Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Days — which the world counts as years!” murmured Heliobas. “You saw no one but her?”

  “No one — we were alone together. A vast woodland stretched before us, she took my hand and led me beneath broad-arching trees to where a lake, silvered by some strange radiance, glittered diamond-like in the stirring of a balmy wind. Here she bade me rest — and sank gently on the flowery bank beside me. Then viewing her more closely I greatly feared her beauty — for I saw a wondrous halo wide and dazzling — a golden aureole that spread itself around her in scintillating points of light — light that reflected itself also on me and bathed me in its luminous splendor. And as I gazed at her in speechless awe, she leaned toward me nearer and nearer, her deep, pure eyes burning softly into mine … her hands touched me — her arms closed round me … her bright head lay in all its shining loveliness on my breast! A tremulous ecstasy thrilled me as with fire … I gazed upon her as one might gaze on some fluttering, rare-plumaged bird … I dare not move or speak … I drank her sweetness down into my soul! Now and then a sound as of distant harps playing broke the love-weighted silence … and thus we remained together a heavenly breathing-space of wordless rapture; till suddenly and swiftly, as though she had received an invisible summons, she arose, her looks expressing a saintly patience, and laying her two hands upon my brows— ‘Write,’ she said, ‘WRITE AND PROCLAIM A MESSAGE OF HOPE TO THE SORROWFUL STAR! WRITE AND LET THINE UTTERANCE BE A TRUE ECHO OF THE ETERNAL MUSIC WITH WHICH THESE SPHERES ARE FILLED! WRITE TO THE RHYTHMIC BEAT OF THE HARMONIES WITHIN THEE … FOR LO! ONCE MORE AS IN AFORETIME MY CHANGELESS LOVE RENEWS IN THEE THE POWER OF PERFECT SONG!’ With that she moved away serenely and beckoned me to follow … I obeyed in haste and trembling … long rays of rosy light swept after her like trailing wings, and as she walked, the golden nimbus round her form glowed with a thousand brilliant and changeful hues like the rainbows seen in the spray of falling water! Through lush green grass thick with blossom, — under groves heavy with fragrant leaves and laden with the songs of birds … over meadows cool and mountain-sheltered, on we went — she, like the goddess of advancing Spring, I eagerly treading in her radiant footsteps … and presently we came to a place where two paths met, … one all overgrown with azure and white flowers, that ascended away and away into undiscerned distance, … the other sloping deeply downward, and full of shadows, yet dimly illumined by a pale, mysterious splendor like frosty moonlight streaming on sad-colored seas. Here she turned and faced me, and I saw her divine eyes droop with the moisture of unshed tears. ‘THEOS! … THEOS!’ … she cried, and the passionate cadence of her voice was as the singing of a nightingale in lonely woodlands … ‘AGAIN … AGAIN WE MUST PART! … PART! … OH, MY BELOVED! … MY BELOVED! HOW LONG WILT THOU SEVER ME FROM THY SOUL AND LEAVE ME ALONE AND SORROWFUL AMID THE JOYS OF HEAVEN?’ As she thus spoke a sense of utter shame and loss and failure overwhelmed me, … pierced to the very core of my being by an unexplained yet most bitter remorse, I cast myself down in deep abasement before her, … I caught her glittering robe … I strove to say ‘Forgive!’ but I was speechless as a convicted traitor in the presence of a wronged queen! All at once the air about us was rent by a great noise of thunder intermingled with triumphal music, — she drew her sheeny garment from my touch in haste, and stooping to me where I knelt, she kissed my forehead … ‘THY ROAD LIES THERE’ — she murmured in quick, soft tones, pointing to the vista of varying light and shadow,— ‘MINE, YONDER!’ and she looked toward the flower-garlanded avenue— ‘HASTEN! … IT IS TIME THOU WERT FAR HENCE! … RETURN TO THINE OWN STAR LEST ITS PORTALS BE CLOSED ON THEE FOREVER AND THOU BE PLUNGED INTO DEEPER DARKNESS! SEEK THOU THE FIELD OF ARDATH! — AS CHRIST LIVES, I WILL MEET THEE THERE! FAREWELL!’ With these words she left me, passing away, arrayed in glory, treading on flowers, and ever ascending till she disappeared! … while I, stricken with a great repentance, went slowly, as she bade me, down into the shadow, and a rippling breeze-like melody, as of harps and lutes most tenderly attuned, followed me as I descended. And now,” said Alwyn, interrupting his narrative and speaking with emphatic decision, “surely there remains but one thing for me to do — that is, to find the ‘Field of Ardath.’”

