“I should like to see life;”—said Féraz.
“See life!” echoed El-Râmi somewhat disdainfully—“What do you mean? Don’t you ‘see life’ as it is?”
“No!” answered Féraz quickly—“I see men and women—but I don’t know how they live, and I don’t know what they do.”
“They live in a perpetual effort to out-reach and injure one another”—said El-Râmi, “and all their forces are concentrated on bringing themselves into notice. That is how they live,—that is what they do. It is not a dignified or noble way of living, but it is all they care about. You will see illustrations of this at Lord Melthorpe’s reception. You will find the woman with the most diamonds giving herself peacock-like airs over the woman who has fewest,—you will see the snob-millionaire treated with greater consideration by every one than the born gentleman who happens to have little of this world’s wealth. You will find that no one thinks of putting himself out to give personal pleasure to another,—you will hear the same commonplace observations from every mouth,—you will discover a lack of wit, a dearth of kindness, a scarcity of cheerfulness, and a most desperate want of tact in every member of the whole fashionable assemblage. And so you shall ‘see life’—if you think you can discern it there. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof!—meanwhile let us have supper,—time flies, and I have work to do to-night that must be done.”
Féraz busied himself nimbly about his usual duties—the frugal meal was soon prepared and soon dispensed with, and, at its close, the brothers sat in silence, El-Râmi watching Féraz with a curious intentness, because he felt for the first time in his life that he was not quite master of the young man’s thoughts. Did he still remember the name of Lilith? El-Râmi had willed that every trace of it should vanish from his memory during that long afternoon sleep in which the lad had indulged himself unresistingly,—but the question was now—Had that force of will gained the victory? He, El-Râmi, could not tell—not yet—but he turned the problem over and over in his mind with sombre irritation and restlessness. Presently Féraz broke the silence. Drawing from his vest pocket a small manuscript book, and raising his eyes, he said—
“Do you mind hearing something I wrote last night? I don’t quite know how it came to me—I think I must have been dreaming——”
“Read on;”—said El-Râmi—“If it be poesy, then its origin cannot be explained. Were you able to explain it, it would become prose.”
“I daresay the lines are not very good,”—went on Féraz diffidently—“yet they are the true expression of a thought that is in me. And whether I owe it to you, or to my own temperament, I have visions now and then—visions not only of love, but of fame—strange glories that I almost realise, yet cannot grasp. And there is a sadness and futility in it all that grieves me ... everything is so vague and swift and fleeting. Yet if love, as you say, be a mere chimera,—surely there is such a thing as Fame?”
“There is—” and El-Râmi’s eyes flashed, then darkened again—“There is the applause of this world, which may mean the derision of the next. Read on!”
Féraz obeyed. “I call it for the present ‘The Star of Destiny’”—he said; and then his mellifluous voice, rich and well modulated, gave flowing musical enunciation to the following lines: