a blind, unconscious, swooning act of adoration66, mingled67 with a sense of awe19 and something like despair,—when a dense4 chill darkness as of death closed over him, and he remembered nothing more.
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1
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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6
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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9
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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10
denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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15
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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17
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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18
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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19
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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24
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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34
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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41
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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42
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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43
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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44
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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46
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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47
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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48
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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49
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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52
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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53
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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54
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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55
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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56
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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57
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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58
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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59
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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60
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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63
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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64
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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65
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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66
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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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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