Chapter XXVI: What We Saw

Then came a few moments’ pause, during which Ayesha seemed to be
gathering up her strength for the fiery trial, while we clung to
each other, and waited in utter silence.

At last, from far far away, came the first murmur of sound, that
grew and grew till it began to crash and bellow in the distance.
As she heard it, Ayesha swiftly threw off her gauzy wrapping,
loosened the golden snake from her kirtle, and then, shaking her
lovely hair about her like a garment, beneath its cover slipped
the kirtle off and replaced the snaky belt around her and outside
the masses of her falling hair. There she stood before us as Eve
might have stood before Adam, clad in nothing but her abundant
locks, held round her by the golden band; and no words of mine
can tell how sweet she looked—and yet how divine. Nearer and
nearer came the thunder-wheels of fire, and as they came she
pushed one ivory arm through the dark masses of her hair and
flung it round Leo’s neck.

“Oh, my love, my love!” she murmured, “wilt thou ever know how I
have loved thee?” and she kissed him on the forehead, and then
went and stood in the pathway of the flame of Life.

There was, I remember, to my mind something very touching about
her words and that embrace upon the forehead. It was like a
mother’s kiss, and seemed to convey a benediction with it.

On came the crashing, rolling noise, and the sound of it was as
the sound of a forest being swept flat by a mighty wind, and then
tossed up like so much grass, and thundered down a mountain-side.
Nearer and nearer it came; now flashes of light, forerunners of
the revolving pillar of flame, were passing like arrows through
the rosy air; and now the edge of the pillar itself appeared.
Ayesha turned towards it, and stretched out her arms to greet it.
On it came very slowly, and lapped her round with flame. I saw
the fire run up her form. I saw her lift it with both hands as
though it were water, and pour it over her head. I even saw her
open her mouth and draw it down into her lungs, and a dread and
wonderful sight it was.

Then she paused, and stretched out her arms, and stood there
quite still, with a heavenly smile upon her face, as though she
were the very Spirit of the Flame.

The mysterious fire played up and down her dark and rolling
locks, twining and twisting itself through and around them like
threads of golden lace; it gleamed upon her ivory breast and
shoulder, from which the hair had slipped aside; it slid along
her pillared throat and delicate features, and seemed to find a
home in the glorious eyes that shone and shone, more brightly
even than the spiritual essence.

Oh, how beautiful she looked there in the flame! No angel out of
heaven could have worn a greater loveliness. Even now my heart
faints before the recollection of it, as she stood and smiled at
our awed faces, and I would give half my remaining time upon this
earth to see her once like that again.

But suddenly—more suddenly than I can describe—a kind of change
came over her face, a change which I could not define or explain,
but none the less a change. The smile vanished, and in its place
there came a dry, hard look; the rounded face seemed to grow
pinched, as though some great anxiety were leaving its impress
upon it. The glorious eyes, too, lost their light, and, as I
thought, the form its perfect shape and erectness.

I rubbed my eyes, thinking that I was the victim of some
hallucination, or that the refraction from the intense light
produced an optical delusion; and, as I did so, the flaming
pillar slowly twisted and thundered off whithersoever it passes
to in the bowels of the great earth, leaving Ayesha standing
where it had been.

As soon as it was gone, she stepped forward to Leo’s side—it
seemed to me that there was no spring in her step—and stretched
out her hand to lay it on his shoulder. I gazed at her arm. Where
was its wonderful roundness and beauty? It was getting thin and
angular. And her face—by Heaven!—_her face was growing old before
my eyes!_ I suppose that Leo saw it also; certainly he recoiled a
step or two.

“What is it, my Kallikrates?” she said, and her voice—what was
the matter with those deep and thrilling notes? They were quite
high and cracked.

“Why, what is it—what is it?” she said confusedly. “I feel dazed.
Surely the quality of the fire hath not altered. Can the
principle of Life alter? Tell me, Kallikrates, is there aught
wrong with my eyes? I see not clear,” and she put her hand to her
head and touched her hair—and oh, _horror of horrors!_—it all
fell upon the floor.

