Irene Vassilius smiled.
“According to such a theory, the angels must be very tame and uninteresting individuals,” she said.
El-Râmi’s eyes grew lustrous with the intensity of his thought.
“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 immortal being palpitating with pure yet passionate desires for everything that can perfect and equalise its existence. The pallid, goose-winged object represented to us as inhabiting a country of No-Where without landscape or colour, playing on an unsatisfactory harp and singing ‘Holy, holy’ for ever and ever, is no Angel, but rather a libel on the whole systematic 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!”
“You speak as if you had seen one of these immortals?” said Irene, surprised.
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 meditative air.
“Do men really wrong women so much as she seems to think?” he asked.