  Heliobas smiled gravely. “Nay, if you consider the whole episode a dream,” he observed, “why trouble yourself? Dreams are seldom realized, … and as to the name of Ardath, have you ever heard it before?”

  “Never!” replied Alwyn. “Still — if there is such a place on this planet I will most certainly journey thither! Maybe YOU know something of its whereabouts?”

  “Finish your story,” said Heliobas, quietly evading the question. “I am curious to hear the end of your strange adventure.”

  “There is not much more to tell,” and Alwyn sighed a little as he spoke. “I wandered further and further into the gloom, oppressed by many thoughts and troubled by vague fears, till presently it grew so dark that I could scarcely see where I was going, though I was able to guide myself in the path that stretched before me by means of the pale luminous rays that frequently pierced the deepening obscurity, and these rays I now noticed fell ever downwards in the form of a cross. As I went on I was pursued as it were by the sound of those delicate harmonies played on invisible, sweet strings; and after a while I perceived at the extreme end of the long, dim vista a door standing open, through which I entered and found myself alone in a quiet room. Here I sat down to rest, — the melody of the distant harps and lutes still floated in soft echoes on the silence … and presently words came breaking through the music, like buds breaking from their surrounding leaves.. words that I was compelled to write down as quickly as I heard them … and I wrote on and on, obeying that symphonious and rhythmical dictation with a sense of growing ease and pleasure, … when all suddenly a dense darkness overcame me, followed by a gradual dawning gray and golden light … the words dispersed into fragmentary half-syllables … the music died away, … I started up amazed … to find myself here! … here in this monastery of Lars, listening to the chanting of the Angelus!”

  He ceased, and looked wistfully out through the window at the white encircling rim of the opposite snow-mountains, now bathed in the full splendor of noon. Heliobas advanced and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder….

  “And do not forget,” he said, “that you have brought with you from the higher regions a Poem that will in all probability make your fame! ‘Fame! fame! next grandest word to God!’ … so wrote one of your craft, and no doubt you echo the sentiment! Have you not desired to blazon your name on the open scroll of the world? Well! … now you can have your wish — the world waits to receive your signature!”

  “That is all very well!” and Alwyn smiled rather dubiously as he glanced at the manuscript on the table beside him. “But the question is, — considering how it was written, — can I, dare I call this poem MINE?”

  “Most assuredly you can,” returned Heliobas. “Though your hesitation is a worthy one, and as rare as it is worthy. Well would it be for all poets and artists were they to pause thus, and consider before rashly calling their work their own! Self-appreciation is the death-blow of genius. The poem is as much yours as your life is yours — no more and no less. In brief, you have recovered your lost inspiration; the lately dumb oracle speaks again: — and are you not satisfied?”

  “No!” said Alwyn quickly, with a sudden brightening of his eyes as he met the keenly searching glance that accompanied this question. “No! for I love! … and the desire of love burns in me as ardently as the desire of fame!” He paused, and in quieter tones continued, “You see I speak freely and frankly to you as though — ,” and he laughed a little, “as though I were a good Catholic, and you my father-confessor! Good heavens! if some of the men I know in London were to hear me, they would think me utterly crazed! But craze or no craze, I feel I shall never be satisfied now till I find out whether there IS anywhere is the world a place called Ardath. Can you, will you help me in the search? I am almost ashamed to ask you, for you have
already done so much for me, and I really owe to your wonderful power my trance or soul-liberty, or whatever it may be called….”

