/The/ next two or three days passed without any incident of interest
occurring to move the languid calm and excite the fleeting interest of
the fashionable English and European visitors who were congregated at
the Gezireh Palace Hotel. The anxious flirtations of Dolly and Muriel
Chetwynd Lyle afforded subjects of mirth to the profane,--the
wonderfully youthful toilettes of Lady Fulkeward provided several
keynotes from which to strike frivolous conversation,--and when the
great painter, Armand Gervase, actually made a sketch of her ladyship
for his own amusement, and made her look about sixteen, and girlish at
that, his popularity knew no bounds. Everyone wanted to give him a
commission, particularly the elderly fair, and he could have made a
fortune had he chosen, after the example set him by the English
academicians, by painting the portraits of ugly nobodies who were
ready to pay any price to be turned out as handsome somebodies. But he
was too restless and ill at ease to apply himself steadily to
work,--the glowing skies of Egypt, the picturesque groups of natives
to be seen at every turn,--the curious corners of old Cairo--these
made no impression upon his mind at all, and when he was alone, he
passed whole half hours staring at the strange picture he had made of
the Princess Ziska, wherein the face of death seemed confronting him
through a mask of life. And he welcomed with a strong sense of relief
and expectation the long-looked-for evening of the Princess’s
“reception,” to which many of the visitors in Cairo had been invited
since a fortnight, and which those persons who always profess to be
“in the know,” even if they are wallowing in ignorance, declared would
surpass any entertainment ever given during the Cairene season.
The night came at last. It was exceedingly sultry, but bright and
clear, and the moon shone with effective brilliance on the
gayly-attired groups of people that between nine and ten o’clock began
to throng the narrow street in which the carved tomb-like portal of
the Princess Ziska’s residence was the most conspicuous object. Lady
Chetwynd Lyle, remarkable for bad taste in her dress and the disposal
of her diamonds, stared in haughty amazement at the Nubian, who
saluted her and her daughters with the grin peculiar to his uninviting
cast of countenance, and swept into the courtyard attended by her
husband with an air as though she imagined her presence gave the
necessary flavor of “good style” to the proceedings. She was followed
by Lady Fulkeward, innocently clad in white and wearing a knot of
lilies on her prettily-enamelled left shoulder, Lord Fulkeward, Denzil
Murray and his sister. Helen also wore white, but though she was in
the twenties and Lady Fulkeward was in the sixties, the girl had so
much sadness in her face and so much tragedy in her soft eyes that she
looked, if anything, older than the old woman. Gervase and Dr. Dean
arrived together, and found themselves in a brilliant, crushing crowd
of people, all of different nationalities and all manifesting a good
deal of impatience because they were delayed a few minutes in an open
court, where a couple of stone lions with wings were the only
spectators of their costumes.
“Most singular behavior!” said Lady Chetwynd Lyle, snorting and
sniffing, “to keep us waiting outside like this! The Princess has no
idea of European manners!”
As she spoke, a sudden blaze of light flamed on the scene, and twenty
tall Egyptian servants in white, with red turbans, carrying lighted
torches and marching two by two crossed the court, and by mute yet
stately gestures invited the company to follow. And the company did
follow in haste, with scramble and rudeness, as is the way of
“European manners” nowadays; and presently, having been relieved of
their cloaks and wrappings, stood startled and confounded in a huge
hall richly adorned with silk and cloth of gold hangings, where,
between two bronze sphinxes, the Princess Ziska, attired wonderfully
in a dim, pale rose color, with flecks of jewels flashing from her
draperies here and there, waited to receive her guests. Like a queen
she stood,--behind her towered a giant palm, and at her feet were
strewn roses and lotus-lilies. On either side of her, seated on the
ground, were young girls gorgeously clad and veiled to the eyes in the
Egyptian fashion, and as the staring, heated and impetuous swarm of
“travelling” English and Americans came face to face with her in her
marvellous beauty, they were for the moment stricken spellbound, and
could scarcely summon up the necessary assurance to advance and take
the hand she outstretched to them in welcome. She appeared not to see
the general embarrassment, and greeted all who approached her with
courteous ease and composure, speaking the few words which every
graceful hostess deems adequate before “passing on” her visitors. And
presently music began,--music wild and fantastic, of a character
unknown to modern fashionable ears, yet strangely familiar to Armand
Gervase, who started at the first sound of it, and seemed enthralled.
