Next day towards noon, while Féraz, tired with his brief “worldly” experiences, was still sleeping. El-Râmi sought out Zaroba. She received him in the ante-room of the chamber1 of Lilith with more than her customary humility2; her face was dark and weary, and her whole aspect one of resigned and settled melancholy3. El-Râmi looked at her kindly4, and with compassion5.
“The sustaining of wrath6 is an injury to the spirit,” he wrote on the slate7 which served for that purpose in his usual way of communication with her; “I no longer mistrust you. Once more I say, be faithful and obedient. I ask no more. The spell of silence shall be lifted from your lips to-day.”
She read swiftly, and with apparent incredulity, and a tremor8 passed over her tall, gaunt frame. She looked at him wonderingly and wistfully, while he, standing10 before her, returned the look steadfastly11, and seemed to be concentrating all his thoughts upon her with some fixed12 intention. After a minute or two he turned aside, and again wrote on the slate; this time the words ran thus:
“Speak; you are at liberty.”
With a deep shuddering13 sigh, she extended her hands appealingly.
“Master!” she exclaimed; and, before he could prevent her, she had dropped on her knees. “Forgive—forgive!” she muttered. “Terrible is thy power, O El-Râmi, ruler of spirits! terrible, mystic, and wonderful! God must have given thee thy force, and I am but the meanest of slaves to rebel against thy command. Yet out of wisdom comes not happiness, but great grief and pain; and as I live, El-Râmi, in my rebellion I but dreamed of a love that should bring thee joy! Pardon the excess of my zeal14, for lo, again and yet again I swear fidelity15! and may all the curses of heaven fall on me if this time I break my vow16!”
She bent17 her head—she would have kissed the floor at his feet, but that he quickly raised her up and prevented her.
“There is nothing more to pardon,” he wrote. “Your wisdom is possibly greater than mine. I know there is nothing stronger than Love, nothing better perhaps; but Love is my foe18 whom I must vanquish19,—lest he should vanquish me!”
And while Zaroba yet pored over these words, her black eyes dilating20 with amazement21 at the half confession22 of weakness implied in them, he turned away and left the room.
That afternoon a pleasant sense of peace and restfulness seemed to settle upon the little household; delicious strains of melody filled the air; Féraz, refreshed in mind and body by a sound sleep, was seated at the piano, improvising23 strange melodies in his own exquisitely24 wild and tender fashion; while El-Râmi, seated at his writing-table, indited25 a long letter to Dr. Kremlin at Ilfracombe, giving in full the message left for him by the mysterious monk26 from Cyprus respecting the “Third Ray” or signal from Mars.
“Do not weary yourself too much with watching this phenomenon,” he wrote to his friend. “From all accounts, it will be a difficult matter to track so rapid a flash on the Disc as the one indicated, and I have fears for your safety. I cannot give any satisfactory cause for my premonition of danger to you in the attempt, because, if we do not admit an end to anything, then there can be no danger even in death itself, which we are accustomed to look upon as an ‘end,’ when it may be proved to be only a beginning. But, putting aside the idea of ‘danger’ or ‘death,’ the premonition remains27 in my mind as one of ‘change’ for you; and perhaps you are not ready or willing even to accept a different sphere of action from your present one, therefore I would say, take heed28 to yourself when you follow the track of the ‘Third Ray.’”
If you are weary of the ways of love,
And fain would end the many cares thereof,
I prithee tell me so that I may seek
Some place to die in ere I grow too weak
To look my last on your belovèd face.
Yea, tell me all! The gods may yet have grace
And pity enough to let me quickly die
Some brief while after we have said ‘Good-bye!’
You have grown tired of all tender ways;
Love’s kisses weary you, love’s eager words,
Old as the hills and sweet as singing-birds,
You will lose little joy in losing me;
Let me depart, remembering only this,
That once you loved me, and that once your kiss
Through all my life till that brief life be past.
Forget me, Sweetest-heart, and nevermore
Turn to look back on what has gone before,
The past is past for ever; have no care
Or thought for me at all, no tear or sigh,
Or faint regret; for, Dearest, I shall die
And dream of you i’ the dark, beneath the grass;
And o’er my head perchance your feet may pass,
Among the fairies of the fruitful ground.
Love, wearied out by love, hath need of rest.
And, when all love is ended, Death is best.
