“Why, dat is nonsense!” said the Baroness von Denkenwald.— “Mit a Fact, zere is no mistake — you prove him. See!” and she took up a silver penholder from the table near her.— “Here is a pen, — mit ink it is used to write — zere is what you call ze Actual.”
El-Râmi smiled.
“Believe me, my dear Madame, it is only a pen so long as you elect to view it in that light. Allow me!” — and he took it from her hand, fixing his eyes upon her the while. “Will you place the tips of your fingers — the fingers of the left hand — yes — so! on my wrist? Thank you!” — this, as she obeyed with a rather vague smile on her big fat face.— “Now you will let me have the satisfaction of offering you this spray of lilies — the first of the season,” and he gravely extended the silver penholder.— “Is not the odour delicious!”
“Ach! it is heavenly!” and the Baroness smelt at the penholder with an inimitable expression of delight. Everybody began to laugh — El-Râmi silenced them by a look.
“Madame, you are under some delusion,” he said quietly.— “You have no lilies in your hand, only a penholder.”
She laughed.
“You are very funny!” she said— “but I shall not be deceived. I shall wear my lilies.”
And she endeavoured to fasten the penholder in the front of her bodice, — when suddenly El-Râmi drew his hand away from hers. A startled expression passed over her face, but in a minute or two she recovered her equanimity and twirled the penholder placidly between her fingers.
“Zere is what you call ze Actual,” she said, taking up the conversation where it had previously been interrupted.— “A pen — holder is always a penholder — you can make nothing more of it.”
But here she was surrounded by the excited onlookers — a flood of explanations poured upon her, as to how she had taken that same penholder for a spray of lilies, and so forth, till the old lady grew quite hot and angry.
“I shall not pelieve you!” she said indignantly.— “It is impossible. You haf a joke — but I do not see it. Irene” — and she looked appealingly to Madame Vassilius, who had witnessed the whole scene— “it is not true, is it?”
“Yes, dear Baroness, it is true,” said Irene soothingly.— “But it is a nothing after all. Your eyes were deceived for the moment — and Mr. El-Râmi has shown us very cleverly, by scientific exposition, how the human sight can be deluded — he conveyed an impression of lilies to your brain, and you saw lilies accordingly. I quite understand, — it is only through the brain that we receive any sense of sight. The thing is easy of comprehension, though it seems wonderful.”
“It is devilry!” said the Baroness solemnly, getting up and shaking out her voluminous pink train with a wrathful gesture.
“No, Madame,” said El-Râmi earnestly, with a glance at her which somehow had the effect of quieting her ruffled feelings. “It is merely science. Science was looked upon as ‘devilry’ in ancient times, — but we in our generation are more liberal-minded.”
“But what shall it lead to, all zis science?” demanded the Baroness, still with some irritation.— “I see not any use in it. If one deceive ze eye so quickly, it is only to make peoples angry to find demselves such fools!”
“Ah, my dear lady, if we could all know to what extent exactly we could be fooled, — not only as regards our sight, but our other senses and passions, we should be wiser and more capable of self-government than we are. Every step that helps us to the attainment of such knowledge is worth the taking.”
“And you have taken so many of those steps,” said Irene Vassilius, “that I suppose it would be difficult to deceive you?”
“I am only human, Madame,” returned El-Râmi, with a faint touch of bitterness in his tone, “and therefore I am capable of being led astray by my own emotions as others are.”
“Are we not getting too analytical?” asked Lord Melthorpe cheerily. “Here is Miss Chester wanting to know where your brother Féraz is. She only caught a glimpse of him in the distance, — and she would like to make his closer acquaintance.”
“He went with Mr. Ainsworth,” began El-Râmi.
“Yes — I saw them together in the conservatory,” said Lady Melthorpe. “They were deep in conversation — but it is time they gave us a little of their company — I’ll go and fetch them here.”
She went, but almost immediately returned, followed by the two individuals in question. Féraz looked a little flushed and excited, — Roy Ainsworth calm and nonchalant as usual.
“I’ve asked your brother to come and sit to me to-morrow,” the latter said, addressing himself at once to El-Râmi. “He is quite willing to oblige me, — and I presume you have no objection?”
