A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder by James De Mille (good summer reads txt) 📕

is, I did like Layelah very much indeed, and I wanted to tell her so; but my ignorance of the language did not allow me to observe those nice distinctions of meaning which exist between the words “like” and “love.” I knew no other word than the one Kosekin word meaning “love,” and could not think of any meaning “like.” It was, therefore, a very trying position for me.

“Dear Layelah,” said I, floundering and stammering in my confusion, “I love you; I⁠—”

But here I was interrupted without waiting for any further words; the beautiful creature flung her arms around me and clung to me with a fond embrace. As for me, I was utterly confounded, bewildered, and desperate. I thought of my darling Almah, whom alone I loved. It seemed at that moment as though I was not only false to her, but as if I was even endangering her life. My only thought now was to clear up my meaning.

“Dear Layelah,” said I, as I sat with her arms around me, and with my own around her slender waist, “I do not want to hurt your feelings.”

“Oh, Atam-or! oh, my love! never, never did I know such bliss as this.”

Here again I was overwhelmed, but I still persisted in my effort.

“Dear Layelah,” said I, “I love Almah most dearly and most tenderly.”

“Oh, Atam-or, why speak of that? I know it well. And so by our Kosekin law you give her up; among us, lovers never marry. So you take me, your own Layelah, and you will have me for your bride; and my love for you is ten thousand times stronger than that of the cold and melancholy Almah. She may marry my papa.”

This suggestion filled me with dismay.

“Oh no,” said I. “Never, never will I give up Almah!”

“Certainly not,” said Layelah; “you do not give her up⁠—she gives you up.”

“She never will,” said I.

“Oh yes,” said Layelah; “I will tell her that you wish it.”

“I do not wish it,” said I. “I love her, and will never give her up.”

“It’s all the same,” said Layelah. “You cannot marry her at all. No one will marry you. You and Almah are victims and the State has given you the matchless honor of death. Common people who love one another may marry if they choose, and take the punishment which the law assigns but illustrious victims who love cannot marry, and so, my Atam-or, you have only me.”

I need not say that all this was excessively embarrassing I was certainly fond of Layelah, and liked her too much to hurt her feelings. Had I been one of the Kosekin I might perhaps have managed better; but being a European, a man of the Aryan race⁠—being such, and sitting there with the beautiful Layelah lavishing all her affections upon me⁠—why, it stands to reason that I could not have the heart to wound her feelings in any way. I was taken at an utter disadvantage. Never in my life had I heard of women taking the initiative. Layelah had proposed to me, she would not listen to refusal, and I had not the heart to wound her. I had made all the fight I could by persisting in asserting my love for Almah, but all my assertions were brushed lightly aside as trivial things.

Let any gentleman put himself in my situation, and ask himself what he would do. What would he do if such a thing could happen to him at home? But there such a thing could not happen, and so there is no use in supposing an impossible case. At any rate I think I deserve sympathy. Who could keep his presence of mind under such circumstances? With us a young lady who loves one man can easily repel another suitor; but here it was very different, for how could I repel Layelah? Could I turn upon her and say “Unhand me”? Could I say “Away! I am another’s”? Of course I couldn’t; and what’s worse, if I had said such things Layelah would have smiled me down into silence. The fact is, it doesn’t do for women to take the initiative⁠—it’s not fair. I had stood a good deal among the Kosekin. Their love of darkness, their passion for death, their contempt of riches, their yearning after unrequited love, their human sacrifices, their cannibalism, all had more or less become familiar to me, and I had learned to acquiesce in silence; but now when it came to this⁠—that a woman should propose to a man⁠—it really was more than a fellow could stand. I felt this at that moment very forcibly; but then the worst of it was that Layelah was so confoundedly pretty, and had such a nice way with her, that hang me if I knew what to say.

Meanwhile Layelah was not silent; she had all her wits about her.

“Dear papa,” said she, “would make such a nice husband for Almah. He is a widower, you know. I could easily persuade him to marry her. He always does whatever I ask him to do.”

“But victims cannot marry, you said.”

“No,” said Layelah, sweetly, “they cannot marry one another, but Almah may marry dear papa, and then you and I can be married, and it will be all very nice indeed.”

At this I started away.

“No,” said I, indignantly, “it won’t be nice. I’m engaged to be married to Almah, and I’m not going to give her up.”

“Oh, but she gives you up, you know,” said Layelah, quietly.

“Well, but I’m not going to be given up.”

“Why, how unreasonable you are, you foolish boy!” said Layelah, in her most caressing manner. “You have nothing at all to do with it.”

At this I was in fresh despair, and then a new thought came, which I seized upon.

“See here,” said I, “why can’t I marry both of you? I’m engaged to Almah, and I love her better than all the world. Let me marry her and you too.”

At this Layelah laughed long