Gervase glanced at him with a smile, in which there was something of contempt.
“You are very much behind the age, Doctor,” he remarked lightly.
“Very much behind indeed,” agreed Dr. Dean composedly. “The age rushes on too rapidly for me, and gives no time to the consideration of things by the way. I stop, — I take breathing space in which to think; life without thought is madness, and I desire to have no part in a mad age.”
At that moment they entered the Red Saloon, a stately apartment, which was entirely modelled after the most ancient forms of Egyptian architecture. The centre of the vast room was quite clear of furniture, so that the Princess Ziska’s guests went wandering up and down, to and fro, entirely at their ease, without crush or inconvenience, and congregated in corners for conversation; though if they chose they could recline on low divans and gorgeously-cushioned benches ranged against the walls and sheltered by tall palms and flowering exotics. The music was heard to better advantage here than in the hall where the company had first been received; and as the Princess moved to a seat under the pale green frondage of a huge tropical fern and bade her two companions sit beside her, sounds of the wildest, most melancholy and haunting character began to palpitate upon the air in the mournful, throbbing fashion in which a nightingale sings when its soul is burdened with love. The passionate tremor that shakes the bird’s throat at mating-time seemed to shake the unseen instruments that now discoursed strange melody, and Gervase, listening dreamily, felt a curious contraction and aching at his heart and a sense of suffocation in his throat, combined with an insatiate desire to seize in his arms the mysterious Ziska, with her dark fathomless eyes and slight, yet voluptuous, form, — to drag her to his breast and crush her there, whispering:
“Mine! — mine! By all the gods of the past and present — mine! Who shall tear her from me, — who dispute my right to love her — ruin her — murder her, if I choose? She is mine!”
“The bas-relief I told you of is just above us,” said the Princess then, addressing herself to the Doctor; “would you like to examine it? One of the servants shall bring you a lighted taper, and by passing it in front of the sculpture you will be able to see the design better. Ah, Mr. Murray!” and she smiled as she greeted Denzil, who just then approached. “You are in time to give us your opinion. I want Dr. Dean to see that very old piece of stone carving on the wall above us, — it will serve as a link for him in the history of Araxes.”
“Indeed!” murmured Denzil, somewhat abstractedly.
The Princess glanced at his brooding face and laughed.
“You, I know, are not interested at all in old history,” she went on.
“The past has no attraction for you.”
“No. The present is enough,” he replied, with a glance of mingled hope and passion.
She smiled, and signing to one of her Egyptian attendants, bade him bring a lighted taper. He did so, and passed it slowly up and down and to the right and left of the large piece of ancient sculpture that occupied more than half the wall, while Dr. Dean stood by, spectacles on nose, to examine the carving as closely as possible. Several other people, attracted by what was going on, paused to look also, and the Princess undertook to explain the scene depicted.
“This piece of carving is of the date of the King Amenhotep or Amenophis III., of the Eighteenth Dynasty. It represents the return of the warrior Araxes, a favorite servant of the king’s, after some brilliant victory. You see, there is the triumphal car in which he rides, drawn by winged horses, and behind him are the solar deities — Ra, Sikar, Tmu, and Osiris. He is supposed to be approaching his palace in triumph; the gates are thrown open to receive him, and coming out to meet him is the chief favorite of his harem, the celebrated dancer of that period — Ziska-Charmazel.”
“Whom he afterwards murdered, you say?” queried Dr. Dean meditatively.
“Yes. He murdered her simply because she loved him too well and was in the way of his ambition. There was nothing astonishing in his behavior, not even if you consider it in the light of modern times. Men always murder — morally, if not physically — the women who love them too well.”
“You truly think that?” asked Denzil Murray in a low tone.
