Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  A thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him, — joy intermingled with an almost supernal pain. For he had not as yet said enough to the world, — the world of many afflictions, — the little Sorrowful Star covered with toiling, anxious, deluded God-forgetting millions, in every unit of which was a spark of Heavenly flame, a germ of the spiritual essence that makes the angel, if only fostered aright.

  Lost in a deep reverie, his footsteps had led him unconsciously to the Rhine bridge, — paying the customary fee, he walked about half-way across it, and stood for a while listening to the incessant swift rush of the river beneath him. Lights twinkled from the boats moored on either side, — the moon poured down a wide shower of white beams on the rapid flood, — the city, dusky and dream-like, crowned with the majestic towers of the Dom, looked picturesquely calm and grand — it was a night of perfect beauty and wondrous peace. And he was to die! — to die and leave all this, the present fairness of the world, — he was to depart, with, as he felt, his message half unspoken, — he was to be made eternally happy, while many of the thousands he left behind were, through ignorance, wilfully electing to be eternally miserable! A great, almost divine longing to save ONE, — only ONE downward drifting soul, possessed him, — and the comprehension of Christ’s Sacrifice was no longer a mystery! Yet he was so certain that death, sudden and speedy closely, awaited him that he seemed to feel it in the very air, — not like a coming chill of dread, but like the soft approach of some holy seraph bringing benediction. It mattered little to him that he was actually in the very plenitude of health and strength, — that perhaps in all his life he had never felt such a keen delight in the physical perfection of his manhood as now, — death, without warning and at a touch, could smite down the most vigorous, and to be so smitten, he believed, was his imminent destiny. And while he lingered on the bridge, fancy-perplexed between grief and joy, a small window opened in a quaint house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the gleaming water, and a girl, holding a small lamp, looked out for a moment. Her face, fresh and smiling, was fair to see against the background of dense shadow, — the light she carried flashed like a star, — and leaning down from the lattice she sang half-timidly, half mischievously, the first two or three bars of the old song.. “Du, du, liegst in mein Herzen … !” “Ah! Gute Nacht, Liebchen!” said a man’s voice below.

  “Gute Nacht! Schlafen sie wohl!”

  A light laugh, and the window closed, “Good-night! Sleep well!” Love’s best wish! — and for some sad souls life’s last hope, — a “good-night and sleep well!” Poor tired World, for whose weary inhabitants oftentimes the greatest blessing is sleep! Good-night! sleep well! but the sleep implies waking. — waking to a morning of pleasure or sorrow, — or labor that is only lightened by, — Love! Love! — love divine, — love human, — and, sweetest love of all for us, as Christ has taught when both divine and human are mingled in one!

  Alwyn, glancing up at the clustering stars, hanging like pendent fire-jewels above him, thought of this marvel-glory of Love, — this celestial visitant who, on noiseless pinions, comes flying divinely into the poorest homes, transfiguring common life with ethereal radiance, making toil easy, giving beauty to the plainest faces and poetry to the dullest brains. Love! its tremulous hand-clasp, — its rapturous kiss, — the speechless eloquence it gives to gentle eyes! — the grace it bestows on even the smallest gift from lover to beloved, were such gift but a handful of meadow blossoms tied with some silken threads of hair!

  Not for the poet creator of “Nourhulma” such love any more, — had he not drained the cup of Passion to the dregs in the far Past, and tasted its mixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence? All that was over; — and yet, as he walked away from the bridge, back to his hotel in the quiet moonlight, he thought what a transcendent thing Love might be, even on earth, between two whose spirits were SPIRITUALLY AKIN, — whose lives were like two notes played in tuneful concord, — whose hearts beat echoing faith and tenderness to one another, — and who held their love as a sacred bond of union — a gift from God, not to be despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely brings contempt. And then before his fancy appeared to float the radiant visage of Edris, half-child, half-angel, — he seemed to see her beautiful eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge of sin, — and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, whose work he specially admired, occurred to him with singular suggestiveness:

  “Oh, thou’lt confess that love from man to maid

  Is more than kingdoms, — more than light and shade

  In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell,

  And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell.

  Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this,

  And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss,

  Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain,

  Athwart the raptures of a vision’d bliss.

  “I’ll seek no joy that is not linked with thine,

  No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine,

  And after death, no home in any star,

  That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar

  As here thou’rt first and foremost of all things!

  Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings

  That wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway,

  Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings!”

