Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Gently and with compassionate kindness, the rough fishers who stood by lifted him up and bore him out of the tower and down the stairs, — and after a whispered consultation, carried him away from the house altogether to one of their own cottages, where they put him under the care of one of their own women. None of them could sleep any more that night; they stood in a group close by their humble habitations, watching the progress of the storm, and ever and anon casting awe-stricken glances at the shattered tower.

  “The devil was in it” — said one of the men at last, as he lit his pipe and endeavoured to soothe his nerves by several puffs at that smoky consoler— “or else how would it rise up like that as light as a feather at the touch of an iron pole?”

  “It must a’ weighed twenty stun at least” — murmured another man meditatively.

  “What was it?” demanded a third— “I should a’ took it for a big grindstone if it hadn’t sparkled up so when the light fell on it.”

  “Well, it may stay where it is for all I care,” said the first speaker— “I wouldn’t touch it again for a hundred pound!”

  “Nor I.” “Nor I.”

  They were all agreed on that point.

  “Wotever he were a’ doin’ on,” — said the fourth man gravely— “whether it were God’s work or the devil’s, it’s all over now. He’s done for, poor old chap — mashed into a reg’lar jelly — wiped out as it were. It’s an awful end — God rest his soul!”

  The others lifted their caps and murmured “Amen” with simple reverence. Then they looked out at the dark wallowing trough of the sea.

  “How the wind roars!” said the last speaker.

  “Ay, it do roar,” replied the man who was his mate in the boat when they went fishing; “and did ye hear a vulture scream awhile ago?”

  “Ay, ay! I heard it!” They were silent then, and turned in, after making inquiries concerning Karl at the cottage where they had left him. He was still unconscious.

  CHAPTER XII.

  A COUPLE of days later, El-Râmi was engaged in what was not a very favourite occupation with him, — he was reading the morning’s newspaper. He glanced over the cut-and-dry chronicle of “Storms and Floods” — he noted that a great deal of damage had been wrought by the gale at Ilfracombe and other places along the Devonshire coast, — but there was nothing of any specially dreadful import to attract his attention, and nothing either in politics or science of any pressing or vital interest. There were two or three reviews of books, one of these being pressed into a corner next to the advertisement of a patent pill; there were announcements of the movements of certain human units favoured with a little extra money and position than ordinary, as being “in” or “out” of town, and there was a loftily-patronizing paragraph on the “Theosophical Movement,” or as it is more frequently termed, the “Theosophical Boom.” From this, El-Râmi learned that a gentleman connected with the Press, who wrote excessively common-place verse, and thereby had got himself and his name (through the afore-said press-connection) fairly well known, had been good enough to enunciate the following amazing platitude;— “That, as a great portion of the globe is composed of elements which cannot be seen, and as the study of the invisible may be deemed as legitimate as the study of the visible, he” (the press-connected versifier) “is inclined to admit that there are great possibilities on the lines of that study.”

  “Inclined to admit it, is he!” and El-Râmi threw aside the paper and broke into a laugh of the sincerest enjoyment— “Heavens! what fools there are in this world, who call themselves wise men! This little poetaster, full of the conceit common to his imitative craft, is ‘inclined to admit’ that there are great possibilities in the study of the invisible! Excellent condescension! How the methods of life have turned topsy-turvy since the ancient days! Then the study of the Invisible was the first key to the study of the Visible, — the things which are seen being considered only as the reflexes of the things which are unseen — the Unseen being accepted as Cause, the Seen as Effect. Now we all drift the other way, — taking the Visible as Fact, — the Invisible as Fancy!”

  Féraz, who was writing at a side-table, looked up at him.

  “Surely you are inconsistent?” he said— “You yourself believe in nothing unless it is proved.”