“Oh, _look!—look!—look!_” shrieked Job, in a shrill falsetto of
terror, his eyes nearly dropping out of his head, and foam upon
his lips. “_Look!—look!—look!_ she’s shrivelling up! she’s
turning into a monkey!” and down he fell upon the ground, foaming
and gnashing in a fit.

True enough—I faint even as I write it in the living presence of
that terrible recollection—she _was_ shrivelling up; the golden
snake that had encircled her gracious form slipped over her hips
and to the ground; smaller and smaller she grew; her skin changed
colour, and in place of the perfect whiteness of its lustre it
turned dirty brown and yellow, like an old piece of withered
parchment. She felt at her head: the delicate hand was nothing
but a claw now, a human talon like that of a badly-preserved
Egyptian mummy, and then she seemed to realise what kind of
change was passing over her, and she shrieked—ah, she
shrieked!—she rolled upon the floor and shrieked!

Smaller she grew, and smaller yet, till she was no larger than a
monkey. Now the skin was puckered into a million wrinkles, and on
the shapeless face was the stamp of unutterable age. I never saw
anything like it; nobody ever saw anything like the frightful age
that was graven on that fearful countenance, no bigger now than
that of a two-months’ child, though the skull remained the same
size, or nearly so, and let all men pray they never may, if they
wish to keep their reason.

At last she lay still, or only feebly moving. She, who but two
minutes before had gazed upon us the loveliest, noblest, most
splendid woman the world has ever seen, she lay still before us,
near the masses of her own dark hair, no larger than a big
monkey, and hideous—ah, too hideous for words. And yet, think of
this—at that very moment I thought of it—it was the _same_ woman!

She was dying: we saw it, and thanked God—for while she lived she
could feel, and what must she have felt? She raised herself upon
her bony hands, and blindly gazed around her, swaying her head
slowly from side to side as a tortoise does. She could not see,
for her whitish eyes were covered with a horny film. Oh, the
horrible pathos of the sight! But she could still speak.

“Kallikrates,” she said in husky, trembling notes. “Forget me
not, Kallikrates. Have pity on my shame; I shall come again, and
shall once more be beautiful, I swear it—it is true! _Oh—h—h—_”
and she fell upon her face, and was still.

On the very spot where more than twenty centuries before she had
slain Kallikrates the priest, she herself fell down and died.

I know not how long we remained thus. Many hours, I suppose. When
at last I opened my eyes, the other two were still outstretched
upon the floor. The rosy light yet beamed like a celestial dawn,
and the thunder-wheels of the Spirit of Life yet rolled upon
their accustomed track, for as I awoke the great pillar was
passing away. There, too, lay the hideous little monkey frame,
covered with crinkled yellow parchment, that once had been the
glorious _She_. Alas! it was no hideous dream—it was an awful and
unparalleled fact!

What had happened to bring this shocking change about? Had the
nature of the life-giving Fire changed? Did it, perhaps, from
time to time send forth an essence of Death instead of an essence
of Life? Or was it that the frame once charged with its
marvellous virtue could bear no more, so that were the process
repeated—it mattered not at what lapse of time—the two
impregnations neutralised each other, and left the body on which
they acted as it was before it ever came into contact with the
very essence of Life? This, and this alone, would account for the
sudden and terrible ageing of Ayesha, as the whole length of her
two thousand years took effect upon her. I have not the slightest
doubt myself but that the frame now lying before me was just what
the frame of a woman would be if by any extraordinary means life
could be preserved in her till she at length died at the age of
two-and-twenty centuries.

But who can tell what had happened? There was the fact. Often
since that awful hour I have reflected that it requires no great
imagination to see the finger of Providence in the matter. Ayesha
locked up in her living tomb waiting from age to age for the
coming of her lover worked but a small change in the order of the
World. But Ayesha strong and happy in her love, clothed in
immortal youth and goddess beauty, and the wisdom of the
centuries, would have revolutionised society, and even perchance
have changed the destiny of Mankind. Thus she opposed herself
against the eternal law, and, strong though she was, by it was
swept back to nothingness—swept back with shame and hideous
mockery!

