Sawt al-Mara — page 20

shall break, and whose spaces no echo of their fearful roaring shall darken. For my sons tend it always with keeping and watering, with love and fidelity...

Said the specter: And who are these sons of yours?

It said: My sons are the bewitching laugh upon the mouth of Time and the noble tear in his two merciful eyes. They are few, but they are ever in motion, for in the depths of their hearts is an ember that will not die out and a flame whose sparks fly forth until they purify all that surrounds them and all that does not...

Have you heard of Wells? Have you taken in the tidings of Muhammad Abduh? Have the discourses of Tolstoy been carried to you? Have the writings of Anatole France reached you? Have you heard the name of al-Jahiz? Do you know Oscar Wilde and Victor Hugo? And Taha Hussein? And Gibran? And André Gide? Have the tales of Dostoevsky come your way? Have the humane breaths of May refreshed you — and others, and others besides?? These are some of my sons, and many others beyond them drink forever from my watering-place, and they trust that at my hands shall come the all-embracing good, the effective remedy, and the lasting peace for this life.

Said the specter: And then your powers will have annulled my powers?

Said the flute — and its sweet notes were like a radiant smile — You, my lord, forever speak in the language of "force." Will you not quiet your voice a little, and sit here upon these dewy grasses, and listen to my melodies — how they grow tender and clear until they become a dancing art beneath whose flood the universe is rocked as in a cradle, while life sways singing to its cadences, and Time, with all it has folded within its breast, looks out upon the secret of its majesty and the immortality of its beauty...

Then listen to them again — how they quicken and rise until they become a magical ether that hovers over wretched hearts and wipes away the streaming tears, and passes over heedless living

— and behold, its slopes are green, its horizons radiant, and there gleam within it flashes that are resplendent hope, dewy fancy, and happiness with its shining pole-star — and behold...

And the specter cut it short, as though startled all at once out of a deep sleep:

O wondrous flute, filled with the secrets of tenderness and peace, I swear to you that were there not a defiant devil whose iron powers blunt my own... I would become your captive, drawing beauty from your melodies, spending the remainder of my days beneath the flood of this tranquility, with all its sweetness and ease, until death should film over my eyes... But it is he. Yes... he... he...

And the flute answered: Nay, it is rather the nature of the first man that speaks with your lips — nay, it is his savagery lying latent within him, the savagery

which the long centuries have not refined, and which centuries like them may not have the strength to refine as long as life lasts: it is that which drives this devil of yours to seduce you, or to tempt you into following what you cannot help but follow.

But the specter made no answer; he was walking abjectly, and his thick eyelids had hidden away... a tear.

And upon the caress of the pre-dawn breeze the melodies of the tender flute drifted back and forth, and it seemed there was hope in their tones...

And when the first nightingale trilled its song to the bright morning dawn, everything in the universe was whispering of what had passed between War and Literature — of which of the two would have the victory, and whose struggle would be the longer...