  “But then, my dear fellow, I can prove the Invisible and follow the grades of it, and the modes by which it makes itself the Visible, — to a certain extent — but only to a certain extent. Beyond the provable limit I do not go. You, on the contrary, aided by the wings of imagination, outsoar that limit, and profess to find angels, star-kingdoms, and God Himself. I cannot go so far as this. But, unlike our blown-out frog of a versifier here, who would fain persuade mankind he is a bull, I am not only ‘inclined’ to admit — I do admit that there are ‘great possibilities’ — only I must test them all before I can accept them as facts made clear to my comprehension.”

  “Still, you believe in the Invisible?”

  “Naturally. I believe in the millions of suns in the Milky Way, though they can scarcely be called ‘visible.’ I should be a fool if I did not believe in the Invisible, under the present conditions of the Universe. But I cannot be tricked by ‘shams’ of the Invisible. The Theosophical business is a piece of vulgar imposture, in which the professors themselves are willing to delude their own imaginations, as well as the imaginations of others — they are the most wretched imitators that ever were of the old Eastern sorcerers, — the fellows who taught Moses and Aaron how to frighten their ignorant cattle-like herds of followers. None of the modern ‘mediums’ as they are called, have the skill over atmospheric phenomena, metals and light-reflexes, that Apollonius of Tyana had, or Alexander the Paphlagonian. Both these scientific sorcerers were born about the same time as Christ, and Apollonius like Christ, raised a maiden from the dead. Miracles were the fashion in that period of time, — and according to the monotonous manner in which history repeats itself, they are coming into favour again in this century. All that we know now has been already known. The ancient Greeks had their ‘penny-in-the-slot’ machine for the purpose of scattering perfume on their clothes as they passed along the streets — they had their ‘syphon’ bottles and vases as we have, and they had their automatically opening and closing doors. Compare the miserable ‘spiritualistic phenomena’ of the Theosophists with the marvels wrought by Hakem, known as Mokanna! Mokanna could cause an orb like the moon to rise from a well at a certain hour and illumine the country for miles and miles around. How did he do it? By a knowledge of electric force applied to air and water. The ‘bogies’ of a modern ‘séance’ who talk bad grammar and pinch people’s toes and fingers, are very coarse examples of necromancy, compared to the scientific skill of Mokanna and others of this tribe. However, superstition is the same in all ages, and there will always be fools ready to believe in ‘Mahatmas’ or anything else, — and the old ‘incantation of the Mantra,’ will, if well done, influence the minds of the dupes of the nineteenth century quite as effectively as it did those of the bygone ages before Christ.”

  “What is the incantation of the Mantra?” asked Féraz.

  “A ridiculous trick” — replied El-Râmi— “known to every Eastern conjurer and old woman who professes to see the future. You take your dupe, and fling a little water over him, fixing upon him your eyes and all the force of your will, — then, you take a certain mixture of chemical substances and perfumes, and set them on fire — the flames and fumes produce a dazzling and drowsy effect on the senses of your ‘subject,’ who will see whatever you choose him to see, and hear whatever you intend him to hear. But Will is the chief ingredient of the spell, — and if I, for example, choose to influence anyone, I can dispense with both water and fire — I can do it alone and without any show of preparation.”

  “I know you can!” said Féraz meaningly, with a slight smile, and then was silent.

  “I wonder what the art of criticism is coming to now-a-days!” exclaimed El-Râmi presently, taking up
the paper again— “Here is a remark worthy of Dogberry’s profundity— ‘This is a book that must be read to be understood.’* Why, naturally! Who can understand a book without reading it?”

  Féraz laughed — then his eyes darkened.

  “I saw an infamous so-called critique of one of Madame Vassilius’s books the other day” — he said— “I should like to have thrashed the man who wrote it. It was not criticism at all — it was a mere piece of scurrilous vulgarity.”

  “Ah, but that sort of thing pays!” retorted El-Râmi satirically. “The modern journalist attains his extremest height of brilliancy when he throws the refuse of his inkpot at the name and fame of a woman more gifted than himself. It’s nineteenth-century chivalry you know, — above all...it’s manly!”

  * Copied verbatim from the current Press.

