“I am here!”
His heart beat rapidly, and he rose slowly from his kneeling position by her side. “I did not call you, Lilith!” he said tremblingly.
“No!” and her sweet lips smiled— “you did not call,...I came!”
“Why did you come?” he asked, still faintly.
“For my own joy and yours!” she answered in thrilling tones— “Sweeter than all the heavens is Love, — and Love is here!”
An icy cold crept through him as he heard the rapture in her accents, — such rapture! — like that of a lark singing in the sunlight on a fresh morning of May. And like the dim sound of a funeral bell came the words of the monk, tolling solemnly across his memory, in spite of his efforts to forget them, “With Lilith’s love comes Lilith’s freedom.”
“No, no!” he muttered within himself— “It cannot be, — it shall not be! — she is mine, mine only. Her fate is in my hands; if there be justice in Heaven, who else has so much right to her body or her soul as I?”
And he stood, gazing irresolutely at the girl, who stirred restlessly and flung her white arms upward on her pillows, while the music he had heard suddenly ceased. He dared not speak, — he was afraid to express any desire or impose any command upon this “fine sprite” which had for six years obeyed him, but which might now, for all he could tell, be fluttering vagrantly on the glittering confines of realms far beyond his ken.
Her lips moved, — and presently she spoke again.
“Wonderful are the ways of Divine Law!” she murmured softly— “and infinite are the changes it works among its creatures! An old man, despised and poor, by friends rejected, perplexed in mind, but pure in soul; such Was the Spirit that now Is. Passing me flame-like on its swift way heavenward, — saved and uplifted, not by Wisdom, but by Love.”
El-Râmi listened, awed and puzzled. Her words surely seemed to bear some reference to Kremlin?
“Of the knowledge of the stars and the measuring of light there is more than enough in the Universe;” — went on Lilith dreamily— “but of faithful love, such as keeps an Angel forever by one’s side, there is little; therefore the Angels on earth are few.”
He could no longer restrain his curiosity.
“Do you speak of one who is dead, Lilith?” he asked— “One whom I knew—”
“I speak of one who is living,” — she replied— “and one whom you know. For none are dead; and Knowledge has no Past, but is all Present.”
Her voice sank into silence. El-Râmi bent above her, studying her countenance earnestly — her lashes trembled as though the eyelids were about to open, — but the tremor passed and they remained shut. How lovely she looked! — how more than lovely!
“Lilith!” he whispered, suddenly oblivious of all his former forebodings, and unconscious of the eager passion vibrating in his tone— “Sweet Lilith!”
She turned slightly towards him, and lifting her arms from their indolently graceful position on the pillows, she clasped her hands high above her head in apparent supplication.
“Love me!” she cried, with such a thrill in her accent that it rang through the room like a note of music— “Oh my Belovëd, love me!”
El-Râmi grew faint and dizzy, — his thoughts were all in a whirl,...was he made of marble or ice that he should not respond? Scarcely aware of what he did, he took her clasped hands in his own.
“And do I not, Lilith?” he murmured, half-anguished, half-entranced— “Do I not love you?”
“No, no!” said Lilith with passionate emphasis— “Not me, — not me, Myself! Oh my Belovëd! love Me, not my Shadow!”
He loosened her hands, and recoiled, awed and perplexed. Her appeal struck at the core of all his doubts, — and for one moment he was disposed to believe in the actual truth of the Immortal Soul without those “proofs” for which he constantly searched, — the next, he rallied himself on his folly and weakness. He dared not trust himself to answer her, so he was silent, — but she soon spoke again with such convincing earnestness of tone that almost...almost he believed — but not quite.
“To love the Seeming and not the Real,” she said— “is the curse of all sad Humanity. It is the glamour of the air, — the barrier between Earth and Heaven. The Body is the Shadow — the Soul is the Substance. The Reflection I cast on Earth’s surface for a little space, is but a Reflection only, — it is not Me: — I am beyond it!”