The song ceased; but, though the singer’s voice no longer charmed the silence, his fingers still wandered over the keys of the piano, devising intricate passages of melody as delicate and devious37 as the warbling of nightingales. El-Râmi, unconsciously to himself, heaved a deep sigh, and Féraz, hearing it, looked round.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
“No. I love to hear you; but, like many youthful poets, you sing of what you scarcely understand—love, for instance; you know nothing of love.”
“I imagine I do,” replied Féraz meditatively39. “I can picture my ideal woman; she is——”
“Fair, of course!” said El-Râmi, with an indulgent smile.
“Yes, fair; her hair must be golden, but not uniformly so—full of lights and shadows, suggestive of some halo woven round her brows by the sunlight, or the caressing40 touch of an angel. She must have deep, sweet eyes in which no actual colour is predominant; for a pronounced blue or black does away with warmth of expression. She must not be tall, for one cannot caress41 tall women without a sense of the ludicrous spoiling sentiment——”
“Have you tried it?” asked El-Râmi, laughing.
Féraz laughed too.
“You know I have not; I only imagine the situation. To explain more fully9 what I mean, I would say one could more readily draw into one’s arms the Venus of Medicis than that of Milo—one could venture to caress a Psyche42, but scarcely a Juno. I have never liked the idea of tall women; they are like big handsome birds—useful, no doubt, but not half so sweet as the little fluttering singing ones.”
“Well, and what other attributes must this imagined lady of yours possess?” asked El-Râmi, vaguely43 amused at his brother’s earnestness.
“Oh, many more charms than I could enumerate,” replied Féraz. “And of one thing I am certain, she is not to be found on this earth. But I am quite satisfied to wait; I shall find her, even as she will find me some day. Meanwhile I ‘imagine’ love, and in imagination I almost feel it.”
He went on playing, and El-Râmi resumed the writing of his letter to Kremlin, which he soon finished and addressed ready for post. A gentle knock at the street door made itself heard just then through the ebb44 and flow of Féraz’s music, and Féraz left off his improvisation45 abruptly and went to answer the summons. He returned, and announced with some little excitement:
“Madame Irene Vassilius.”
El-Râmi rose and advanced to meet his fair visitor, bowing courteously46.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Madame,” he said, the sincerity47 of his welcome showing itself in the expression of his face, “and an unmerited honour for which I am grateful.”
She smiled, allowing her hand to rest in his for a moment; then, accepting the low chair which Féraz placed for her near his brother’s writing-table, she seated herself, and lifted her eyes to El-Râmi’s countenance—eyes which, like those of Féraz’s “ideal ladye-love,” were “deep and sweet, and of no pronounced colour.”
“I felt you would not resent my coming here as an intrusion,” she began; “but my visit is not one of curiosity. I do not want to probe you as to your knowledge of my past, or to ask you anything as to my future. I am a lonely creature, disliked by many people, and in the literary career I have adopted I fight a desperately48 hard battle, and often crave49 for a little—just a little sympathetic comprehension. One or two questions puzzle me which you might answer if you would. They are on almost general subjects; but I should like to have your opinion.”
“Madame, if you, with your exceptional gifts of insight and instinct, are baffled in these ‘general’ questions,” said El-Râmi, “shall not I be baffled also?”
“That does not follow,” replied Irene, returning his glance steadily50, “for you men always claim to be wiser than women. I do not agree with this fiat51, so absolutely set forth52 by the lords of creation; yet I am not what is termed ‘strong-minded,’ I simply seek justice. Pray stay with us,” she added, turning to Féraz, who was about to retire, as he usually did whenever El-Râmi held an interview with any visitor; “there is no occasion for you to go away.”
Féraz hesitated, glancing at his brother.
“Yes, by all means remain here, Féraz,” said El-Râmi gently, “since Madame Vassilius desires it.”
Delighted with the permission, Féraz ensconced himself in a corner with a book, pretending to read, but in reality listening to every word of the conversation. He liked to hear Irene’s voice—it was singularly sweet and ringing, and at times had a peculiar53 thrill of pathos54 in it that went straight to the heart.
