Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  The gentlemen did not absent themselves long, and with their appearance from the dining-room the reception of the evening began. Crowds of people arrived and crammed up the stairs, filling every corridor and corner, and Alwyn, growing tired of the various introductions and shaking of hands to which he was submitted, managed presently to slip away into a conservatory adjoining the great drawing-room, — a cool, softly lighted place full of flowering azaleas and rare palms. Here he sat for a while among the red and white blossoms, listening to the incessant hum of voices, and wondering what enjoyment human beings could find in thus herding together en masse, and chattering all at once as though life depended on chatter, when the rustling of a woman’s dress disturbed his brief solitude. He rose directly, as he saw his fair hostess approaching him.

  “Ah, you have fled away from us, Mr. Alwyn!” she said with a slight smile— “I do not wonder at it. These receptions are the bane of one’s social existence.”

  “Then why do you give them?” — asked Alwyn, half laughingly.

  “Why? Oh, because it is the fashion, I suppose!” she answered languidly, leaning against a marble column that supported the towering frondage of a tropical fern, and toying with her fan,— “And I, like others, am a slave to fashion. I have escaped for one moment, but I must go back directly. Mr. Alwyn …” She hesitated, — then came straight up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm— “I want to thank you!”

  “To thank me?” he repeated in surprised accents.

  “Yes!” — she said steadily— “To thank you for what you have said to-night. We live in a dreary age, when no one has much faith or hope, and still less charity, — death is set before us as the final end of all, — and life as lived by most, people is not only not worth living, but utterly contemptible! Your clearly expressed opinions have made me think it is possible to do better,” — her lips quivered a little, and her breath came and went quickly,— “and I shall begin to try and find out how this ‘better’ can be consummated! Pray do not think me foolish—”

  “I think you foolish!” and with gravest courtesy Alwyn raised her hand, and touched it gently with his lips, then as gently released it. His action was full of grace, — it implied reverence, trust, honor, — and the Duchess looked at him with soft, wet eyes in which a smile still lingered.

  “If there were more men like you,” — she said suddenly— “what a difference it would make to us women! We should be proud to share the burdens of life with those on whose absolute integrity and strength we could rely, — but, in these days, we do not rely, so much as we despise, — we cannot love, so much as we condemn! You are a Poet, — and for you the world takes ideal colors, — for you perchance the very heavens have opened; — but remember that the millions, who, in the present era, are ground down under the heels of the grimmest necessity, have no such glimpses of God as are vouchsafed to YOU! They are truly in the darkness and shadow of death, — they hear no angel music, — they sit in dungeons, howled at by preachers and teachers who make no actual attempt to lead them into light and liberty, — while we, the so-called ‘upper’ classes, are imprisoned as closely as they, and crushed by intolerable weights of learning, such as many of us are not fitted to bear. Those who aspire heavenwards are hurled to earth, — those who of their own choice cling to death, become so fastened to it, that even if they wished, they could not rise. Believe me, you will be sorely disheartened in your efforts toward the highest good, — you will find most people callous, careless, ignorant, and forever scoffing at what they do not, and will not, understand, — you had better leave us to our dust and ashes,” — and a little mirthless laugh escaped her lips,— “for to pluck us from thence now will almost need a second visitation of Christ, in whom, if He came, we should probably not believe! Moreover, you must not forget that we have read Darwin, — and we are so charmed with our monkey ancestors, that we are doing our best to imitate them in every possible way, — in the hope that, with time and patience, we may resolve ourselves back into the original species!”

  With which bitter sarcasm, uttered half mockingly, half in good earnest, she left him and returned to her guests. Not very long afterward, he having sought and found Villiers, and suggested to him that it was time to make a move homeward, approached her in company with his friend, and bade her farewell.

  “I don’t think we shall see you often in society, Mr. Alwyn” — she said, rather wistfully, as she gave him her hand,— “You are too much of a Titan among pigmies!”

  He flushed and waved aside the remark with a few playful words; unlike his Former Self, if there was anything in the world he shrank from, it was flattery, or what seemed like flattery. Once outside the house he drew a long breath of relief, and glanced gratefully up at the sky, bright with the glistening multitude of stars. Thank God, there were worlds in that glorious expanse of ether peopled with loftier types of being than what is called Humanity! Villiers looked at him questioningly:

  “Tired of your own celebrity, Alwyn?” he asked, taking him by the arm,— “Are the pleasures of Fame already exhausted?”

  Alwyn smiled, — he thought of the fame of Sah-luma, Laureate bard of

  Al-kyris!