For some minutes I lay faintly turning these terrors over in my
mind, while my physical strength came back to me, which it
quickly did in that buoyant atmosphere. Then I bethought me of
the others, and staggered to my feet, to see if I could arouse
them. But first I took up Ayesha’s kirtle and the gauzy scarf
with which she had been wont to hide her dazzling loveliness from
the eyes of men, and, averting my head so that I might not look
upon it, covered up that dreadful relic of the glorious dead,
that shocking epitome of human beauty and human life. I did this
hurriedly, fearing lest Leo should recover, and see it again.

Then, stepping over the perfumed masses of dark hair that lay
upon the sand, I stooped down by Job, who was lying upon his
face, and turned him over. As I did so his arm fell back in a way
that I did not like, and which sent a chill through me, and I
glanced sharply at him. One look was enough. Our old and faithful
servant was dead. His nerves, already shattered by all he had
seen and undergone, had utterly broken down beneath this last
dire sight, and he had died of terror, or in a fit brought on by
terror. I had only to look at his face to see it.

It was another blow; but perhaps it may help people to understand
how overwhelmingly awful was the experience through which we had
passed—we did not feel it much at the time. It seemed quite
natural that the poor fellow should be dead. When Leo came to
himself, which he did with a groan and trembling of the limbs
about ten minutes afterwards, and I told him that Job was dead,
he merely said, “_Oh!_” And, mind you, this was from no
heartlessness, for he and Job were much attached to each other;
and he often talks of him now with the deepest regret and
affection. It was only that his nerves would bear no more. A harp
can give out but a certain quantity of sound, however heavily it
is smitten.

Well, I set myself to recovering Leo, who, to my infinite relief,
I found was not dead, but only fainting, and in the end I
succeeded, as I have said, and he sat up; and then I saw another
dreadful thing. When we entered that awful place his curling hair
had been of the ruddiest gold, now it was turning grey, and by
the time we reached the outer air it was snow white. Besides, he
looked twenty years older.

“What is to be done, old fellow?” he said in a hollow, dead sort
of voice, when his mind had cleared a little, and a recollection
of what had happened forced itself upon it.

“Try and get out, I suppose,” I answered; “that is, unless you
would like to go in there,” and I pointed to the column of fire
that was once more rolling by.

“I would go in if I were sure that it would kill me,” he said
with a little laugh. “It was my cursed hesitation that did this.
If I had not been doubtful she might never have tried to show me
the road. But I am not sure. The fire might have the opposite
effect upon me. It might make me immortal; and, old fellow, I
have not the patience to wait a couple of thousand years for her
to come back again as she did for me. I had rather die when my
hour comes—and I should fancy that it isn’t far off either—and go
my ways to look for her. Do you go in if you like.”

But I merely shook my head, my excitement was as dead as
ditch-water, and my distaste for the prolongation of my mortal
span had come back upon me more strongly than ever. Besides, we
neither of us knew what the effects of the fire might be. The
result upon _She_ had not been of an encouraging nature, and of
the exact causes that produced that result we were, of course,
ignorant.

“Well, my boy,” I said, “we cannot stop here till we go the way
of those two,” and I pointed to the little heap under the white
garment and to the stiffening corpse of poor Job. “If we are
going we had better go. But, by the way, I expect that the lamps
have burnt out,” and I took one up and looked at it, and sure
enough it had.

“There is some more oil in the vase,” said Leo indifferently—“if
it is not broken, at least.”

I examined the vessel in question—it was intact. With a trembling
hand I filled the lamps—luckily there was still some of the linen
wick unburnt. Then I lit them with one of our wax matches. While
I did so we heard the pillar of fire approaching once more as it
went on its never-ending journey, if, indeed, it was the same
pillar that passed and repassed in a circle.

“Let’s see it come once more,” said Leo; “we shall never look
upon its like again in this world.”