“Not the least in the world!” responded El-Râmi with apparent readiness, though the keen observer might have detected a slight ring of satirical coldness in his tone.
“He is a curious fellow,” continued Roy, looking at Féraz where he stood, going through the formality of an introduction to Miss Chester, whose bold bright eyes rested upon him in frank and undisguised admiration. “He seems to know nothing of life.”
“What do you call ‘life’?” demanded El-Râmi, with harsh abruptness.
“Why, life as we men live it, of course,” answered Roy, complacently.
“‘Life, as we men live it!’” echoed El-Râmi. “By Heaven, there is nothing viler under the sun than life lived so! The very beasts have a more decent and self-respecting mode of behaviour, — and the everyday existence of an ordinary ‘man about town’ is low and contemptible as compared to that of an honest-hearted Dog!”
Ainsworth lifted his languid eyes with a stare of amazement; — Irene Vassilius smiled.
“I agree with you!” she said softly.
“Oh, of course!” murmured Roy sar — castically— “Madame Vassilius agrees with everything that points to, or suggests the utter worthlessness of Man!”
Her eyes flashed.
“Believe me,” she said, with some passion, “I would give worlds to be able to honour and revere men, — and there are some whom I sincerely respect and admire, — but I frankly admit that the majority of them awaken nothing in me but the sentiment of contempt. I regret it, but I cannot help it.”
“You want men to be gods,” said Ainsworth, regarding her with an indulgent smile; “and when they can’t succeed, poor wretches, you are hard on them. You are a born goddess, and to you it comes quite naturally to occupy a throne on Mount Olympus, and gaze with placid indifference on all below, — but to others, the process is difficult. For example, I am a groveller. I grovel round the base of the mountain and rather like it. A valley is warmer than a summit, always.”
A faint sea-shell pink flush crept over Irene’s cheeks, but she made no reply. She was watching Féraz, round whom a bevy of pretty women were congregated, like nineteenth-century nymphs round a new Eastern Apollo. He looked a little embarrassed, yet his very diffidence had an indefinable grace and attraction about it which was quite novel and charming to the jaded fashionable fair ones who for the moment made him their chief object of attention. They were pressing him to give them some music, and he hesitated, not out of any shyness to perform, but simply from a sense of wonder as to how such a spiritual, impersonal and divine thing as Music could be made to assert itself in the midst of so much evident frivolity. He looked appealingly at his brother, — but El-Râmi regarded him not. He understood this mute avoidance of his eyes, — he was thrown upon himself to do exactly as he chose, — and his sense of pride stimulated him to action. Breaking from the ring of his fair admirers, he advanced towards the piano.
“I will play a simple prelude,” he said, “and if you like it, you shall hear more.”
There was an immediate silence. Irene Vassilius moved a little apart and sat on a low divan, her hands clasped idly in her lap; — near her stood Lord Melthorpe, Roy Ainsworth, and El-Râmi; — Sir Frederick Vaughan and his fiancée, Idina Chester, occupied what is known as a “flirtation chair” tog
ether; several guests flocked in from the drawing-rooms, so that the salon was comparatively well-filled. Féraz poised his delicate and supple hands on the keyboard, — and then — why, what then? Nothing! — only music! — music divinely pure and sweet as a lark’s song, — music that spoke of things as yet undeclared in mortal language, — of the mystery of an angel’s tears — of the joy of a rose in bloom, — of the midsummer dreams of a lily enfolded within its green leaf-pavilion, — of the love-messages carried by silver beams from bridegroom-stars to bride-satellites, — of a hundred delicate and wordless marvels the music talked eloquently in rounded and mystic tone. And gradually, but invincibly, upon all those who listened, there fell the dreamy nameless spell of perfect harmony, — they did not understand, they could not grasp the far-off heavenly meanings which the sounds con — veyed, but they knew and felt such music was not earthly. The quest of gold, or thirst of fame, had nothing to do with such composition — it was above and beyond all that. When the delicious melody ceased, it seemed to leave an emptiness in the air, — an aching regret in the minds of the audience; it had fallen like dew on arid soil, and there were tears in many eyes, and passionate emotions stirring many hearts, as Féraz pressed his finger-tips with a velvet-like softness on the closing chord. Then came a burst of excited applause which rather startled him from his dreams. He looked round with a faint smile of wonderment, and this time chanced to meet his brother’s gaze earnestly fixed upon him. Then an idea seemed to occur to him, and playing a few soft notes by way of introduction, he said aloud, almost as though he were talking to himself —
“There are in the world’s history a few old legends and stories, which, whether they are related in prose or rhyme, seem to set themselves involuntarily to music. I will tell you one now, if you care to hear it, — the Story of the Priest Philemon.”