  “Nay, if the dream that I told you of had any meaning at all” — he replied— “then I enjoyed and exhausted those pleasures long ago! Perhaps that is the reason why my ‘celebrity’ seems such a poor and tame circumstance now. But I was not thinking of myself, — I was wondering whether, after all, the slight power I have attained can be of much use to others. I am only one against many.”

  “Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that one hero makes a thousand” — said Villiers quietly— “And it is an undeniable fact that the vastest number ever counted, begins at the very beginning with ONE!”

  Alwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, responsive light in his own, and the two friends walked the rest of the way home in silence.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  HELIOBAS.

  Some few days after the Duchess’s dinner-party, Alwyn was strolling one morning through the Park, enjoying to the full the keen, fresh odors of the Spring, — odors that even in London cannot altogether lose their sweetness, so long as hyacinths and violets consent to bloom, and almond-trees to flower, beneath the too often unpropitious murkiness of city skies. It had been raining, but now the clouds had rolled off, and the sun shone as brightly as it ever CAN shine on the English capital, sending sparkles of gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving the little crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps on the grass, like a frightened fairy army put to rout by the onslaught of the recent shower. A blackbird, whose cheery note suggested melodious memories drawn from the heart of the quiet country, was whistling a lively improvisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof the brown shining buds were just bursting into leaf, — and Alwyn, whose every sense was pleasantly attuned to the small, as well as great, harmonies of nature, paused for a moment to listen to the luscious piping of the feathered minstrel, that in its own wild woodland way had as excellent an idea of musical variation as any Mozart or Chopin. Leaning against one of the park benches, with his back turned to the main thoroughfare, he did not observe the approach of a man’s tall, stately figure, that, with something of his own light, easy, swinging step, had followed him rapidly along for some little distance, and that now halted abruptly within a pace or two of where he stood, — a man whose fine face and singular distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to stare at him in vague admiration, and to wonder who such a regal-looking personage might possibly be. Alwyn, however, absorbed in thought, saw no one, and was about to resume his onward walk, when suddenly, as though moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned sharply around, and in so doing confronted the stranger, who straightway advanced, lifting his hat and smiling. One amazed glance, — and then with an ejaculation of wonder, recognition, and delight, Alwyn sprang forward and grasped his extended hand.

  “HELIOBAS!” he exclaimed. “Is it pos
sible YOU are in London! — YOU, of all men in the world!”

  “Even so!” — replied Heliobas gayly— “And why not? Am I incongruous, and out of keeping with the march of modern civilization?”

  Alwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous, — he could hardly believe his own eyes. It seemed such an altogether amazing thing to meet this devout and grave Chaldean philosopher, this mystic monk of the Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were, of the world’s business, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well have expected to find a haloed saint in the whirl of a carnival masquerade! Incongruous? Out of keeping? — Yes, certainly he was, — for though clad in the plain, conventional garb to which the men of the present day are doomed by the fiat of commerce and custom, the splendid dignity and picturesqueness of his fine personal appearance was by no means abated, and it was just this that marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure in London as though some god or evangelist should suddenly pass through a wilderness of chattering apes and screaming vultures.

  “But how and when did you come?” — asked Alwyn presently, recovering from his first glad shock of surprise— “You see how genuine is my astonishment, — why, I thought you were a perpetually vowed recluse, — that you never went into the world at all, …”

  “Neither I do” — rejoined Heliobas— “save when strong necessity demands. But our Order is not so ‘inclosed’ that, if Duty calls, we cannot advance to its beckoning, and there are certain times when both I and those of my fraternity mingle with men in common, undistinguished from the ordinary inhabitants of cities either by dress, customs, or manners, — as you see!” — and he laughingly touched his overcoat, the dark rough cloth of which was relieved by a broad collar and revers of rich sealskin,— “Would you not take me for a highly respectable brewer, par example, conscious that his prowess in the making of beer has entitled him, not only to an immediate seat in Parliament, but also to a Dukedom in prospective?”

  Alwyn, smiled at the droll inapplicability of this comparison, — and Heliobas cheerfully continued— “I am on the wing just now, — bound for Mexico. I had business in London, and arrived here two days since, — two days more will see me again en voyage. I am glad to have met you thus by chance, for I did not know your address, and though I might have obtained that through your publishers, I hesitated about it, not being quite certain as to whether a letter or visit from me might be welcome.”

