“Never!” declared Alwyn, with a passionate gesture— “I should know her among a thousand!”
For one instant Heliobas bent upon him a sudden, searching, almost pitiful glance, then withdrawing his gaze he said gently:
“Well, well! let us hope for the best — God’s ways are inscrutable — and you tell me that now — now after your strange so-called ‘vision’ — you believe in God?”
“I did say so, certainly…” and Alwyn’s face flushed a little.. “but…”
“Ah! … you hesitate! there is a ‘but’ in the case!” and Heliobas turned upon him with a grand reproach in his brilliant eyes.. “Already stepping backward on the road! … already rushing once again into the darkness! …” He paused, then laying one hand on the young man’s shoulder, continued in mild yet impressive accents: “My friend, remember that the doubter and opposer of God, is also the doubter and opposer of his own well-being. Let this unnatural and useless combat of Human Reason, against Divine Instinct cease within you — you, who as a poet are bound to EQUALIZE your nature that it may the more harmoniously fulfil its high commission. You know what one of your modern writers says of life? … that it is a ‘Dream in which we clutch at shadows as though they were substances, and sleep deepest when fancying ourselves most awake.’[Footnote: Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus.] Believe me, YOU have slept long enough — it is time you awoke to the full realization of your destinies.”
Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed — the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show — his head drooped — he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others had for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools of science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than Democritus of old — Democritus who based his system of morals on the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than Democritus? … or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear, pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his breast, wiser than both? … wiser in the wisdom of eternal things than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern imitators of their theories? Was there, COULD there be something not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed? … as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his companion’s calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness and patience.
“Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?” he asked, with a forced laugh.
“I assure you they are not worth the trouble.”
Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again resumed.
The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above the furthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled faintly in the darkening sky. Soon the vesper bell began ringing as it had rung on the previous night when Alwyn, newly arrived, had sat alone in the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner of men he had come amongst, and what would be the final result of his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus. His feelings had certainly undergone some change since then, inasmuch as he was no longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious sentiment, though he was nearly as far from actually believing in Religion itself as ever. The attitude of his mind was still distinctly skeptical — the immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted convictions was only very slightly shaken — and he now even viewed the prospect of his journey to the “field of Ardath” as a mere fantastic whim — a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to gratify just for the sake of curiosity.
But notwithstanding the stubbornness of the materialistic principles with which he had become imbued, his higher instincts were, unconsciously to himself, beginning to be aroused — his memory involuntarily wandered back to the sweet, fresh days of his earliest manhood before the poison of Doubt had filtered through his soul — his character, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and ardent cast, re-asserted its native force over the blighting blow of blank Atheism which had for a time paralyzed its efforts — and as he unwittingly yielded more and more to the mild persuasions of these genial influences, so the former Timon-like bitterness of his humor gradually softened. There was no trace in him now of the dark, ironic, and reckless scorn that, before his recent visionary experience, had distinguished his whole manner and bearing — the smile came more readily to his lips — and he seemed content for the present to display the sunny side of his nature — a nature impassioned, frank, generous, and noble, in spite of the taint of overweening, ambitions egotism which somewhat warped its true quality and narrowed the range of its sympathies. In his then frame of mind, a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable penitence was upon him, — delicate, undefined, almost devotional suggestions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a cool wind brings to parched and drooping flowers, — so that when Heliobas, taking up the silver “Esdras” reliquary and preparing to leave the apartment in response to the vesper summons, said gently, “Will you attend our service, Mr. Alwyn?” he assented at once, with a pleased alacrity which somewhat astonished himself as he remembered how, on the previous evening, he had despised and inwardly resented all forms of religious observance.