  Féraz shrugged his shoulders with a faint gesture of contempt.

  “Then — if there is any truth in old chronicles — men are not what they were;” — he said.

  “No — they are not what they were, my dear boy — because all things have changed. Women were once the real slaves and drudges of men, — now, they are very nearly their equals, or can be so if they choose. And men have to get accustomed to this — at present they are in the transition state and don’t like it. Besides, there will always be male tyrants and female drudges as long as the world lasts. Men are not what they were, — and, certes, they are not what they might be.”

  “They might be gods;” — said Féraz— “but I suppose they prefer to be devils.”

  “Precisely!” agreed El-Râmi— “it is easier, and more amusing.”

  Féraz resumed his writing in silence. He was thinking of Irene Vassilius, whom he admired; — and also of that wondrous Sleeping Beauty enshrined upstairs whose loveliness he did not dare to speak of. He had latterly noticed a great change in his brother, — an indefinable softness seemed to have imperceptibly toned down the habitual cynicism of his speech and manner, — his very expression of countenance was more gracious and benign, — he looked handsomer, — his black eyes shot forth a less fierce fire, — and yet, with all his gentleness and entire lack of impatience, he was absorbed from morning to night in such close and secret study as made Féraz sometimes fear for its ultimate result on his health.

  “Do you really believe in prayer, Féraz?” was the very unexpected question he now asked, with sudden and startling abruptness; “I mean, do you think anyone in the Invisible Realms hears us when we pray?”

  Féraz laid down his pen, and gazed at his brother for a moment without answering. Then he said slowly —

  “Well, according to your own theories the Air is a vast Phonograph, — so it follows naturally that everything is heard and kept. But as to prayer, that depends I think, altogether on how you pray. I do not believe in it at all times. And I’m afraid my ideas on the subject are quite out of keeping with those generally accepted—”

  “Never mind — let me have them, whatever they are” — interrupted El-Râmi with visible eagerness— “I want to know when and how you pray?”

  “Well, the fact is I very seldom pray” — returned Féraz— “I offer up the best praise I can in mortal language devise, both night and morning — but I never ask for anything. It would seem so vile to ask for more, having already so much. And I am sure God knows best — in which case I have nothing to ask, except one thing.”

  “And that is — ?” queried his brother.

  “Punishment!” replied Féraz emphatically; “I pray for that — I crave for that — I implore that I may be punished at once when I have done wrong, that I may immediately recognise my error. I would rather be punished here, than hereafter.”

  El-Râmi paled a little, and his lips trembled.

  “Strange boy!” he murmured— “All the churches are praying God to take away the punishments incurred for sin, — you on the contrary, ask for it as if it were a blessing.”

  “So it is a blessing” — declared Féraz— “It must be a blessing — and it is absurd of the churches to pray against a Law. For it is a Law. Nature punishes us, when we physically rebel against the rules of health, by physical suffering and discomfort, — God punishes us in our mental rebellions by mental wretchedness. This is as it should be. I believe we get everything in this world that we deserve — no more and no less.”

  “And do you never pray” — continued El-Râmi slowly, “for the accomplished perfection of some cherished aim, — the winning of some special joy—”

  “Not I” — said Féraz— “because I know that if it be good for me I shall have it, — if bad, it will be withheld; all my prayers could not alter the matter.”

  El-Râmi sat silent for a few minutes, — then, rising, he took two or three turns up and down the room, and gradually a smile, half scornful, half sweet, illumined his dark features.

  “Then, O young and serene philosopher, I will not pray!” he said, his eyes flashing a lustrous defiance— “I have a special aim in view — I mean to grasp a joy! — and whether it be good or bad for me, I will attempt it unassisted.”

  “If it be good you will succeed;” — said Féraz with a glance expressive of some fear as well as wonderment. “If it be bad, you will not. God arranges these things for us.”