For a moment El-Râmi stood irresolute, — then gathering up his scattered thoughts, he began to try and resolve them into order and connection. Surely the time was ripe for his great Experiment? — and as he considered this, his nerves grew more steady, — his self-reliance returned — all his devotion to scientific research pressed back its claim upon his mind, — if he were to fail now, he thought, after all his patience and study, — fail to obtain any true insight into the spiritual side of humanity, would he not be ashamed, aye, and degraded in his own eyes? He resolved to end all his torture of pain and doubt and disquietude, — and sitting on the edge of Lilith’s couch, he drew her delicate hands down from their uplifted position, and laid them one above the other cross-wise on his own breast.
“Then you must teach me, Lilith” — he said softly and with tender persuasiveness— “you must teach me to know you. If I see but your Reflection here, — let me behold your Reality. Let me love you as you are, if now I only love you as you seem. Show yourself to me in all your spiritual loveliness, Lilith! — it may be I shall die of the glory, — or — if there is no death as you say, — I shall not die, but simply pass away into the light which gives you life. Lift the veil that is between us, Lilith, and let me see you face to face. If this that seems you” — and he pressed the little hands he held— “is naught, let me realize the nothingness of so much beauty beside the greater beauty that en — genders it. Come to me as you are, Lilith! — come!”
As he spoke, his heart beat fast with a nervous thrill of expectancy; what would she answer?...what would she do? He could not take his eyes from her face — he half fancied he should see some change there; for the moment he even thought it possible that she might transform herself into some surpassing Being, which, like the gods of the Greek mythology, should consume by its flame-like splendour whatever of mortality dared to look upon it. But she remained unaltered, and sculpturally calm, — only her breathing seemed a little quicker, and the hands that he held trembled against his breast.
Her next words however startled him —
“I will come!” she said, and a faint sigh escaped her lips— “Be ready for me. Pray! — pray for the blessing of Christ, — for if Christ be with us, all is well.”
At this, his brow clouded, — his eyes drooped gloomily.
“Christ!” he muttered more to himself than to her— “What is He to me? Who is He that He should be with us?”
“This world’s Rescue and all worlds’ Glory!”
The answer rang out like a silver clarion, with something full and triumphant in the sound, as though not only Lilith’s voice had uttered it, but other voices had joined in a chorus. At the same moment, her hands moved, as if in an effort to escape from his hold. But he held them closely in a jealous and masterful grasp.
“When will you come to me, Lilith?” he demanded in low but eager accents— “When shall I see you and know you as Lilith?...my Lilith, my own forever?”
“God’s Lilith — God’s own forever!” murmured Lilith dreamily, and then was silent.
An angry sense of rebellion began to burn in El-Râmi’s mind. Summoning up all the force of his iron will, he unclasped her hands and laid them back on each side of her, and placed his own hand on her breast, just where the ruby talisman shone and glowed.
“Answer me, Lilith!” he said, with some — thing of the old sternness which he had used to employ with her on former occasions— “When will you come to me?”
Her limbs trembled violently as though some inward cold convulsed her, and her answer came slowly, though clearly —
&
nbsp; “When you are ready.”
“I am ready now!” he cried recklessly.
“No — no!” she murmured, her voice growing fainter and fainter— “Not yet...not yet! Love is not strong enough, high enough, pure enough. Wait, watch and pray. When the hour has come, a sign will be given — but O my Belovëd, if you would know me, love Me — love Me! not my Shadow!”
A pale hue fell on her face, robbing it of its delicate tint, — El-Râmi knew what that pallor indicated.
“Lilith! Lilith!” he exclaimed, “Why leave me thus if you love me? Stay with me yet a little!”
But Lilith — or rather the strange Spirit that made the body of Lilith speak, — was gone. And all that night not another sound, either of music or speech, stirred the silence of the room. Dawn came, misty and gray, and found the proud El-Râmi kneeling before the unveiled picture of the Christ, — not praying, for he could not bring himself down to the necessary humiliation for prayer, — but simply wondering vaguely as to what could be and what might be the one positive reply to that Question propounded of old —
“Whom Say Ye That I Am?”
CHAPTER II.