However, he did not stop to consider the reason of his altered mood, … he followed the monks into chapel with an air of manly grace and quiet reverence that became him much better than the offensive and defensive demeanor he had erewhile chosen to assume in the same prayer-hallowed place, — he listened to the impressive ceremonial from beginning to end without the least fatigue or impatience, — and though when the brethren knelt, he could not humble himself so far as to kneel also, he still made a slight concession to appearances by sitting down and keeping his head in a bent posture— “out of respect for the good intentions of these worthy men,” as he told himself, to silence the inner conflict of his own opposing and contradictory sensations. The service concluded, he waited as before to see the monks pass out, and was smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, when Heliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where he stood, and confronted him, saying:
“I will bid you farewell here, my friend! … I have many things to do this evening, and it is best I should see you no more before your departure.”
“Why?” asked Alwyn astonished— “I had hoped for another conversation with you.”
“To what purpose!” inquired Heliobas mildly. “That I should assert … and you deny … facts that God Himself will prove in His own way and at His own appointed time? Nay, we should do no good by further arguments.”
“But,” stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he spoke, “you give me no chance to thank you … to express my gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” questioned Heliobas almost mournfully, with a tinge of reproach in his soft, mellow voice. “Are you grateful for being, as you think, deluded by a trance? … cheated, as it were, into a sort of semi-belief in the life to come by means of mesmerism? Your first request to me, I know, was that you might be deceived by my influence into a state of imaginary happiness, — and now you fancy your last night’s experience was merely the result of that pre-eminently foolish desire. You are wrong! … and, as matters stand, no thanks are needed. If I had indeed mesmerized or hypnotized you, I might perhaps have deserved some reward for the exertion of my purely professional skill, but … as I have told you already … I have done absolutely nothing. Your fate is, as it has always been, in your own hands. You sought me of your own accord … you used me as an instrument, an unwilling instrument, remember! … whereby to break open the prison doors of your chafed, and fretting spirit, — and the end of it all is that y
ou depart from hence tomorrow of your own free-will and choice, to fulfill the appointed tryst made with you, as you believe, by a phantom in a vision. In brief” — here he spoke more slowly and with marked emphasis— “you go to the field of Ardath to solve a puzzling problem … namely, as to whether what we call life is not a Dream — and whether a Dream may not perchance be proved Reality! In this enterprise of yours I have no share — nor will I say more than this … God speed you on your errand!”
He held out his hand — Alwyn grasped it, looking earnestly meanwhile at the fine intellectual face, the clear pathetic eyes, the firm yet sensitive mouth, on which there just then rested a serious yet kindly smile.
“What a strange man you are, Heliobas!” he said impulsively … “I wish
I knew more about you!”
Heliobas gave him a friendly glance.
“Wish rather that you knew more about yourself” — he answered simply— “Fathom your own mystery of being — you shall find none deeper, greater, or more difficult of comprehension!”
Alwyn still held his hand, reluctant to let it go. Finally releasing it with a slight sigh, he said:
“Well, at any rate, though we part now it will not be for long. We MUST meet again!”
“Why, if we must, we shall!” rejoined Heliobas cheerily. “MUST cannot be prevented! In the mean time … farewell!”
“Farewell!” and as this word was spoken their eyes met. Instinctively and on a sudden impulse, Alwyn bowed his head in the lowest and most reverential salutation he had perhaps ever made to any creature of mortal mold, and as he did so Heliobas paused in the act of turning away.
“Do you care for a blessing, gentle Skeptic!” he asked in a soft tone that thrilled tenderly through the silence of the dimly-lit chapel, — then, receiving no reply, he laid one hand gently on the young man’s dark, clustering curls, and with the other slowly traced the sign of the cross upon the smooth, broad fairness of his forehead.— “Take it, my son! … the only blessing I can give thee, — the blessing of the Cross of Christ, which in spite of thy desertion claims thee, redeems thee, and will yet possess thee for its own!”