  “You owe me nothing,” interposed Heliobas calmly, “not even thanks. Your own will accomplished your freedom, and I am not responsible for either your departure or your return. It was a predestined occurrence, yet perfectly scientific and easy of explanation. Your inward force attracted mine down upon you in one strong current, with the result that your Spirit instantly parted asunder from your body, and in that released condition you experienced what you have described. But I had no, more to do with that experience than I shall have with your journey to the ‘field of Ardath,’ should you decide to go there.”

  “There IS an Ardath then!” cried Alwyn excitedly.

  Heliobas eyed him with something of scorn. “Naturally! Are you still so much of a sceptic that you think an ANGEL would have bidden you seek a place that had no existence? Oh, yes! I see you are inclined to treat your ethereal adventure as a mere dream, — but I know it was a reality, more real than anything in this present world.” And turning to the loaded bookshelves he took down a large volume, and spread it open on the table.

  “You know this book?” he asked.

  Alwyn glanced at it. “The Bible! Of course!” he replied indifferently.

  “Everybody knows it!”

  “Pardon!” and Heliobas smiled. “It would be more correct to say nobody knows it. To read is not always to understand. There are meanings and mysteries in it which have never yet been penetrated, and which only the highest and most spiritually gifted intellects can ever hope to unravel. Now” … and he turned over the pages carefully till he came to the one he sought, “I think there is something here that will interest you — listen!” and he read aloud, “‘The Angel Uriel came unto me and said: Go into a field of flowers where no house is builded and eat only the flowers of the field — taste no flesh, drink no wine, but eat flowers only. And pray unto the Highest continually, and then will I come and talk to thee. So I went my way into the field which is called ARDATH, … ‘“

  “The very place!” exclaimed Alwyn, eagerly bending over the sacred book; then drawing back with a gesture of disappointment he added, “But you are reading from Esdras, the Apocrypha! an utterly unreliable source of information!”

  “On the contrary, as reliable as any history ever written,” rejoined Heliobas calmly. “Study it for yourself, … you will see that the prophet was at that time resident in Babylon; the field he mentions was near the city …”

  “Yes — WAS!” interrupted Alwyn incredulously.

  “Was and IS,” continued Heliobas. “No earthquake has crumbled it, no sea has invaded it, and no house has been ‘builded’ thereon. It is, as it was then, a waste field, lying about four miles west of the Babylonian ruins, and there is nothing whatever to hinder you from journeying thither when you please.”

  Alwyn’s expression as he heard this was one of stupefied amazement. Part of his so-called “dream” had already proved itself true — a “field of Ardath” actually existed!

  “You are certain of what you say?” he demanded.

  “Positively certain!” returned Heliobas.

  There was a silence, during which a little tinkling bell resounded in the outer corridor, followed by the tread of sandaled feet on the stone pavement. Heliobas closed the Bible and returned it to its shelf.

  “That was the dinner-bell,” he announced cheerfully. “Will you accompany me to the refectory, Mr. Alwyn? … we can talk further of this matter afterwards.” Alwyn roused himself from the fit of abstraction into which he had fallen, and gathering together the loose sheets of his so strangely written manuscript, he arranged them all in an orderly heap without speaking. Then he looked up and met the earnest eyes of Heliobas with an expression of settled resolve in his own.

  “I shall set out for Babylon to-morrow,” he said quietly. “As well go there as anywhere! … and on the result of my journey I shall stake my future! In the mean time—” He hesitated, then suddenly extending his hand with a frank grace that became him well, “In spite of my brusquerie last night, I trust we are friends?”

  “Why, most assuredly we are!” returned Heliobas, heartily pressing the proffered palm. “You had your doubts of me and you have them still; but what of that! I take no offence at unbelief. I pity those who suffer from its destroying influence too profoundly to find room in my heart for anger. Moreover, I never try to convert anybody…. it is so much more satisfactory when sceptics convert themselves, as you are unconsciously doing! Come, … shall we join the brethren?”

  Over Alwyn’s face flitted a transient shade of uneasiness and hauteur.

  “I would rather they knew nothing about all this,” he began.

