“Don’t you see for yourself what a coward I have become?” he said—“I tell you I am afraid of everything;—of you—of myself—and worst of all, of that—” and he pointed to the disc—“which lately seems to have grown stronger than I am.” He paused a moment—then went on with an effort—“I had a strange idea the other night,—I thought, suppose God, in the beginning, created the universe simply to divert Himself—just as I created my dial there;—and suppose it had happened that instead of being His servant, as He originally intended, it had become His master?—that He actually had no more power over it? Suppose He were dead? We see that the works of men live ages after their death,—why not the works of God? Horrible—horrible! Death is horrible! I do not want to die, El-Râmi!” and his faint voice rose to a querulous wail, “Not yet—not yet! I cannot!—I must finish my work—I must know—I must live——”
“You shall live,” interrupted El-Râmi. “Trust me—there is no death in this!”
He held up the mysterious flask again. Kremlin stared at it, shaking all over with nervousness—then on a sudden impulse clutched it.
“Am I to drink it all?” he asked faintly.
El-Râmi bent his head in assent.
Kremlin hesitated a moment longer—then, with the air of one who takes a sudden desperate resolve, he gave one eager yearning look at the huge revolving disc, and, putting the flask to his lips, drained its contents. He had scarcely swallowed the last drop, when he sprang to his feet, uttered a smothered cry, staggered, and fell on the floor motionless. El-Râmi caught him up at once, and lifted him easily in his strong arms on to the window-seat, where he laid him down gently, placing coverings over him and a pillow under his head. The old man’s face was white and rigid as the face of a corpse, but he breathed easily and quietly, and El-Râmi, knowing the action of the draught he had administered, saw there was no cause for anxiety in his condition. He himself leaned on the sill of the great open window and looked out at the starlit sky for some minutes, and listened to the sonorous plashing of the waves on the shore below. Now and then he glanced back over his shoulder at the great dial and its shining star-patterns.
“Only Lilith could decipher the meaning of it all,” he mused. “Perhaps,—some day—it might be possible to ask her. But then, do I in truth believe what she tells me?—would he believe? The transcendentally uplifted soul of a woman!—ought we to credit the message obtained through so ethereal a means? I doubt it. We men are composed of such stuff that we must convince ourselves of a fact by every known test before we finally accept it,—like St. Thomas, unless we put our rough hand into the wounded side of Christ, and thrust our fingers into the nail-prints, we will not believe. And I shall never resolve myself as to which is the wisest course,—to accept everything with the faith of a child, or dispute everything with the arguments of a controversialist. The child is happiest; but then the question arises—Were we meant to be happy? I think not,—since there is nothing that can make us so for long.”
His brow clouded and he stood absorbed, looking at the stars, yet scarcely conscious of beholding them. Happiness! It had a sweet sound,—an exquisite suggestion; and his thoughts clung round it persistently as bees round honey. Happiness!—What could engender it? The answer came unbidden to his brain—“Love!” He gave an involuntary gesture of irritation, as though some one had spoken the word in his ear.
“Love!” he exclaimed half aloud. “There is no such thing—not on earth. There is Desire,—the animal attraction of one body for another, which ends in disgust and satiety. Love should have no touch of coarseness in it,—and can anything be coarser than the marriage-tie?—the bond which compels a man and woman to live together in daily partnership of bed and board, and reproduce their kind like pigs, or other common cattle. To call that love is a sacrilege to the very name,—for Love is a divine emotion, and demands divinest comprehension.”
He went up to where Kremlin lay reclined,—the old man slept profoundly and peacefully,—his face had gained colour and seemed less pinched and meagre in outline. El-Râmi felt his pulse,—it beat regularly and calmly. Satisfied with his examination, he wheeled away the great telescope into a corner, and shut the window against the night air,—then he lay down himself on the floor, with his coat rolled under him for a pillow, and composed himself to sleep till morning.