  Had not she, Edris, consigned him to his “own disdain, Athwart the raptures of a visioned bliss?” Ay! truly and deservedly! — and this disdain of himself had now reached its culminating point, — namely, that he did not consider himself worthy of her love, — or worthy to do aught than sink again into far spaces of darkness and perpetually retrospective Memory, there to explore the uttermost depths of anguish, and count up his errors one by one from the very beginning of life, in every separate phase he had passed through, till he had penitently striven his best to atone for them all! Christ had atoned! yes, — but was it not almost base on his part to shield himself with that Divine Light and do nothing further? He could not yet thoroughly grasp the amazing truth that ONE ABSOLUTELY PURE act of faith in Christ, blots out Past Sin forever, — it seemed too marvellous and great a boon!

  When he retired to rest that night he was fully and firmly PREPARED TO DIE. With this expectation upon him he was nevertheless happy and tranquil. The line— “Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings” haunted him, and he repeated it over and over again without knowing why. Wings! the brilliant shafts of radiance that part angels from mortals, — wings, that, after all, are not really wings, but lambent rays of living lightning, of which neither painter nor poet has any true conception, . . long, dazzling rays such as encircled God’s maiden, Edris, with an arch of roseate effulgence, so that the very air was sunset-colored in the splendor of her presence! How if she were a wingless angel, — made woman?

  “Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings!” And with the name of his angel-love upon his lips he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  CHAPTER XL.

  IN THE CATHEDRAL.

  A booming, thunderous, yet mellow sound! a grand, solemn, sonorous swing of full and weighty rhythm, striking the air with deep, slowly measured resonance like the rolling of close cannon! Awake, all ye people! — Awake to prayer and praise! for the Night is past and sweet Morning reddens in the east, … another Day is born, — a day in which to win God’s grace and pardon, — another wonder of Light, Movement, Creation, Beauty, Love! Awake, awake! Be glad and grateful for the present joy of life, — this life, dear harbinger of life to come! open your eyes, ye drowsy mortals, to the divine blue of the beneficent sky, the golden beams of the sun, the color of flowers, the foliage of trees, the flash of sparkling waters! — open your ears to the singing of birds, the whispering of winds, the gay ripple of children’s laughter, the soft murmurs of home affection, — for all these things are freely bestowed upon you with each breaking dawn, and will you offer unto God NO thanksgiving? — Awake! Awake!
the Voice you have yourselves set in your high Cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its iron tongue, and summons you all to worship Him the Ever-Glorious, through whose mercy alone you live!

  To and fro, — to and fro, — gravely persistent, sublimely eloquent, the huge, sustained, and heavy monotone went thudding through the stillness, — till, startled from his profound sleep by such loud, lofty, and incessant clangor, Alwyn turned on his pillow and listened, half-aroused, half-bewildered, — then, remembering where he was, he understood; it was the great Bell of the Dom pealing forth its first summons to the earliest Mass. He lay quiet for a little while, dreamily counting the number of reverberations each separate stroke sent quivering on the air, — but presently, finding it impossible to sleep again, he got up, and drawing aside the curtain looked out of the window of his room, which fronted on the Platz. Though it was not yet six o’clock, the city was all astir, — the Rhinelanders are an early working people, and to see the sun rise is not with them a mere fiction of poesy, but a daily fact. It was one of the loveliest of lovely spring mornings — the sky was clear as a pale, polished sapphire, and every little bib of delicate carving and sculpture on the Dom stood out from its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness. And as his gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind, — he felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness, — some great and wondrous celebration or feast of joy! The thoughts of death, on which he had brooded so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled, leaving no trace behind, — only a keen and vigorous delight in life absorbed him now. It was good to be alive, even on this present earth! it was good to see, to feel, to know! and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capability of easy and healthful breathing!

  Full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to himself as he moved about his room, — his desire to view the interior of the Cathedral had not abated with sleep, but had rather augmented, — and he resolved to visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in all the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity. For he knew that by the time he was dressed, the first Mass would be over, — the priests and people would be gone, — and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of the place in full poet-luxury, — the luxury of silence and solitude. He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous eagerness, — he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the Dom as he had been to arrive at the Field of Ardath! The same feverish impatience was upon him — impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not account for, — his fancy busied itself with a whole host of memories, and fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had written in his youth, came back to him without his wish or will, — songs that he instinctively felt belonged to his Past, when as “Sah-luma” he had won golden opinions in Al-Kyris. And though they were but echoes, they seemed this morning to touch him with half-pleasing, half-tender suggestiveness, — two lines especially from the Idyl of Roses he had penned so long, — ah! so very long ago, — came floating through his brain like a message sent from some other world, —

  “By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase,

  And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace.”