  “God — God — always God!” cried El-Râmi with some impatience— “No God shall interfere with me!” At that moment there came a hesitating knock at the street-door. Féraz went to open it, and admitted a pale grief-stricken man whose eyes were red and heavy with tears and whose voice utterly failed him to reply when El-Râmi exclaimed in astonishment:

  “Karl!...Karl! You here? Why, what has happened?”

  Poor Karl made a heroic struggle to speak, — but his emotion was too strong for him — he remained silent, and two great drops rolled down his cheeks in spite of all his efforts to restrain them.

  “You are ill;” — said Féraz kindly, pushing him by gentle force into a chair and fetching him a glass of wine— “Here, drink this — it will restore you.”

  Karl put the glass aside tremblingly, and tried to smile his gratitude, — and presently gaining a little control over himself he turned his piteous glances towards El-Râmi whose fine features had become suddenly grave and fixed in thought.

  “You...you...have not heard, sir—” he stammered.

  El-Râmi raised his hand gently, with a solemn and compassionate gesture.

  “Peace, my good fellow! — no, I have not heard, — but I can guess; — Kremlin, your master...is dead.”

  And he was silent for many minutes. Fresh tears trickled from Karl’s eyes, and he made a pretence of tasting the wine that Féraz pressed upon him — Féraz, who looked as statuesque and serene as a young Apollo.

  “You must console yourself;” — he said cheerfully to Karl,— “Poor Dr. Kremlin had many troubles and few joys — now he has gone where he has no trouble and all joy.”

  “Ah!” sighed Karl dolefully— “I wish I could believe that, sir, — I wish I could believe it! But it was the judgment of God upon him — it was indeed! — that is what my poor mother would say, — the judgment of God!”

  El-Râmi moved from his meditative attitude with a faint sense of irritation. The words he had so lately uttered— “No God shall interfere with me” — re-echoed in his mind. And now here was this man, — this servant, weeping and trembling and talking of the “judgment of God” as if it were really something divinely directed and inexorable.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, endeavouring to suppress the impatience in his voice— “Of course, I know he must have had some violent end, or else he could not” — and he repeated the words impressively— “could not have died, — but was there anything more than usually strange in the manner of his death?”

  Karl threw up his hands.

  “More than usually strange! Ach, Gott!” and, with many interpolations of despair and expressions of horror, he related in broken accents the whole of the appalling circumstances atten
ding his master’s end. In spite of himself a faint shudder ran through El-Râmi’s warm blood as he heard — he could almost see before him the horrible spectacle of the old man’s mangled form lying crushed under the ponderous Disc his daring skill had designed; and under his breath he murmured— “Oh Lilith, oh my too-happy Lilith! and yet you tell me there is no death!” Féraz however, the young and sensitive Féraz, listened to the sad recital with quiet interest, unhorrified, apparently unmoved, — his eyes were bright, his expression placid.

  “He could not have suffered;” — he observed at last, when Karl had finished speaking— “The flash of lightning must have severed body and spirit instantly and without pain. I think it was a good end.”

  Karl looked at the beautiful smiling youth in vague horror. What! — to be flattened out like a board beneath a ponderous weight of fallen stone — to be so disfigured as to be unrecognisable — to have one’s mortal remains actually swept up and wiped out (as had been the case with poor Kremlin), and to be only a mangled mass of flesh difficult of decent burial, — and call that “a good end”! Karl shuddered and groaned; — he was not versed in the strange philosophies of young Féraz — he had never been out of his body on an ethereal journey to the star-kingdoms.

  “It was the judgment of God,” — he repeated dully— “Neither more nor less. My poor master studied too hard, and tried to find out too much, and I think he made God angry—”

  “My good fellow,” interrupted El-Râmi rather irritably— “do not talk of what you do not understand. You have been faithful, hard-working and all the rest of it, — but as for your master trying to find out too much, or God getting angry with him, that is all nonsense. We were placed on this earth to find out as much as we can, about it and about ourselves, and do the best that is possible with our learning, — and the bare idea of a great God condescending to be ‘angry’ with one out of millions upon millions of units is absurd—”