  “Make your mind quite easy on that score,” rejoined Heliobas. “None of my companions here are aware of your recent departure, except my very old personal friend Hilarion, who, with myself, saw your body while in its state of temporary death. But he is one of those remarkably rare wise men who know when it is best to be silent; then again, he is ignorant as to the results of your soul-transmigration, and will, as far as I am concerned, remain in ignorance. Your confidence I assure you is perfectly safe with me — as safe as though it had been received under the sacred seal of confession.”

  With this understanding Alwyn seemed relieved and satisfied, and thereupon they left the apartment together.

  CHAPTER VI.

  “NOURHALMA” AND THE ORIGINAL ESDRAS.

  Later on in the afternoon of the same day, when the sun, poised above the western mountain-range, appeared to be lazily looking about him with a drowsy, golden smile of farewell before descending to his rest, Alwyn was once more alone in the library. Twilight shadows were already gathering in the corners of the long, low room, but he had moved the writing-table to the window, in order to enjoy the magnificence of the surrounding scenery, and sat where the light fell full upon his face as he leaned back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, in an attitude of pleased, half-meditative indolence. He had just finished reading from beginning to end the poem he had composed in his trance … there was not a line in it he could have wished altered, — not a word that would have been better omitted, — the only thing it lacked was a title, and this was the question on which he now pondered. The subject of the poem itself was not new to him — it was a story he had known from boyhood, … an old Eastern love-legend, fantastically beautiful as many such legends are, full of grace and passionate fervor — a theme fitted for the nightingale-utterance of a singer like the Persian Hafiz — though even Hafiz would have found it difficult to match the exquisitely choice language and delicately ringing rhythm in which this quaint idyll of long past ages was now most perfectly set like a jewel in fine gold. Alwyn himself entirely realized the splendid literary value of the composition — he knew that nothing more artistic in conception or more finished in treatment had appeared since the St. Agnes Eve of Keats — and as he thought of this, he yielded to a growing sense of self-complacent satisfaction which gradually destroyed all the deeply devout humility he had at first felt concerning the high and mysterious origin of his inspiration. The old inherent pride of his nature reasserted itself — he reviewed all the circumstances of his “trance” in the most practical manner — and calling to mind how the poet Coleridge had improvised the delicious fragment of Kubla Khan in a dream, he began to see nothing so very remarkable in his own unconscious production of a complete poem while under mesmeric or magnetic influences.

  “After all,” he mused, “the matter is simple enough when one reasons it out. I have been unable to write anything worth writing for a long time, and I told Heliobas as much. He, knowing my apathetic condition of brain, employed his force accordingly, though he denies having done so, … and this poem is evidently the result of my long pent-up thoughts that struggled for utterance yet could not before find vent in words. The only mysterious part of the affair is this ‘Field of Ardath,’ … h
ow its name haunts me! … and how HER face shines before the eyes of my memory! That SHE should be a phantom of my own creation seems impossible — for when have I, even in my wildest freaks of fancy, ever imagined a creature half so fair!”

  His gaze rested dreamily on the opposite snow-clad peaks, above which large fleecy clouds, themselves like moving mountains, were slowly passing, their edges glowing with purple and gold as they neared the sinking sun. Presently rousing himself, he took up a pen and first of all addressing an envelope to

  “THE HONBLE. FRANCIS VILLIERS,

  “Constitutional Club,

  “LONDON”

  he rapidly wrote off the following letter:

  “MONASTERY OF LARS, “PASS OF DARIEL, CAUCASUS.”