“I not only truly think it, I truly know it!” she answered, with a disdainful flash of her eyes. “Of course, I speak of strong men with strong passions; they are the only kind of men women ever worship. Of course, a weak, good-natured man is different; he would probably not harm a woman for the world, or give her the least cause for pain if he could help it, but that sort of man never becomes either an adept or a master in love. Araxes was probably both. No doubt he considered he had a perfect right to slay what he had grown weary of; he thought no more than men of his type think to-day, that the taking of a life demands a life in exchange, if not in this world, then in the next.”
The group of people near her were all silent, gazing with an odd fascination at the quaint and ancient-sculptured figures above them, when all at once Dr. Dean, taking the taper from the hands of the Egyptian servant, held the flame close to the features of the warrior riding in the car of triumph, and said slowly:
“Do you not see a curious resemblance, Princess, between this Araxes and a friend of ours here present? Monsieur Armand Gervase, will you kindly step forward? Yes, that will do, turn your head slightly, — so! Yes! Now observe the outline of the features of Araxes as carven in this sculpture thousands of years ago, and compare it with the outline of the features of our celebrated friend, the greatest French artist of his day. Am I the only one who perceives the remarkable similarity of contour and expression?”
The Princess made no reply. A smile crossed her lips, but no word escaped them. Several persons, however, pressed eagerly forward to look at and comment upon what was indeed a startling likeness. The same straight, fierce brows, the same proud, firm mouth, the same almond-shaped eyes were, as it seemed, copied from the ancient entablature and repeated in flesh and blood in the features of Gervase. Even Denzil Murray, absorbed though he was in conflicting thoughts of his own, was struck by the coincidence.
“It is really very remarkable!” he said. “Allowing for the peculiar style of drawing and design common to ancient Egypt, the portrait of Araxes might pass for Gervase in Egyptian costume.”
Gervase himself was silent. Some mysterious emotion held him mute, and he was only aware of a vague irritation that fretted him without any seemingly adequate cause. Dr. Dean meanwhile pursued his investigations with the lighted taper, and presently, turning round on the assembled little group of bystanders, he said:
“I have just discovered another singular thing. The face of the woman here — the dancer and favorite — is the face of our charming hostess, the Princess Ziska!”
Exclamations of wonder greeted this announcement, and everybody craned their necks to see. And then the Princess spoke, slowly and languidly.
“Yes,” she murmured, “I was hoping you would perceive that. I myself noticed how very like me is the famous Ziska-Charmazel, and that is just why I dressed in her fashion for the fancy ball the other evening. It seemed to me the best thing to do, as I wanted to choose an ancient period, and then, you know, I bear half her name.”
Dr. Dean looked at her keenly, and a somewhat grim smile wrinkled his lips.
“You could not have done better,” he declared. “You and the dancing-girl of Araxes might be twin sisters.”
He lowered the taper he held that it might more strongly illumine her face, and as the outline of her head and throat and bust was thrown into full relief, Gervase, staring at her, was again conscious of that sudden, painful emotion of familiarity which had before overwhelmed him, and he felt that in all the world he had no such intimate knowledge of any woman as he had of Ziska. He knew her! Ah! — how did he NOT know her? Every curve of that pliant form was to him the living memory of something once possessed and loved, and he pressed his hand heavily across his eyes for a moment to shut out the sight of
all the exquisite voluptuous grace which shook his self-control and tempted him almost beyond man’s mortal endurance.
“Are you not well, Monsieur Gervase?” said Dr. Dean, observing him closely, and handing back the lighted taper to the Egyptian servant who waited to receive it. “The portraits on this old carving have perhaps affected you unpleasantly? Yet there is really nothing of importance in such a coincidence.”
“Nothing of importance, perhaps, but surely something of singularity,” interrupted Denzil Murray, “especially in the resemblance between the Princess and the dancing-girl of that ancient period, — their features are positively line for line alike.”
The Princess laughed.
“Yes, is it not curious?” she said, and, taking the taper from her servant, she sprang lightly on one of the benches near the wall and leaned her beautiful head on the entablature, so that her profile stood out close against that of the once reputed Ziska-Charmazel. “We are, as Dr. Dean says, twins!”