It seemed a bit of idle curiosity, but somehow I shared it, and
so we waited till, turning slowly round upon its own axis, it had
flamed and thundered by; and I remember wondering for how many
thousands of years this same phenomenon had been taking place in
the bowels of the earth, and for how many more thousands it would
continue to take place. I wondered also if any mortal eyes would
ever again mark its passage, or any mortal ears be thrilled and
fascinated by the swelling volume of its majestic sound. I do not
think that they will. I believe that we are the last human beings
who will ever see that unearthly sight. Presently it had gone,
and we too turned to go.

But before we did so we each took Job’s cold hand in ours and
shook it. It was a rather ghastly ceremony, but it was the only
means in our power of showing our respect to the faithful dead
and of celebrating his obsequies. The heap beneath the white
garment we did not uncover. We had no wish to look upon that
terrible sight again. But we went to the pile of rippling hair
that had fallen from her in the agony of that hideous change
which was worse than a thousand natural deaths, and each of us
drew from it a shining lock, and these locks we still have, the
sole memento that is left to us of Ayesha as we knew her in the
fulness of her grace and glory. Leo pressed the perfumed hair to
his lips.

“She called to me not to forget her,” he said hoarsely; “and
swore that we should meet again. By Heaven! I never will forget
her. Here I swear that if we live to get out of this, I will not
for all my days have anything to say to another living woman, and
that wherever I go I will wait for her as faithfully as she
waited for me.”

“Yes,” I thought to myself, “if she comes back as beautiful as we knew her. But supposing she came back _like that!_”[1]

[1] What a terrifying reflection it is, by the way, that nearly all our deep love for women who are not our kindred depends—at any rate, in the first instance—upon their personal appearance. If we lost them, and found them again dreadful to look on, though otherwise they were the very same, should we still love them? —L. H. H.

Well, and then we went. We went, and left those two in the
presence of the very well and spring of Life, but gathered to the
cold company of Death. How lonely they looked as they lay there,
and how ill assorted! That little heap had been for two thousand
years the wisest, loveliest, proudest creature—I can hardly call
her woman—in the whole universe. She had been wicked, too, in her
way; but, alas! such is the frailty of the human heart, her
wickedness had not detracted from her charm. Indeed, I am by no
means certain that it did not add to it. It was after all of a
grand order, there was nothing mean or small about Ayesha.

And poor Job too! His presentiment had come true, and there was
an end of him. Well, he has a strange burial-place—no Norfolk
hind ever had a stranger, or ever will; and it is something to
lie in the same sepulchre as the poor remains of the imperial
_She_.

We looked our last upon them and the indescribable rosy glow in
which they lay, and then with hearts far too heavy for words we
left them, and crept thence broken-down men—so broken down that
we even renounced the chance of practically immortal life,
because all that made life valuable had gone from us, and we knew
even then that to prolong our days indefinitely would only be to
prolong our sufferings. For we felt—yes, both of us—that having
once looked Ayesha in the eyes, we could not forget her for ever
and ever while memory and identity remained. We both loved her
now and for all time, she was stamped and carven on our hearts,
and no other woman or interest could ever raze that splendid die.
And I—there lies the sting—I had and have no right to think thus
of her. As she told me, I was naught to her, and never shall be
through the unfathomed depths of Time, unless, indeed, conditions
alter, and a day comes at last when two men may love one woman,
and all three be happy in the fact. It is the only hope of my
broken-heartedness, and a rather faint one. Beyond it I have
nothing. I have paid down this heavy price, all that I am worth
here and hereafter, and that is my sole reward. With Leo it is
different, and often and often I bitterly envy him his happy lot,
for if _She_ was right, and her wisdom and knowledge did not fail
her at the last, which, arguing from the precedent of her own
case, I think most unlikely, he has some future to look forward
to. But I have none, and yet—mark the folly and the weakness of
the human heart, and let him who is wise learn wisdom from it—yet
I would not have it otherwise. I mean that I am content to give
what I have given and must always give, and take in payment those
crumbs that fall from my mistress’s table, the memory of a few
kind words, the hope one day in the far undreamed future of a
sweet smile or two of recognition, a little gentle friendship,
and a little show of thanks for my devotion to her—and Leo.

If that does not constitute true love, I do not know what does,
and all I have to say is that it is a very bad state of affairs
for a man on the wrong side of middle age to fall into.