  The “lilies of peace” and the flowers of Ardath, — the “roses of passion” and the love of Edris, these were all mingled almost unconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy sense of tremulous expectation, — expectation of he knew not what-he went, walking as one in haste, across the broad Platz and ascended the steps of the Cathedral. But the side-entrance was fast shut, as on the previous night, — he therefore made his rapid way round to the great western door. That stood open, — the bell had long ago ceased, — Mass was over, — and all was profoundly still.

  Out of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the vast, cool, clear-obscure, white glory of the stately shrine, — with bared head and noiseless, reverent feet, he advanced a little way up the nave, and then stood motionless, every artistic perception in him satisfied, soothed, and entranced anew, as in his student-days, by the tranquil grandeur of the scene. What majestic silence! What hallowed peace! How jewel-like the radiance of the sun pouring through the rich stained glass on those superb carved pillars, that, like petrified stems of forest-trees, bear lightly up the lofty, vaulted roof to that vast height suggestive of a white sky rather than stone!

  Moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized by an overpowering impression, — a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of shock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune! — a wild melody, haunting and passionate, rang in his eras, — the melody that Sarasate, the Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the heart of his speaking violin, — the sobbing love-lament of the “Zigeunerweisen” — the weird minor-music that had so forcibly suggested — What? THIS VERY PLACE! — these snowy columns, — this sculptured sanctity — this flashing light of rose and blue and amber, — this wondrous hush of consecrated calm! What next? Dear God! Sweet Christ! what next? The face of Edris? — Would that heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those rainbow-colored beams that struck slantwise down toward him? — and should he presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into deeper ecstasy?

  Overcome by a sensation that was something like fear, he stopped abruptly, and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches, strove to control the quick, excited throbbing of his heart, — then gradually, very gradually he become conscious that HE WAS NOT ALONE, — another besides himself was in the church, — another, whom it was necessary for him to see!

  He could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this, — but he was soon so completely possessed by the idea, that for a moment he dared not raise his eyes, or move! Some invincible force held him there spell-bound, yet trembling in every limb, — and while he thus waited hesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful utterance, — wave after wave of richest harmony rolled through the stately aisles and … “Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!” rang forth in loud, full, and golden-toned chorus!

  Lifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him; not a living creature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the cathedral! His lips parted, — he felt as though he could scarcely breathe, — strong shudders ran through him, and he was penetrated by a pleasing terror that was almost a physical pang, — an agonized entrancement, like death or the desire of love! Presently, mastering himself by a determined effort, he advanced steadily with the absorbed air of one who is drawn along by magnetic power … steadily and slowly up the nave, … and as he went, the music surged more tumultuously among the vaulted arches, — there was a faint echo afar off, as of tinkling crystal bells; and at each onward step he gained a new access of courage, strength, firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every timorous doubt and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front of the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined Cross, and seeing for the moment nothing save that Divine Symbol alone. And still the organ played, and still the voices sang, — he knew these sounds were not of earth, and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to him, — but WHAT meaning?

  All at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right hand side of the altar, where the great statue of St. Christopher stands, and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great carven gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone pavement, one solitary worshipper, — a girl. Her hands were clasped, and her face was bent upon them so that her features were not visible, — but the radiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling it with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus, — and round her slight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald, flickered in wide and lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting sun on a translucent sea. How very still she was! … how fervently absorbed in prayer!

  Vaguely startled, and thrilled
by an electric, indefinable instinct, Alwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread, his eyes dwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form with fascinated and eager attention. She was clad in gray, — a soft, silken, dove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped folds, — he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely refrain from a loud cry of amazement! What flowers were those she wore at her breast! — so white, so star-like, so suggestive of paradise lilies new-gathered? Were they not the flowers of ARDATH? Dizzy with the sudden tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees beside her, — she did not stir! Was she REAL? — or a phantom? Trembling violently, he touched her garment — it was of tangible, smooth texture, actual enough, if the sense of touch could be relied upon. In an agony of excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or custom, — her bewildering presence must be explained, — he must know who she was, — he must speak to her, — speak, if he died for it!