  “MY DEAR VILLIERS: — Start not at the above address! I am not yet vowed to perpetual seclusion, silence or celibacy! That I of all men in the world should be in a Monastery will seem to you, who know my prejudices, in the last degree absurd — nevertheless here I am, — though here I do not remain, as it is my fixed intention to-morrow at daybreak to depart straightway from hence en route for the supposed site and ruins of Babylon. Yes, — Babylon! why not? Perished greatness has always been a more interesting subject of contemplation to me than existing littleness — and I dare say I shall wander among the tumuli of the ancient fallen city with more satisfaction than in the hot, humanity-packed streets of London, Paris, or Vienna — all destined to become tumuli in their turn. Moreover. I am on the track of an adventure, — on the search for a new sensation, having tried nearly all the old ones and found them NIL. You know my nomadic and restless disposition … perhaps there is something of the Greek gipsy about me — a craving for constant change of scene and surroundings, — however, as my absence from you and England is likely to be somewhat prolonged, I send you in the mean time a Poem — there! ‘Season your admiration for a while,’ and hear me out patiently. I am perfectly aware of all you would say concerning the utter folly and uselessness of writing poetry at all in this present age of milk-and-watery-literature, shilling sensationals, and lascivious society dramas, — and I have a very keen recollection too of the way in which my last book was maltreated by the entire press — good heavens! how the critics yelped like dogs about my heels, snapping, sniffing, and snarling! I could have wept then like the sensitive fool I was…. I can laugh now! In brief, my friend — for you ARE my friend and the best of all possible good fellows — I have made up my mind to conquer those that have risen against me — to break through the ranks of pedantic and pre-conceived opinions — and to climb the heights of fame, regardless of the little popular pipers of tame verso that obstruct my path and blow their tin whistles in the public ears to drown, if possible, my song. I WILL be heard! … and to this end I pin my faith on the work I now transmit to your care. Have it published immediately and in the best style — I will cover all expenses. Advertise sufficiently, yet with becoming modesty, for ‘puffery’ is a thing I heartily despise, — and were the whole press to turn round and applaud me as much as it has hitherto abused and ridiculed me, I would not have one of its penny lines of condescendingly ignorant approval quoted in connection with what must be a perfectly unostentatious and simple announcement of this new production from my pen. The manuscript is exceptionally clear, even for me who do not as a male write a very bad scrawl — so that you can scarcely have much bother with the proof-correcting — though even were this the case, and the printers turned out to be incorrigible blockheads and blunderers, I know you would grudge neither time nor trouble expended in my service. Good Frank Villiers! how much I owe you! — and yet I willingly incur another debt of gratitude by placing this matter in your hands, and am content to borrow more of your friendship, but only believe me, in order to repay it again with the truest interest! By the way, do you remember when we visited the last Paris Salon together, how fascinated we were by one picture — the head of a monk whose eyes looked out like a veritable illumination from under the folds of a drooping white cowl? … and on referring to our catalogues we found it described as the portrait of one ‘Heliobas,’ an Eastern mystic, a psychist formerly well known in Paris, but since retired into monastic life? Well! I have discovered him here; he is apparently the Superior or chief of this Order — though what Order it is and when founded is more than I can tell. There are fifteen monks altogether, living contentedly in this old, half-ruined habitation among the barren steeps of the frozen Caucasus, — splendid, princely looking fellows all of them, Heliobas himself being an exceptionally fine specimen of his race. I have just dined with the whole community, and have been fairly astonished by the fluent brilliancy and wit of their conversation. They speak all languages. English included, and no subject comes amiss to them, for they are familiar with the latest political situations in all countries, — they know all about the newest scientific discoveries (which, by-the-by, they smile at blandly, as though these last were mere child’s play), and they discuss our modern social problems and theories with a Socratic-like incisiveness and composure such as our parliamentary howlers would do well to imitate. Their doctrine is.. but I will not bore you by a theological disquisition, — enough to say it is founded on Christianity, and that at present I don’t quite know what to make of it! And now, my dear Villiers, farewell! An answer to this is unnecessary; besides I can give you no address, as it is uncertain where I shall be for the next two or three months. If I don’t get as much pleasure as I anticipate from the contemplation of the Babylonian ruins, I shall probably take up my abode in Bagdad for a time and try to fancy myself back in the days of ‘good Haroun Alrascheed’. At any rate, whatever becomes of me, I know I have entrusted my Poem to safe hands — and all I ask of you is that it may be brought out with the least possible delay, — for its IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION seems to me just now the most vitally important thing in the world, except … except the adventure on which I am at present engaged, of which more hereafter, … when we meet. Until then think as well of me as you can, and believe me “Ever and most truly your friend, “THEOS ALWYN.”