OF what avail is it to propound questions that no one can answer? Of what use is it to attempt to solve the mystery of life which must for ever remain mysterious? Thus may the intelligent critic ask, and in asking, may declare that the experiments, researches, and anxieties of El-Râmi, together with El-Râmi himself, are mistaken conceptions all round. But it is necessary to remind the intelligent critic, that the eager desire of El-Râmi to prove what appears unprovable, is by no means an uncommon phase of human nature, — it is in fact, the very key-note and pulse of the present time. Every living creature who is not too stunned by misery for thought, craves to know positively whether the Soul, — the Immortal, Individual Ego, be Fable or Fact. Never more than in this, our own period, did people search with such unabated feverish yearning into the things that seem supernatural; — never were there bitterer pangs of recoil and disappointment when trickery and imposture are found to have even temporarily passed for truth. If the deepest feeling in every human heart today were suddenly given voice, the shout “Excelsior!” would rend the air in mighty chorus. For we know all the old earth-stories; — of love, of war, of adventure, of wealth, we know pretty well the beginning and the end, — we read in our histories of nations that were, but now are not, and we feel that we shall in due time go the same way with them, — that the wheel of Destiny spins on in the same round always, and that nothing — nothing can alter its relentless and monotonous course. We tread in the dust and among the fallen columns of great cities, and we vaguely wonder if the spirits of the men that built them are indeed no more, — we gaze on the glorious pile of the Duomo at Milan and think of the brain that first devised and planned its majestic proportions, and ask ourselves — Is it possible that this, the creation, should be Here, and its creator Nowhere? Would such an arrangement be reasonable or just? And so it happens that when the wielders of the pen essay to tell us of wars, of shipwrecks, of hair-breadth escapes from danger, of love and politics and society, we read their pages with merely transitory pleasure and frequent indifference, but when they touch upon subjects beyond earthly experience, — when they attempt, however feebly, to lift our inspirations to the possibilities of the Unseen, then we give them our eager attention and almost passionate interest. Critics look upon this tendency as morbid, unwholesome and pernicious; but nevertheless the tendency is there, — the demand for “Light! more light!” is in the very blood and brain of the people. It would seem as though this world has grown too narrow for the aspirations of its inhabitants; — and some of us instinctively feel that we are on the brink of strange discoveries respecting the powers unearthly, whether for good or evil we dare not presume to guess. The nonsensical tenets of “Theosophy” would not gain ground with a single individual man or woman were not this feeling very strong among many, — the tricky “mediums” and “spiritualists” would not have a chance of earning a subsistence out of the gullibility of their dupes, and the preachers of new creeds and new forms would obtain no vestige of attention if it were not for the fact that there is a very general impression all over the world that the time is ripe for a clearer revelation of God and the things of God than we have ever had before. “Give us something that will endure!” is the exclamation of weary humanity— “The things we have, pass; and by reason of their ephemeral nature, are worthless. Give us what we can keep and call our own for ever!” This is why we try and test all things that appear to give proof of the super-sensual element in man, — and when we find ourselves deceived by impostors and conjurers, our disgust and disappointment are too bitter to ever find vent in words. The happiest are those who, in the shifting up and down of faiths and formulas, ever cling stedfastly to the one pure Example of embodied Divinity in Manhood as seen in Christ. When we reject Christ, we reject the Gospel of Love and Universal Brotherhood, without which the ultimate perfection and progress of the world must ever remain impossible.