Several of the guests had now gathered together in that particular part of the room, and they all looked up at her as she stood thus, in silent and somewhat superstitious wonderment. The fascinating dancer, famed in ages past, and the lovely, living charmeresse of the present were the image of each other, and so extraordinary was the resemblance that it was almost what some folks would term “uncanny.” The fair Ziska did not, however, give her acquaintances time for much meditation or surprise concerning the matter, for she soon came down from her elevation near the sculptured frieze and, extinguishing the taper she held, she said lightly:
“As Dr. Dean has remarked, there is really nothing of importance in the coincidence. Ages ago, in the time of Araxes, roses must have bloomed; and who shall say that a rose in to-day’s garden is not precisely the same in size, scent and color as one that Araxes himself plucked at his palace gates? Thus, if flowers are born alike in different ages, why not women and men?”
“Very well argued, Princess,” said the Doctor. “I quite agree with you. Nature is bound to repeat some of her choicest patterns, lest she should forget the art of making them.”
There was now a general movement among the guests, that particular kind of movement which means irritability and restlessness, and implies that either supper must be immediately served, or else some novel entertainment be brought in to distract attention and prevent tedium. The Princess, turning to Gervase, said smilingly:
“Apropos of the dancing-girl of Araxes and the art of dancing generally, I am going to entertain the company presently by letting them see a real old dance of Thebes. If you will excuse me a moment I must just prepare them and get the rooms slightly cleared. I will return to you presently.”
She glided away with her usual noiseless grace, and within a few minutes of her departure the gay crowds began to fall back against the walls and disperse themselves generally in expectant groups here and there, the Egyptian servants moving in and out and evidently informing them of the entertainment in prospect.
“Well, I shall stay here,” said Dr. Dean, “underneath this remarkable stone carving of your warrior-prototype, Monsieur Gervase. You seem very much abstracted. I asked you before if you were not well; but you never answered me.”
“I am perfectly well,” replied Gervase, with some irritation. “The heat is rather trying, that is all. But I attach no importance to that stone frieze. One can easily imagine likenesses where there are really none.”
“True!” and the Doctor smiled to himself, and said no more. Just then a wild burst of music sounded suddenly through the apartment, and he turned round in lively anticipation to watch the proceedings.
The middle of the room was now quite clear, and presently, moving with the silent grace of swans on still water, came four girls closely veiled, carrying quaintly-shaped harps and lutes. A Nubian servant followed them, and spread a gold-embroidered carpet upon the ground, whereon they all sat down and began to thrum the strings of their instruments in a muffled, dreamy manner, playing a music which had nothing of melody in it, and which yet vaguely suggested a passionate tune. This thrumming went on for some time when all at once from a side entrance in the hall a bright, apparently winged thing bounded from the outer darkness into the centre of the hall, — a woman clad in glistening cloth of gold and veiled entirely in misty folds of white, who, raising her arms gleaming with jewelled bangles high above her head, remained poised on tiptoe for a moment, as though about to fly. Her bare feet, white and dimpled, sparkled with gems and glittering anklets; her skirts as she moved showed fluttering flecks of white and pink like the leaves of May-blossoms shaken by a summer breeze; the music grew louder and wilder, and a brazen clang from unseen cymbals prepared her as it seemed for flight. She began her dance slowly, gliding mysteriously from side to side, anon turning suddenly with her head lifted, as though listening for some word of love which should recall her or command; then, bending down again, she seemed to float lazily like a creature that was dancing in a dream without conscious knowledge of her actions. The brazen cymbals clashed again, and then, with a wild, beautiful movement, like that of a hunted stag leaping the brow of a hill, the dancer sprang forward, turned, pirouetted and tossed herself round and round giddily with a marvellous and exquisite celerity, as if she were nothing but a bright circle of gold spinning in clear ether. Spontaneous applause broke forth from every part of the hall; the guests crowded forward, staring and almost breathless with amazement. Dr. Dean got up in a state of the greatest excitement, clapping his hands involuntarily; and Gervase, every nerve in his body quivering, advanced one or two steps, feeling that he must stop this bright, wild, wanton thing in her incessant whirling, or else die in the hunger of love which consumed his soul. Denzil Murray glanced at him, and, after a pause, left his side and disappeared. Suddenly, with a quick movement, the dancer loosened her golden dress and misty veil, and tossing them aside like falling leaves, she stood confessed — a marvellous, glowing vision in silvery white-no other than the Princess Ziska!