And before Alwyn could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to interrupt and repudiate this, to him, undesired form of benediction, Heliobas had gone, and he was left alone. Lifting his head he stared out into the further corridor, down which he just perceived a distant glimmer of vanishing white robes, — and for a moment he was filled with speechless indignation. It seemed to him that the sign thus traced on his brow must be actually visible like a red brand burnt into his flesh, — and all his old and violent prejudices against Christianity rushed back upon him with the resentful speed of once baffled foes returning anew to storm a citadel. Almost as rapidly, however, his anger cooled, — he remembered that in his vision of the previous night, the light that had guided him through the long, shadowy vista had always preceded him in the form of a Cross, — and in a softer mood he glanced at the ruby Star shining steadily above the otherwise darkened altar. Involuntarily the words “We have seen His Star in the East and have come to worship Him” — occurred to his memory, but he dismissed them as instantly as they suggested themselves, and finding his own thoughts growing perplexing and troublesome he hastily left the chapel.
Joining some of the monks who were gathered in a picturesque group round the fire in the refectory he sat chatting with them for about half an hour or so, hoping to elicit from them in the course of conversation some particulars concerning the daily life, character, and professing aims of their superior, — but in this attempt he failed. They spoke of Heliobas as believing men may speak of saints, with hushed reverence and admiring tenderness — but on any point connected with his faith, or the spiritual nature of his theories, they held their peace, evidently deeming the subject too sacred for discussion. Baffled in all his inquiries Alwyn at last said good-night, and retired to rest in the small sleeping-apartment prepared for his accommodation, where he enjoyed a sound, refreshing, and dreamless slumber.
The next morning he was up at daybreak, and long before the sun had risen above the highest peak of Caucasus, he had departed from the Lars Monastery, leaving a handsome donation in the poor-box toward the various charitable works in which the brethren were engaged, such as the rescue of travellers lost in the snow, or the burial of the many victims murdered on or near the Pass of Dariel by the bands of fierce mountain robbers and assassins, that at certain seasons infest that solitary region. Making the best of his way to the fortress of Passanaur, he there joined a party of adventurous Russian climbers who had just successfully accomplished the assent of Mount Kazbek, and in their company proceeded through the rugged Aragua valley to Tiflis, which he reached that same evening. From this dark and dismal-looking town, shadowed on all sides by barren and cavernous hills, he dispatched the manuscript of his mysteriously composed poem, together with the letter concerning it, to his friend Villiers in England, — and then, yielding to a burning sense of impatience within himself, — impatience that would brook no delay, — he set out resolutely, and at once, on his long pilgrimage to the “land of sand and ruin and gold” — the land of terrific prophecy and stern fulfilment, — the land of mighty and mournful memories, where the slow river Euphrates clasps in its dusky yellow ring the ashes of great kingdoms fallen to rise no more.
CHAPTER VIII.
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.
It was no light or easy journey he had thus rashly undertaken on the faith of a dream, — for dream he still believed it to be. Many weary days and nights were consumed in the comfortless tedium of travel, . . and though he constantly told himself what unheard-of folly it was to pursue an illusive chimera of his own imagination, — a mere phantasm which had somehow or other taken possession of his brain at a time when that brain must have been acted upon (so he continued to think) by strong mesmeric or magnetic influence, he went on his way all the same with a sort of dogged obstinacy which no fatigue could daunt or lessen. He never lay down to rest without the faint hope of seeing once again, if only in sleep, the radiant Being whose haunting words had sent him on this quest of “Ardath,” — but herein his expectations were not realized. No more flower-crowned angels floated before him — no sweet whisper of love, encouragement, or promise came mysteriously on his ears in the midnight silences, — his slumbers were always profound and placid as those of a child and utterly dreamless.