“That is not an ordinary orchestra,” said Dr. Dean in his ear. “The
instruments are ancient, and the form of melody is barbaric.”
Gervase answered nothing, for the Princess Ziska just then approached
them.
“Come into the Red Saloon,” she said. “I am persuading my guests to
pass on there. I have an old bas-relief on the walls which I would
like you to see,--you, especially, Dr. Dean!--for you are so learned
in antiquities. I hear you are trying to discover traces of Araxes?”
“I am,” replied the Doctor. “You interested me very much in his
history.”
“He was a great man,” said the Princess, slowly piloting them as she
spoke, without hurry and with careful courtesy, through the serried
ranks of the now freely chattering and animated company. “Much greater
than any of your modern heroes. But he had two faults; faults which
frequently accompany the plentitude of power,--cruelty and
selfishness. He betrayed and murdered the only woman that ever loved
him, Ziska-Charmazel.”
“Murdered her!” exclaimed Dr. Dean. “How?”
“Oh, it is only a legend!” and the Princess smiled, turning her dark
eyes with a bewitching languor on Gervase, who, for some reason or
other which he could not explain, felt as if he were walking in a
dream on the edge of a deep chasm of nothingness, into which he must
presently sink to utter destruction. “All these old histories happened
so long ago that they are nothing but myths now to the present
generation.”
“Time does not rob any incident of its interest to me,” said Dr. Dean.
“Ages hence Queen Victoria will be as much a doubtful potentate as
King Lud. To the wise student of things there is no time and no
distance. All history from the very beginning is like a wonderful
chain in which no link is ever really broken, and in which every part
fits closely to the other part,--though why the chain should exist at
all is a mystery we cannot solve. Yet I am quite certain that even our
late friend Araxes has his connection with the present, if only for
the reason that he lived in the past.”
“How do you argue out that theory!” asked Gervase with sudden
interest.
“How do you argue it? The question is, how can you argue at all about
anything that is so plain and demonstrated a fact? The doctrine of
evolution proves it. Everything that we were once has its part in us
now. Suppose, if you like, that we were originally no more than shells
on the shore,--some remnant of the nature of the shell must be in us
at this moment. Nothing is lost,--nothing is wasted,--not even a
thought. I carry my theories very far,” pursued the Doctor, looking
keenly from one to the other of his silent companions as they walked
beside him through a long corridor towards the Red Saloon, which could
be seen, brilliantly lit up and thronged with people. “Very far
indeed, especially in regard to matters of love. I maintain that if it
is decreed that the soul of a man and the soul of a woman must
meet,--must rush together,--not all the forces of the universe can
hinder them; aye, even if they were, for some conventional cause or
circumstance themselves reluctant to consummate their destiny, it
would nevertheless, despite them, be consummated. For mark you,--in
some form or other they have rushed together before! Whether as flames
in the air, or twining leaves on a tree, or flowers in a field, they
have felt the sweetness and fitness of each other’s being in former
lives,--and the craving sense of that sweetness and fitness can never
be done away with,--never! Not as long as this present universe lasts!
It is a terrible thing,” continued the Doctor in a lower tone, “a
terrible fatality,--the desire of love. In some cases it is a curse;
in others, a divine and priceless blessing. The results depend
entirely on the temperaments of the human creatures possessed by its
fever. When it kindles, rises and burns towards Heaven in a steady
flame of ever-brightening purity and faith, then it makes marriage the
most perfect union on earth,--the sweetest and most blessed
companionship; but when it is a mere gust of fire, bright and fierce
as the sudden leaping light of a volcano, then it withers everything
at a touch,--faith, honor, truth,--and dies into dull ashes in which
no spark remains to warm or inspire man’s higher nature. Better death
than such a love,--for it works misery on earth; but who can tell what
horrors it may not create Hereafter!”
The Princess looked at him with a strange, weird gleam in her dark
eyes.
“You are right,” she said. “It is just the Hereafter that men never
think of. I am glad you, at least, acknowledge the truth of the life
beyond death.”
“I am bound to acknowledge it,” returned the Doctor; “inasmuch as I
know it exists.”
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 proceedings, 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
To the wondering world,
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.