“You know,” she went on, “that I am, or am supposed to be, what the world calls ‘famous.’ That is, I write books which the public clamour for and read, and for which I receive large sums of money. I am able to live well, dress well, and look well, and I am known as one of society’s ‘celebrities.’ Well, now, can you tell me why, for such poor honours as these, men, supposed to be our wiser and stronger superiors, are so spitefully jealous of a woman’s fame?”
“I mean what I say,” continued Madame Vassilius calmly; “neither more nor less. Spitefully jealous is the term I used. Explain to me this riddle57: Why do men encourage women to every sort of base folly58 and vanity that may lead them at length to become the slaves of man’s lust59 and cruelty, and yet take every possible means to oppose and hinder them in their attempts to escape from sensuality and animalism into intellectual progress and pre-eminence? In looking back on the history of all famous women, from Sappho downwards60 to the present time, it is amazing to consider what men have said of them. Always a sneer61 at ‘women’s work.’ And, if praise is at any time given, how grudging62 and half-hearted it is! Men will enter no protest against women who uncover their bare limbs to the public gaze and dance lewdly63 in music-halls and theatres for the masculine delectation; they will defend the street prostitute; they will pledge themselves and their family estates in order to provide jewels for the newest ‘ballerina’; but for the woman of intellect they have nothing but a shrug64 of contempt. If she produces a great work of art in literature, it is never thoroughly65 acknowledged; and the hard blows delivered on Charlotte Bronté, George Eliot, Georges Sand, and others of their calibre, far outweighed66 their laurels67. George Eliot and Georges Sand took men’s names in order to shelter themselves a little from the pitiless storm that assails68 literary work known to emanate69 from a woman’s brain; but let a man write the veriest trash that ever was printed, he will still be accredited70 by his own sex with something better than ever the cleverest woman could compass. How is it that the ‘superior’ sex are cowardly enough to throw stones at those among the ‘inferior,’ who surpass their so-called lords and masters both in chastity and intellect?”
She spoke71 earnestly, her eyes shining with emotion; she looked lovely, thus inspired by the strength of her inward feelings. El-Râmi was taken aback. Like most Orientals, he had to a certain extent despised women and their work. But, then, what of Lilith? Without her aid would his discoveries in spiritual science have progressed so far? Had he or any man a right to call woman the “inferior” sex?
“Madame,” he said slowly and with a vague embarrassment72, “you bring an accusation73 against our sex which it is impossible to refute, because it is simply and undeniably true. Men do not love either chastity or intellect in women.”
He paused, looking at her, then went on:
“A chaste74 woman is an embodied75 defiance76 and reproach to man; an intellectual woman is always a source of irritation77, because she is invariably his superior. By this I mean that when a woman is thoroughly gifted she is gifted all round; an intellectual man is generally only gifted in one direction. For example, a great poet, painter, or musician, may be admirable in his own line, but he generally lacks in something; he is stupid, perhaps, in conversation, or he blunders in some way by want of tact78; but a truly brilliant woman has all the charms of mental superiority, generally combined with delicate touches of satire79, humour, and wit,—points which she uses to perfection against the lumbering80 animal Man, with the result that she succeeds in pricking81 him in all his most vulnerable parts. He detests82 her accordingly, and flies for consolation84 to the empty-headed dolls of the music-hall, who flatter him to the top of his bent, in order to get as much champagne85 and as many diamonds as they can out of him. Man must be adored; he insists upon it, even if he pays for it!”
“It is a pity he does not make himself a little more worthy86 of adoration,” said Irene, with a slight scornful smile.
“It is,” agreed El-Râmi; “but most men, even the ugliest and stupidest, consider themselves perfect.”
“Do you?” she asked suddenly.
“Do I consider myself perfect?” El-Râmi smiled and reflected on this point. “Madame, if I am frank with you, and with myself, I must answer ‘Yes!’ I am made of the same clay as all my sex, and consider myself worthy to be the conqueror87 of any woman under the sun! Ask any loathsome88, crooked-backed dwarf89 that sweeps a crossing for his livelihood90, and his idea of his own personal charm will be the same.”
“You can never eradicate92 from the masculine nature,” proceeded El-Râmi, “the idea that our attentions, no matter how uncouth93, are, and always must be, agreeable to the feminine temperament94. Here you have the whole secret of the battle carried on by men against women who have won the prize of a world-wide fame. An intellectual woman sets a barrier between herself and the beasts; the beasts howl, but cannot leap it; hence their rage. You, Madame, are not only intellectual, but lovely to look at; you stand apart, a crowned queen, seeking no assistance from men; by your very manner you imply your scorn of their low and base desires. They must detest83 you in self-defence; most of your adverse95 critics are the poorly-paid hacks96 of the daily journals, who envy you your house, your horses, your good fortune, and your popularity with the public; if you want them to admire you, go in for a big scandal. Run away with some blackguard; have several husbands; do something to tarnish97 your woman’s reputation; be a vulture or a worm, not a star; men do not care for stars, they are too distant, too cold, too pure!”
“Are you speaking satirically,” asked Madame Vassilius, “or in grim earnest?”
“In grim earnest, fair lady,” and El-Râmi rose from his chair and confronted her with a half-smile. “In grim earnest, men are brutes98! The statement is one which is frequently made by what is called the ‘Shrieking Sisterhood’; but I, a man, agree to it in cold blood, without conditions. We are stupid brutes; we work well in gangs, but not so well singly. As soldiers, sailors, builders, engineers, labourers, all on the gang method, we are admirable. The finest paintings of the world were produced by bodies of men working under one head, called ‘schools,’ but differing from our modern ‘schools’ in this grand exception, that, whereas now each pupil tries his hand at something of his own, then all the pupils worked at the one design of the Master. Thus were painted the frescoes100 of Michael Angelo, and the chief works of Raphael. Now the rule is ‘every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost.’ And very poorly does ‘each man for himself’ succeed. Men must always be helped along, either by each other—or ... by ... a woman! Many of them owe all their success in life to the delicate management and patient tact of woman, and yet never have the grace to own it. Herein we are thankless brutes as well as stupid. But, as far as I personally am concerned, I am willing to admit that all my best discoveries, such as they are, are due to the far-reaching intelligence and pure insight of a woman.”
“Then,” she said, smiling slightly, “of course you love some one?”
A shadow swept over El-Râmi’s features.
“No, Madame; I am not capable of love, as this world understands loving. Love has existence, no doubt, but surely not as Humanity accepts it. For example, a man loves a woman; she dies; he gradually forgets her, and loves another, and so on. That is not love, but it is what society is satisfied with, as such. You are quite right to despise such a fleeting103 emotion for yourself; it is not sufficient for the demands of your nature; you seek something more lasting104.”
“Which I shall never find,” said Irene quietly.
“Which you will find, and which you must find,” declared El-Râmi. “All longings105, however vague, whether evil or good, are bound to be fulfilled, there being no waste in the economy of the universe. This is why it is so necessary to weigh well the results of desire before encouraging it. I quite understand your present humour, Madame—it is one of restlessness and discontent. You find your crown of fame has thorns; never mind! wear it royally, though the blood flows from the torn brows. You are solitary106 at times, and find the solitude107 irksome; Art serves her children thus—she will accept no half-love, but takes all. Were I asked to name one of the most fortunate of women, I think I should name you, for, notwithstanding the progress of your intellectual capacity, you have kept your faith.”
“I have kept my religion, if you mean that,” said Irene, impressed by his earnestness; “but it is not the religion of the churches.”
He gave an impatient gesture.
“The religion of the churches is a mere108 Show-Sunday,” he returned. “We all know that. When I say you have kept your faith, I mean that you can believe in God without positive proofs of Him. That is a grand capability109 in this age. I wish I had it!”
Irene Vassilius looked at him wonderingly.
“Surely you believe in God?”
“Not till I can prove Him!” and El-Râmi’s eyes flashed defiantly110. “Vice triumphant111, and Virtue112 vanquished113, do not explain Him to me. Torture and death do not manifest to my spirit His much-talked-of ‘love and goodness.’ I must unriddle His secret; I must pierce into the heart of His plan, before I join the enforced laudations of the multitude; I must know and feel that it is the truth I am proclaiming, before I stand up in the sight of my fellows and say, ‘O God, Thou art the Fountain of Goodness, and all Thy works are wise and wonderful!’”
He spoke with remarkable114 power and emphasis; his attitude was full of dignity. Madame Vassilius gazed at him in involuntary admiration115.
“It is a bold spirit that undertakes to catechise the Creator and examine into the value of His creation,” she said.