A few random thoughts such as these occurred to El-Râmi now and then as he lived his life from day to day in perpetual expectation of the “sign” promised by Lilith, which as yet was not forthcoming. He believed she would keep her word, and that the “sign” whatever it was would be unmistakable; and, — as before stated — this was the nearest approach to actual faith he had ever known. His was a nature which was originally disposed to faith, but which had persistently fought with its own inclination till that inclination had been conquered. He had been able to prove as purely natural, much that had seemed supernatural, and he now viewed everything from two points — Possi — bility and Impossibility. His various confusions and perplexities however, generally arose from the frequent discovery he made, that what he had once thought the Impossible, suddenly became through some small chance clue, the Possible. So many times had this occurred that he often caught himself wondering whether anything in very truth could be strictly declared as “impossible.” And yet,...with the body of Lilith under his observation for six years, and an absolute ignorance as to how her intelligence had developed, or where she obtained the power to discourse with him as she did, he always had the lurking dread that her utterances might be the result of his own brain unconsciously working upon hers, and that there was no “soul” or “spirit” in the matter. This too, in spite of the fact that she had actually given him a concise description of certain planets, their laws, their government, and their inhabitants, concerning which he could know nothing, — and that she spoke with a sure conviction of the existence of a personal God, an idea that was entirely unacceptable to his nature. He was at a loss to explain her “separated consciousness” in any scientific way, and afraid of himself lest he should believe too easily, he encouraged the presence of every doubt in his mind, rather than give entrance to more than the palest glimmer of faith.
And so time went on, and May passed into June, and June deepened into its meridian-glow of bloom and sunlight, and he remained shut up within the four walls of his house, seeing no one, and displaying a total indifference to the fact that the “season” with all its bitter froth and frivolity was seething on in London in its usual monotonous manner. Unlike pretenders to “spiritualistic” powers, he had no inclination for the society of the rich and great,— “titled” people had no attraction for him save in so far as they were cultured, witty, or amiable,— “position” in the world, was a very miserable trifle in his opinion, and though many a gorgeous flunkied carriage at this time found its way into the unfashionable square where he had his domicile, no visitors were admitted to see him, — and “too busy to receive anyone” was the formula with which young Féraz dismissed any would-be intruder. Yet Féraz himself wondered all the while how it was that as a matter of fact, El-Râmi seemed to be just now less absorbed in actual study than he had ever been in his whole life. He read no books save the old Arabic vellum-bound volume which held the explanatory key to so much curious phenomena palmed
off as “spiritual miracles” by the Theosophists, and he wrote a good deal, — but he answered no letters, accepted no invitations, manifested no wish to leave the house even for an hour’s stroll, and seemed mentally engrossed by some great secret subject of meditation. He was uniformly kind to Féraz, exacting no duties from him save those prompted by interest and affection, — he was marvellously gentle too with Zaroba, who, agitated, restless and perplexed as to his ultimate intentions with respect to the beautiful Lilith, was vaguely uneasy and melancholy, though she deemed it wisest to perform all his commands with exactitude, and, for the present to hold her peace. She had expected something — though she knew not what — from his last interview with her beautiful charge — but all was unchanged, — Lilith slept on, and the cherished wish of Zaroba’s heart, that she should wake, seemed as far off realization as ever. Day after day passed, and El-Râmi lived like a hermit amidst the roar and traffic of mighty London, — watching Lilith for long and anxious hours, but never venturing to call her down to him from wherever she might be, — waiting, waiting for her summons, and content for once to sink himself in the thought of her identity. All his ambitions were now centred on the one great object,...to see the Soul, as it is, if it is indeed existent, conscious and individual. For, as he argued, what is the use of a “Soul” whose capacities we are not permitted to understand? — and if it be no more to us than the Intelligent Faculty of Brain? The chief proof of a possible Something behind Man’s inner consciousness, was, he considered, the quality of Discontent, and, primarily, because Discontent is so universal. No one is contented in all the world from end to end. From the powerful Emperor on his throne to the whining beggar in the street, all chafe under the goading prick of the great Necessity, — a Something Better, — a Something Lasting. Why should this resonant key-note of Discontent be perpetually resounding through space, if this life is all? No amount of philosophy or argument can argue away Discontent — it is a god-like Disquietude ever fermenting changes among us, ever propounding new suggestions for happiness, ever restless, never satisfied. And El-Râmi would ask himself — Is Discontent the voice of the Soul? — not only the Universal Soul of things, but the Soul of each individual? Then, if Individual, why should not the Individual be made manifest, if manifestation be possible? And if not possible, why should we be called upon to believe in what cannot be manifested?
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 273