  “Surely,” — began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush rising to his brow as he remembered how obstinately he had doubted and suspected this man’s good faith and intention toward him, and how he had even received his farewell benediction at Dariel with more resentment than gratitude.

  “Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,” — went on Heliobas gently, taking no notice of his embarrassment— “Your fame is now indeed unquestionable! With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you long life and health to enjoy the triumph of your genius!”

  Alwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes full on the speaker.

  “I thank you!” he said simply,— “But, … you, who have such a quick instinctive comprehension of the minds and characters of men, — judge for yourself whether I attach any value to the poor renown I have won, — renown that I once would have given my very life to possess!”

  As he spoke, he stopped, — they were walking down a quiet side-path under the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a bright shaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage straight on his serene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen, observant glance, — in a moment he noticed what a marvellous change had been wrought in the man who, but a few months before, had come to him, a wreck of wasted life, — a wreck that was not only ready, but willing, to drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless, blank, and hopeless misery. And now, how completely he was transformed! — Health colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes; health, both of body and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile, and that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure, — while the supreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him with the same indescribable fascination and magnetic attractiveness that distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it distinguishes all who have in good earnest discovered and accepted the only true explanation of their individual mystery of being. One steady, flashing look, — and then Heliobas silently held out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped it, — and the two men understood each other. All constraint was at an end, — and when they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening green branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost equal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and sympathy.

  “Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not altogether without results!” said Heliobas softly— “Your appearance indicates happiness, — is your life at last complete?”

  “Complete? — No!” — and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently— “It cannot be complete, so long as its best and purest half is elsewhere! My fame is, as you can guess, a mere ephemera, — a small vanishing point, in comparison with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen, — you know nothing of what happened to me on the Field of Ardath, — I should have written to you perhaps, but it is better to speak — I will tell you all as briefly as I can.”

  And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of his companion, he related the whole strange story of the visitation of Edris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet’s Field at sunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ. Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence, his eyes alone expressing with what eager interest and attention he followed every incident of the narrative.

  “And now,” said Alwyn in conclusion,— “I always try to remember for my own comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of that dream built city of the past, — or SEEMED to leave it, . . and yet I feel sometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still! I look in the mirror and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal attributes of the slain Sah-luma, — occasionally these are so strong and distinctly marked that I turn away in anger from my own image! Why, I loved that Phantasm of a Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved myself to my own utter undoing! — I admired his work with such extravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own thus manifest conceit! — In truth there is only one thing in that pictured character of his, I can for the present judge myself free from, — namely, the careless rejection of true love for false, — the wanton misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata’s, whose fair child-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory, — and the evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as evident as her beauty was paramount! I could never understand or explain this wilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self — it was the one circumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the positive Me in its application, — but now I thoroughly grasp the meaning of the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF, OR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as matters stand with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides by difficulties, — for since the modern success of that very anciently composed poem, ‘Nourhalma’” — and he smiled— “my friends and acquaintances are doing their best to make me think as much of myself as if I were, — well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am still an egoist, — nay, I am sure of it, — for even as regards my heavenly saint, Edris, I am selfish!”

  “How so?” asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration at the thoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet, this once bitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that not all the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again.

  “I want her!” — he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic yearning in his voice— “I long for her every moment of the day and night! It seems, too, as if everything combined to encourage thi
s craving in me, — this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright sphere of joy, — down to my arms, my heart, my life! See!” — and he stopped by a bed of white hyacinths, nodding softly in the faint breeze— “Even those flowers remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think of the radiance of her eyes, — they were the heaven’s own color, — when I see light clouds floating together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they seem to me to resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore, — the birds sing, only to recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice, — and at night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars that are worlds, peopled as they must be with thousands of wonderful living creatures, perhaps as spiritually composed as she, I sometimes find it hard, that out of all the exhaustless types of being that love, serve, and praise God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit, — only this one angel-maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me! Yes! — I am selfish to the heart’s core, my friend!” — and his eyes darkened with a vague wistfulness and trouble,— “Moreover, I have weakly striven to excuse my selfishness to my own conscience thus: — I have thought that if SHE were vouchsafed to me for the remainder of my days, I might then indeed do lasting good, and leave lasting consolation to the world, — such work might be performed as would stir the most callous souls to life and energy and aspiration, — with HER sweet Presence near me, visibly close and constant, there is no task so difficult that I would not essay and conquer in, for her sake, her service, her greater glory! But ALONE!” — and he gave a slight, hopeless gesture— “Nay, — Christ knows I will do the utmost best I can, but the solitary ways of life are hard!”