There was a murmur of delight and expectation, followed by profound silence as before.
Féraz lifted his eyes, — bright stag-like eyes, now flashing with warmth and inspiration, — and pressing the piano pedals, he played a few slow solemn chords like the opening bars of a church chant; then, in a soft, rich, perfectly modulated voice, he began.
CHAPTER VI.
“LONG, long ago, in a far-away province of the Eastern world, there was once a priest named Philemon. Early and late he toiled to acquire wisdom — early and late he prayed and meditated on things divine and unattainable. To the Great Unknown his aspirations turned; with all the ardour of his soul he sought to penetrate behind the mystic veil of the Supreme Centre of creation; and the joys and sorrows, hopes and labours of mortal existence seemed to him but worthless and contemptible trifles when compared with the eternal marvels of the incomprehensible Hereafter, on which, in solitude, he loved to dream and ponder.”
Here Féraz paused, — and touching the keys of the piano with a caressing lightness, played a soft minor melody, which like a silver thread of sound, accompanied his next words.
“And so, by gradual and almost imperceptible degrees, the wise priest Philemon forgot the world; — forgot men, and women, and little children, — forgot the blueness of the skies, the verdure of the fields, — forgot the grace of daisies growing in the grass, — forgot the music of sweet birds singing in the boughs, — forgot indeed everything, except — himself! — and his prayers, and his wisdom, and his burning desire to approach more closely every hour to that wondrous goal of the Divine from whence all life doth come, and to which all life must, in due time, return.”
Here the musical accompaniment changed to a plaintive tenderness.
“But by-and-by, news of the wise priest Philemon began to spread in the town near where he had his habitation, — and people spoke of his fastings and his watchings with awe and wonder, with hope and fear, — until at last there came a day when a great crowd of the sick and sorrowful and oppressed, surrounded his abode, and called upon him to pray for them, and give them comfort.
“‘Bestow upon us some of the Divine Consolation!’ they cried, kneeling in the dust and weeping as they spoke— ‘for we are weary and worn with labour, — we suffer with harsh wounds of the heart and spirit, — many of us have lost all that makes life dear. Pity us, O thou wise servant of the Supreme — and tell us out of thy stores of heavenly wisdom whether we shall ever regain the loves that we have lost!’
“Then the priest Philemon rose up in haste and wrath, and going out before them said —
“‘Depart from me, ye accursed crew of wicked worldlings! Why have ye sought me out, and what have I to do with your petty miseries? Lo, ye have brought the evils of which ye complain upon yourselves, and justice demands that ye should suffer. Ask not from me one word of pity — seek not from me any sympathy for sin. I have severed myself from ye all, to escape pollution, — my life belongs to God, not to Humanity!’
“And the people hearing him were wroth, and went their way homewards, sore at heart, and all uncomforted. And Philemon the priest, fearing lest they might seek him out again, departed from that place for ever, and made for himself a hut in the deep thickness of the forest where never a human foot was found to wander save his own. Here in the silence and deep solitude he resolved to work and pray, keeping his heart and spirit sanctified from every soiling touch of nature that could separate his thoughts from the Divine.”