One consolation he had however, … he could write. Not a day passed without his finding some new inspiration … some fresh, quaint, and lovely thought, that flowed of itself into most perfect and rhythmical utterance, — glorious lines of verse glowing with fervor and beauty seemed to fall from his pencil without any effort on his part, — and if he had had reason in former times to doubt the strength of his poetical faculty, it was now very certain he could do so longer. His mind was as a fine harp newly strung, attuned, and quivering with the consciousness of the music pent-up within it, — and as he remembered the masterpiece of poesy he had written in his seeming trance, the manuscript of which would soon be in the hands of the London publishers, his heart swelled with a growing and irrepressible sense of pride. For he knew and felt — with an undefinable yet positive certainty — that however much the public or the critics might gainsay him, his fame as a poet of the very highest order would ere long be asserted and assured. A deep tranquillity was in his soul … a tranquillity that seemed to increase the further he went onward, — the restless weariness that had once possessed him was past, and a vaguely sweet content pervade his being like the odor of early roses pervading warm air … he felt, he hoped, he loved! … and yet his feelings, hopes, and longings turned to something altogether undeclared and indefinite, as softly dim and distant as the first faint white cloud-signal wafted from the moon in heaven, when, on the point of rising, she makes her queenly purpose known to her waiting star-attendants.
Practically considered, his journey was tedious and for the most part dull and uninteresting. In the
se Satan-like days of “going to and fro in the earth and walking up and down in it” travelling has lost much of its old romantic charm, . . the idea of traversing long distances no more fills the expectant adventurer with a pleasurable sense of uncertainty and mystery — he knows exactly what to anticipate.. it is all laid out for him plainly on the level lines of the commonplace, and nothing is left to his imagination. The Continent of Europe has been ransacked from end to end by tourists who have turned it into a sort of exhausted pleasure-garden, whereof the various entertainments are too familiarly known to arouse any fresh curiosity, — the East is nearly in the same condition, — hordes of British and American sight-seers scamper over the empire-strewn soil of Persia and Syria with the unconcerned indifference of beings to whom not only a portion of the world’s territory, but the whole world itself, belongs, — and soon there will not be an inch of ground left on the narrow extent of our poor planet that has not been trodden by the hasty, scrambling, irreverent footsteps of some one or other of the ever-prolific, all-spreading English-speaking race.
On his way Alwyn met many of his countrymen, — travellers who, like himself, had visited the Caucasus and Armenia and were now en route, some for Damascus, some for Jerusalem and the Holy Land — others again for Cairo and Alexandria, to depart from thence homeward by the usual Mediterranean line, . . but among these birds-of-passage acquaintance he chanced upon none who were going to the Ruins of Babylon. He was glad of this — for the peculiar nature of his enterprise rendered a companion altogether undesirable, — and though on one occasion he encountered a gentleman-novelist with a note-book, who was exceedingly anxious to fraternize with him and discover whither he vas bound, he succeeded in shaking off this would-be incubus at Mosul, by taking him to a wonderful old library in that city where there were a number of French translations of Turkish and Syriac romances. Here the gentleman-novelist straightway ascended to the seventh heaven of plagiarism, and began to copy energetically whole scenes and descriptive passages from dead-and-gone authors, unknown to English critics, for the purpose of inserting them hereafter into his own “original” work of fiction — and in this congenial occupation he forgot all about the “dark handsome man, with the wide brows of a Marc Antony and the lips of a Catullus,” as he had already described Alwyn in the note-book before-mentioned. While in Mosul, Alwyn himself picked up a curiosity in the way of literature, — a small quaint volume entitled “The Final Philosophy Of Algazzali The Arabian.” It was printed in two languages — the original Arabic on one page, and, facing it, the translation in very old French. The author, born A.D. 1058, described himself as “a poor student striving to discern the truth of things” — and his work was a serious, incisive, patiently exhaustive inquiry into the workings of nature, the capabilities of human intelligence, and the deceptive results of human reason. Reading it, Alwyn was astonished to find that nearly all the ethical propositions offered for the world’s consideration to-day by the most learned and cultured minds, had been already advanced and thoroughly discussed by this same Algazzali. One passage in particular arrested his attention as being singularly applicable to his own immediate condition, . . it ran as follows, —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 144