“If there is a Creator,” said El-Râmi, “and if from Him all things do come, then from Him also comes my spirit of inquiry116. I have no belief in a devil, but, if there were one, the Creator is answerable for him, too. And to revert117 again to your questions, Madame, shall we not in a way make God somewhat responsible for the universal prostitution of woman? It is a world-wide crime, and only very slight attempts as yet have been made to remedy it, because the making of the laws is in the hands of men—the criminals. The Englishman, the European generally, is as great a destroyer of woman’s life and happiness as any Turk or other barbarian118. The life of the average woman is purely119 animal; in her girlhood she is made to look attractive, and her days pass into the consideration of dress, appearance, manner, and conversation; when she has secured her mate, her next business is to bear him children. The children reared, and sent out into the world, she settles down into old age, wrinkled, fat, toothless, and frequently quarrelsome; the whole of her existence is not a grade higher than that of a leopardess or other forest creature, and sometimes not so exciting. When a woman rises above all this, she is voted by the men ‘unwomanly’; she is no longer the slave or the toy of their passions; and that is why, my dear Madame, they give the music-hall dancer their diamonds, and heap upon you their sneers120.”
Irene sat silent for some minutes, and a sigh escaped her.
“Then it is no use trying to be a little different from the rest,” she said wearily; “a little higher, a little less prone121 to vulgarity? If one must be hated for striving to be worthy of one’s vocation122——”
“My dear lady, you do not see that men will never admit that literature is your vocation! No, not even if you wrote as grand a tragedy as ‘Macbeth.’ Your vocation, according to them, is to adore their sex, to look fascinating, to wear pretty clothes, and purr softly like a pleased cat when they make you a compliment; not to write books that set everybody talking. They would rather see you dragged and worn to death under the burden of half a dozen children, than they would see you stepping disdainfully past them, in all the glory of fame. Yet be content,—you have, like Mary in the Gospel, ‘chosen the better part;’ of that I feel sure, though I am unable to tell you why or how I feel it.”
“If you feel sure of certain things without being able to explain how or why you feel them,” put in Féraz suddenly, “is it not equally easy to feel sure of God without being able to explain how or why He exists?”
“Admirably suggested, my dear Féraz,” observed El-Râmi, with a slight smile. “But please recollect123 that, though it may be easy to you and a fair romancist like Madame Vassilius to feel sure of God, it is not at all easy to me. I am not sure of Him; I have not seen Him, and I am not conscious of Him. Moreover, if an average majority of people taken at random124 could be persuaded to speak the truth for once in their lives, they would all say the same thing—that they are not conscious of Him. Because if they were—if the world were—the emotion of fear would be altogether annihilated125; there would never be any ‘panic’ about anything; people would not shriek99 and wail126 at the terrors of an earthquake, or be seized with pallor and trembling at the crash and horror of an unexpected storm. Being sure of God would mean being sure of Good; and I’m afraid none of us are convinced in that direction. But I think and believe that, if we indeed felt sure of God, evil would be annihilated as well as fear. And the mystery is, why does He not make us sure of Him? It must be in His power to do so, and would save both Him and us an infinite deal of trouble.”
Féraz grew restless and left his place, laying down the volume he had been pretending to read.
“I wish you would not be so horribly, cruelly definite in your suggestions,” he said rather vexedly. “What is the good of it? It unsettles one’s mind.”
“Surely your mind is not unsettled by a merely reasonable idea reasonably suggested?” returned El-Râmi calmly. “Madame Vassilius here is not ‘unsettled,’ as you call it.”
“No,” said Irene slowly; “but I had thought you more of a spiritual believer——”
“Madame,” said El-Râmi impressively, “I am a spiritual believer, but in this way: I believe that this world and all worlds are composed of Spirit and Matter, and not only do I believe it, but I know it! The atmosphere around us and all planets is composed of Spirit and Matter; and every living creature that breathes is made of the same dual102 mixture. Of the Spirit that forms part of Matter and dominates it, I, even I have some control; and others who come after me, treading in the same lines of thought, will have more than I. I can influence the spirit of man; I can influence the spirit of the air; I can draw an essence from the earth upwards127 that shall seem to you like the wraith128 of some one dead; but if you ask me whether these provable, practicable scientific tests or experiments on the spirit, that is part of Nature’s very existence, are manifestations129 of God or the Divine, I say—No. God would not permit Man to play at will with His eternal Fires; whereas, with the spirit essence that can be chemically drawn130 from earth and fire and water, I, a mere studious and considering biped, can do whatsoever131 I choose. I know how the legends of phantoms132 and fairies arose in the world’s history, because at one time, one particular period of the prehistoric133 ages, the peculiar, yet natural combination of the elements and the atmosphere formed ‘fantasma’ which men saw and believed in. The last trace of these now existing is the familiar ‘mirage’ of cities with their domes134 and steeples seen during certain states of the atmosphere in mid-ocean. Only give me the conditions, and I will summon up a ghostly city too. I can form numberless phantasmal figures now, and more than this, I can evoke135 for your ears, from the very bosom136 of the air, music such as long ago sounded for the pleasure of men and women dead. For the air is a better phonograph than Edison’s, and has the advantage of being eternal.”
