A faint tremor shook the younger man’s frame—but he said nothing.
“You are attending to me closely, I hope?” said El-Râmi pointedly—“because you must distinctly understand that this conversation is the first and last we shall have on the matter. After to-day, the subject must drop between us for ever, and I shall refuse to answer any more questions. You hear?”
Féraz bent his head.
“I hear—” he answered with an effort—“And what I hear seems strange and terrible!”
“Strange and terrible?” echoed El-Râmi. “How so? What is there strange or terrible in the pursuit of Wisdom? Yet—perhaps you are right, and the blank ignorance of a young child is best,—for there is something appalling in the infinitude of knowledge—an infinitude which must remain infinite, if it be true that there is a God who is for ever thinking, and whose thoughts become realities.”
He paused, with a rapt look,—then resumed in the same even tone,—
“When I had made up my mind to experimentalise upon you, I lost no time in commencing my work. One of my chief desires was to avoid the least risk of endangering your health—your physical condition was admirable, and I resolved to keep it so. In this I succeeded. I made life a joy to you—the mere act of breathing a pleasure—you grew up before my eyes like the vigorous sapling of an oak that rejoices in the mere expansion of its leaves to the fresh air. The other and more subtle task was harder,—it needed all my patience—all my skill,—but I was at last rewarded. Through my concentrated influence, which surrounded you as with an atmosphere in which you moved, and slept, and woke again, and which forced every fibre of your brain to respond to mine, the animal faculties, which were strongest in you, became subdued and tamed,—and the mental slowly asserted themselves. I resolved you should be a poet and musician—you became both; you developed an ardent love of study, and every few months that passed gave richer promise of your ripening intelligence. Moreover, you were happy,—happy in everything—happiest perhaps in your music, which became your leading passion. Having thus, unconsciously to yourself, fostered your mind by the silent workings of my own, and trained it to grow up like a dower to the light, I thought I might make my next attempt, which was to probe for that subtle essence we call the Soul—the large wings that are hidden in the moth’s chrysalis;—and influence that too;—but there—there, by some inexplicable opposition of forces, I was baffled.”
Féraz raised himself half out of his chair, his lips parted in breathless eagerness—his eyes dilated and sparkling.
“Baffled?” he repeated hurriedly—“How do you mean?—in what way?”
“Oh, in various ways—” replied El-Râmi, looking at him with a somewhat melancholy expression—“Ways that I myself am not able to comprehend. I found I could influence your Inner Self to obey me,—but only to a very limited extent, and in mere trifles,—for example, as you yourself know, I could compel you to come to me from a certain distance in response to my thought,—but in higher things you escaped me. You became subject to long trances,—this I was prepared for, as it was partially my work,—and, during these times of physical unconsciousness, it was evident that your Soul enjoyed a life and liberty superior to anything these earth-regions can offer. But you could never remember all you saw in these absences,—indeed, the only suggestions you seem to have brought away from that other state of existence are the strange melodies you play sometimes, and that idea you have about your native Star.”