Again the music changed, this time to a dulcet rippling passage of notes like the slowing of a mountain stream, — and Féraz continued, —
“One morning, as, lost in a rapture of holy meditation, he prayed his daily prayer, a small bird perched upon his window-sill, and began to sing. Not a loud song, but a sweet song — full of the utmost tenderness and playful warbling, — a song born out of the leaves and grasses and gentle winds of heaven, — as delicate a tune as ever small bird sang. The priest Philemon listened, and his mind wandered. The bird’s singing was sweet; oh, so sweet, that it recalled to him many things he had imagined long ago forgotten, — almost he heard his mother’s voice again, — and the blithe and gracious days of his early youth suggested themselves to his memory like the lovely fragments of a poem once familiar, but now scarce remembered. Presently the bird flew away, and the priest Philemon awoke as from a dream, — his prayer had been interrupted; his thoughts had been drawn down to earth from heaven, all through the twittering of a foolish feathered thing not worth a farthing! Angry with himself he spent the day in penitence, — and on the following morning betook himself to his devotions with more than his usual ardour. Stretched on his prayer-mat he lay entranced; when suddenly a low sweet trill of sound broke gently through the silence, — the innocent twittering voice of the little bird once more aroused him, — first to a sense of wonder, then of wrath. Starting up impatiently he looked about him, and saw the bird quite close, within his reach, — it had flown inside his hut, and now hopped lightly over the floor towards him, its bright eyes full of fearless confidence, its pretty wings still quivering with the fervour of its song. Then the priest Philemon seized a heavy oaken staff, and slew it where it stood with one remorseless blow, and flung the little heap of ruffled feathers out into the woodland, saying fiercely —
“‘Thou, at least, shalt never more disturb my prayers!’
“And even as he thus spoke, a great light shone forth suddenly, more dazzling than the brightness of the day, and lo! an Angel stood within the hut, just where the dead bird’s blood had stained the floor. And the priest Philemon fell upon his face and trembled greatly, for the Vision was more glorious than the grandest of his dreams. And a Voice called aloud, saying —
“Philemon, why hast thou slain My messenger?”
“And Philemon looked up in fear and wonderment, answering—”
“Dread Lord, what messenger? I have slain nothing but a bird.”
“And the voice spake again, saying—”
“O thou remorseless priest! — knowest thou not that every bird in the forests is Mine, — every leaf on the trees is Mine, — every blade of grass and every flower is
Mine, and is a part of Me! The song of that slain bird was sweeter than thy many prayers; — and when thou didst listen to its voice thou wert nearer Heaven than thou hast ever been! Thou hast rebelled against My law; — in rejecting Love, thou hast rejected Me, — and when thou didst turn the poor and needy from thy doors, refusing them all comfort, even so did I turn My Face from thee and refuse thy petitions. Wherefore hear now thy punishment. For the space of a thousand years thou shalt live within this forest; — no human eye shall ever find thee, — no human foot shall ever track thee — no human voice shall ever sound upon thy ears. No companions shalt thou have but birds and beasts and flowers, — from these shalt thou learn wisdom, and through thy love of these alone shalt thou make thy peace with Heaven! Pray no more, — fast no more, — for such things count but little in the eternal reckonings, — but love! — and learn to make thyself beloved, even by the least and lowest, and by this shalt thou penetrate at last the mystery of the Divine!”
“The voice ceased — the glory vanished and when the priest Philemon raised his eyes, he was alone.”
Here, altering by a few delicate modulations the dreamy character of the music he had been improvising, Féraz reverted again to the quaint, simple and solemn chords with which he had opened the recitation.
“Humbled in spirit, stricken at heart, conscious of the justice of his doom, yet working as one not without hope, Philemon began his heaven-appointed task. And to this day travellers’ legends tell of a vast impenetrable solitude, a forest of giant trees, where never a human step has trod, but where it is said, strange colonies of birds and beasts do congregate, — where rare and marvellous plants and flowers flourish in their fairest hues, — where golden bees and dazzling butterflies gather by thousands, — where all the songsters of the air make the woods musical, — where birds of passage, outward or homeward bound, rest on their way, sure of a pleasant haven, — and where all the beautiful, wild, and timid inhabitants of field, forest and mountain, are at peace together, mutually content in an Eden of their own. There is a guardian of the place, — so say the country people, — a Spirit, thin and white, and silver-haired, who understands the language of the birds, and knows the secrets of the flowers, and in whom all the creatures of the woods confide — a mystic being whose strange life has lasted nearly a thousand years. Generations have passed — cities and empires have crumbled to decay, — and none remember him who was once called Philemon, — the ‘wise’ priest, grown wise indeed at last, with the only Wisdom God ever sanctifies — the Wisdom of Love.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 262