Mr. Isaacs | Page 5

I was riveted by
the majestic face and expression of the beautiful living creature who,
by a turn of his wand, or, to speak prosaically, by an invitation to
smoke, had lifted me out of humdrum into a land peopled with all the
effulgent phantasies and the priceless realities of the magic East. As I
gazed, it seemed as if the illumination from the lamps above were

caught up and flung back with the vitality of living fire by his dark eyes,
in which more than ever I saw and realised the inexplicable blending of
the precious stones with the burning spark of a divine soul breathing
within. For some moments we stood thus; he evidently amused at my
astonishment, and I fascinated and excited by the problem presented me
for solution in his person and possessions.
"Yes," said Isaacs, "you are naturally surprised at my little Eldorado, so
snugly hidden away in the lower story of a commonplace hotel.
Perhaps you are surprised at finding me here, too. But come out into
the air, your hookah is blazing, and so are the stars."
I followed him into the verandah, where the long cane chairs of the
country were placed, and taking the tube of the pipe from the solemn
Mussulman whose duty it was to prepare it, I stretched myself out in
that indolent lazy peace which is only to be enjoyed in tropical
countries. Silent and for the nonce perfectly happy, I slowly inhaled the
fragrant vapour of tobacco and aromatic herbs and honey with which
the hookah is filled. No sound save the monotonous bubbling and
chuckling of the smoke through the water, or the gentle rustle of the
leaves on the huge rhododendron-tree which reared its dusky branches
to the night in the middle of the lawn. There was no moon, though the
stars were bright and clear, the foaming path of the milky way
stretching overhead like the wake of some great heavenly ship; a soft
mellow lustre from the lamps in Isaacs' room threw a golden stain half
across the verandah, and the chafing dish within, as the light breeze
fanned the coals, sent out a little cloud of perfume which mingled
pleasantly with the odour of the chillum in the pipe. The turbaned
servant squatted on the edge of the steps at a little distance, peering into
the dusk, as Indians will do for hours together. Isaacs lay quite still in
his chair, his hands above his head, the light through the open door just
falling on the jeweled mouthpiece of his narghyle. He sighed--a sigh
only half regretful, half contented, and seemed about to speak, but the
spirit did not move him, and the profound silence continued. For my
part, I was so much absorbed in my reflections on the things I had seen
that I had nothing to say, and the strange personality of the man made
me wish to let him begin upon his own subject, if perchance I might

gain some insight into his mind and mode of thought. There are times
when silence seems to be sacred, even unaccountably so. A feeling is in
us that to speak would be almost a sacrilege, though we are unable to
account in any way for the pause. At such moments every one seems
instinctively to feel the same influence, and the first person who breaks
the spell either experiences a sensation of awkwardness, and says
something very foolish, or, conscious of the odds against him, delivers
himself of a sentiment of ponderous severity and sententiousness. As I
smoked, watching the great flaming bowl of the water pipe, a little coal,
forced up by the expansion of the heat, toppled over the edge and fell
tinkling on the metal foot below. The quick ear of the servant on the
steps caught the sound, and he rose and came forward to trim the fire.
Though he did not speak, his act was a diversion. The spell was broken.
"The Germans," said Isaacs, "say that an angel is passing over the
house. I do not believe it."
I was surprised at the remark. It did not seem quite natural for Mr.
Isaacs to begin talking about the Germans, and from the tone of his
voice I could almost have fancied he thought the proverb was held as
an article of faith by the Teutonic races in general.
"I do not believe it," he repeated reflectively. "There is no such thing as
an angel 'passing'; it is a misuse of terms. If there are such things as
angels, their changes of place cannot be described as motion, seeing
that from the very nature of things such changes must be instantaneous,
not involving time as a necessary element. Have you ever thought
much about angels? By-the-bye, pardon