Shouts echoed from every part of the hall:
“Ziska! Ziska!”
And at the name Lady Chetwynd Lyle rose in all her majesty from the seat she had occupied till then, and in tones of virtuous indignation said to Lady Fulkeward:
“I told you the Princess was not a proper person! Now it is proved I am right! To think I should have brought Dolly and Muriel here! I shall really never forgive myself! Come, Sir Chetwynd, — let us leave this place instantly!”
And stout Sir Chetwynd, gloating on the exquisite beauty of the Princess Ziska’s form as she still danced on in her snowy white attire, her lovely face alight with mirth at the surprise she had made for her guests, tried his best to look sanctimonious and signally failed in the attempt as he answered:
“Certainly! Certainly, my dear! Most improper … most astonishing!”
While Lady Fulkeward answered innocently:
“Is it? Do you really think so? Oh, dear! I suppose it is improper, — it must be, you know; but it is most delightful and original!”
And while the Chetwynd Lyles thus moved to depart in a cloud of outraged propriety, followed by others who likewise thought it well to pretend to be shocked at the proceeding, Gervase, dizzy, breathless, and torn by such conflicting passions as he could never express, was in a condition more mad than sane.
“My God!” he muttered under his breath. “This — this is love! This is the beginning and end of life! To possess her, — to hold her in my arms — heart to heart, lips to lips … this is what all the eternal forces of Nature meant when they made me man!”
And he watched with strained, passionate eyes the movements of the Princess Ziska as they grew slower and slower, till she seemed floating merely like a foam-bell on a wave, and then … from some unseen quarter of the room a rich throbbing voice began to sing: —
“Oh, for the passionless peace of the Lotus-Lily!
It floats in a waking dream on the waters chilly,
With its leaves unfurled
Knowing naught of the sorrow and restless pain
That burns and tortures the human brain;
Oh, for the passionless peace of the Lotus-Lily!
Oh, for the pure cold heart of the Lotus-Lily!
Bared to the moon on the waters dark and chilly.
A star above
Is its only love,
And one brief sigh of its scented breath
Is all it will ever know of Death;
Oh, for the pure cold heart of the Lotus-Lily!”
As the sound died away in a sigh rather than a note, the Princess Ziska’s dancing ceased altogether. A shout of applause broke from all assembled, and in the midst of it there was a sudden commotion and excitement, and Dr. Dean was seen bending over a man’s prostrate figure. The great French painter, Armand Gervase, had suddenly fainted.
CHAPTER XII.
A curious yet very general feeling of superstitious uneasiness and discomfort pervaded the Gezireh Palace Hotel the day after the Princess Ziska’s reception. Something had happened, and no one knew what. The proprieties had been outraged, but no one knew why. It was certainly not the custom for a hostess, and a Princess to boot, to dance like a wild bacchante before a crowd of her invited guests, yet, as Dr. Dean blandly observed, —
“Where was the harm? In London, ladies of good birth and breeding went in for ‘skirt-dancing,’ and no one presumed to breathe a word against their reputations; why in Cairo should not a lady go in for a Theban dance without being considered improper?”
Why, indeed? There seemed no adequate reason for being either surprised or offended; yet surprised and offended most people were, and scandal ran rife, and rumor wagged all its poisonous tongues to spread evil reports against the Princess Ziska’s name and fame, till Denzil Murray, maddened and furious, rushed up to his sister in her room and swore that he would marry the Princess if he died for it.
“They are blackguarding her downstairs, the beasts!” he said hotly.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 422