“But such powers are marvellous!” exclaimed Irene. “I cannot understand how you have attained137 to them.”
“Neither can others less gifted understand how you Madame, have attained your literary skill,” said El-Râmi “All art, all science, all discovery, is the result of a concentrated Will, an indomitable Perseverance138. My ‘powers,’ as you term them, are really very slight, and, as I said before, those who follow my track will obtain far greater supremacy139. The secret of phantasmal splendour or ‘vision,’ as also the clue to what is called ‘unearthly music’—anything and everything that is or pretends to be of a supernatural character in this world—can be traced to natural causes, and the one key to it all is the great fact that nothing in the Universe is lost. Bear that statement well in mind. Light preserves all scenes; Air preserves all sounds. Therefore, it follows that if the scenes are there, and the sounds are there, they can be evoked140 again, and yet again, by him who has the skill to understand the fluctuations141 of the atmospheric142 waves, and the incessantly143 recurring144 vibrations145 of light. Do not imagine that even a thought, which you very naturally consider your own, actually remains a fixture146 in your brain from whence it was germinated147. It escapes while you are in the very act of thinking it; its subtle essence evaporates into the air you breathe and the light you absorb. If it presents itself to you again, it will probably be in quite a different form, and perhaps you will hardly recognise it. All thought escapes thus; you cannot keep it to yourself any more than you can have breath without breathing.”
“You mean that a thought belongs to all, and not to one individual?” said Irene.
“Yes, I mean that,” replied El-Râmi; “and thought, I may say, is the only reflex I can admit of possible Deity148, because thought is free, absolute, all-embracing, creative, perpetual, and unwearied. Limitless too—great Heaven, how limitless! To what heights does it not soar? In what depths does it not burrow149? How daring, how calm, how indifferent to the ocean-swell of approaching and receding150 ages! Your modern Theosophist, calmly counting his gains from the blind incredulity and stupidity of the unthinking masses, is only copying, in a very Liliputian manner, the grand sagacity and cunning of the ancient Egyptian ‘magi,’ who, by scientific trickery, ruled the ignorant multitude; it is the same thought, only dressed in modern aspect. Thought, and the proper condensation151, controlling and usage of thought, is Power,—Divinity, if you will. And it is the only existing Force that can make gods of men.”
Irene Vassilius sat silent, fascinated by his words, and still more fascinated by his manner. After a few minutes she spoke—
“I am glad you admit,” she said gently, “that this all-potent Thought may be a reflex of the Divine,—for we can have no reflections of light without the Light itself. I came to you in a somewhat discontented humour,—I am happier now. I suppose I ought to be satisfied with my lot,—I am certainly more fortunately situated152 than most women.”
“You are, Madame”—said El-Râmi, smiling pensively153 and fixing his dark eyes upon her with a kind expression,—“And your native good sense and wit will prevent you, I hope, from marring the good which the gods have provided for you. Do not marry yet,—it would be too great a disillusion154 for you. The smallest touch of prose is sufficient to destroy the delicacy155 of love’s finer sentiments; and marriage, as the married will tell you, is all prose,—very prosy prose too. Avoid it!—prosy prose is tiresome156 reading.”
She laughed, and rose to take her leave.
“I saw your brother with Mr. Ainsworth yesterday,” she observed—“And I could not understand how two such opposite natures could possibly agree.”
“Oh, we did not agree,—we have not agreed,” said Féraz hastily, speaking for himself—“It is not likely we shall see much of each other.”
“I am glad to hear it”—and she extended her hand to him, “You are very young, and Roy Ainsworth is very old, not in years, but in heart. It would be a pity for you to catch the contagion157 of our modern pessimism158.”
“But——” Féraz hesitated and stammered159, “it was you, was it not, Madame, who suggested to Mr. Ainsworth that he should take me as the model for one of the figures in his picture?”
“Yes, it was I,” replied Irene with a slight smile—“But I never thought you would consent,—and I felt sure that, even if you did, he would never succeed in rendering160 your expression, for he is a mere surface-painter of flesh, not soul—still, all the same, it amused me to make the suggestion.”
“Yes,—woman-like,” said El-Râmi—“You took pleasure in offering him a task he could not fulfil. There you have another reason why intellectual women are frequently detested—they ask so much and give so little.”
“You wrong us,” answered Irene swiftly. “When we love, we give all!”
“And so you give too much!” said El-Râmi gravely—“It is the common fault of women. You should never give ‘all’—you should always hold back something. To be fascinating, you should be enigmatical. When once man is allowed to understand your riddle thoroughly, the spell is broken. The placid161, changeless, monotonously162 amiable163 woman has no power whatever over the masculine temperament. It is Cleopatra that makes a slave of Antony, not blameless and simple Octavia.”
Irene Vassilius smiled.
“According to such a theory, the angels must be very tame and uninteresting individuals,” she said.
“Ah, Madame, our conception of angels is a very poor and false one, founded on the flabby imaginations of ignorant priests. An Angel, according to my idea, should be wild and bright and restless as lightning, speeding from star to star in search of new lives and new loves, with lips full of music and eyes full of fire, with every fibre of its immortal166 being palpitating with pure yet passionate167 desires for everything that can perfect and equalise its existence. The pallid168, goose-winged object represented to us as inhabiting a country of No-Where without landscape or colour, playing on an unsatisfactory harp169 and singing ‘Holy, holy’ for ever and ever, is no Angel, but rather a libel on the whole systematic170 creative plan of the Universe. Beauty, brilliancy, activity, glory and infinite variety of thought and disposition—if these be not in the composition of an Angel, then the Creator is but poorly served!”
A shadow darkened his features.
“Not I, Madame—except once—in a dream! You are going!—then farewell! Be happy,—and encourage the angelic qualities in yourself—for, if there be a Paradise anywhere, you are on the path that leads to it.”
“You think so?” and she sighed—“I hope you may be right,—but sometimes I fear, and sometimes I doubt. Thank you for all you have said,—it is the first time I have met with so much gentleness, courtesy and patience from one of your sex. Good-bye!”
She passed out, Féraz escorting her to her carriage, which waited at the door; then he returned to his brother with a slow step and meditative38 air.
“Do men really wrong women so much as she seems to think?” he asked.
El-Râmi paused a moment,—then answered slowly:
“Yes, Féraz, they do; and, as long as this world wags, they will! Let God look to it!—for the law of feminine oppression is His—not ours!”
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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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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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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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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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13
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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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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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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20
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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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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23
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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25
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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30
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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31
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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32
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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33
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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35
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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36
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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38
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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40
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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41
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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42
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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43
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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44
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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45
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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46
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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47
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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48
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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49
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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50
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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51
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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52
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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55
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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56
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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57
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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58
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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60
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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61
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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62
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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lewdly
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64
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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65
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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66
outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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67
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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71
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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72
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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73
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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74
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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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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76
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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77
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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78
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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79
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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80
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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81
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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82
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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85
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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86
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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90
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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91
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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92
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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97
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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98
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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99
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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100
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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101
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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103
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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104
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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105
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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106
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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107
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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108
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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110
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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111
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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112
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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113
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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114
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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115
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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116
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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117
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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118
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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119
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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120
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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121
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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122
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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124
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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125
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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126
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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127
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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128
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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129
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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130
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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131
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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132
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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133
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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134
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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135
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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136
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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137
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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138
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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139
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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140
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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141
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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142
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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143
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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144
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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145
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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146
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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147
germinated
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| v.（使）发芽( germinate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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149
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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150
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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151
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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152
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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153
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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154
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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155
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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156
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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157
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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158
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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159
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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161
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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162
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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163
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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164
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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165
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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166
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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167
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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168
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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169
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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170
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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171
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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