Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Thus he argued, not altogether unwisely; he had studied profoundly all the divers conflicting theories of religion, and would at one time have become an obstinately confirmed Positivist, had it not been for the fact that the further his researches led him the more he became aware that there was nothing positive, — that is to say, nothing so apparently fixed and unalterable that it might not, under different conditions, prove capable of change. Perhaps there is no better test-example of this truth than the ordinary substance known as iron. We use in common parlance unthinkingly the phrase “as hard as iron” — while to the smith and engineer who mould and twist it in every form, it proves itself soft and malleable as wax. Again, to the surface-observer, it might and does seem an incombustible metal, — the chemist knows it will burn with the utmost fury. How then form a universal decision as to its various capabilities when it has so many variations of use all in such contrary directions? The same example, modified or enlarged, will be found to apply to all things, wherefore the word “Positivism” seems out of place in merely mortal language. God may be “positive,” but we and our surroundings have no such absolute quality.

  During this period of El-Râmi’s self-elected seclusion and meditation, his young brother Féraz was very happy. He was in the midst of writing a poem which he fondly fancied might perhaps — only perhaps — find a publisher to take it and launch it on its own merits, — it is the privilege of youth to be over-sanguine. Then too, his brain was filled with new musical ideas, — and many an evening’s hour he beguiled away by delicious improvisations on the piano, or exquisite songs to the mandoline. El-Râmi, when he was not upstairs keeping anxious vigil by the tranced Lilith’s side, would sit in his chair, leaning back with half-closed eyes, listening to the entrancing melodies like another Saul to a new David, soothed by the sweetness of the sounds he heard, yet conscious that he took too deep and ardent a pleasure in hearing, when the songs Féraz chose were of love. One night Féraz elected to sing the wild and beautiful “Canticle of Love” written by the late Lord Lytton, when as “Owen Meredith” he promised to be one of the greatest poets of our century, and who would have fulfilled more than that promise if diplomacy had not claimed his brilliant intellectual gifts for the service of his country, — a country which yet deplores his untimely loss. But no fatality had as yet threatened that gallant and noble life in the days when Féraz smote the chords of his mandoline and sang: —

  “I once heard an angel by night in the sky

  Singing softly a song to a deep golden lute;

  The pole-star, the seven little planets and I

  To the song that he sang, listened mute.

  For the song that he sang was so strange and so sweet.

  And so tender the tones of his lute’s golden strings

  That the seraphs of heaven sat hush’d at his feet

  And folded their heads in their wings.

  And the song that he sang to the seraphs up there

  Is called ‘Love’! But the words...I had heard them elsewhere.

  “For when I was last in the nethermost Hell.

  On a rock ‘mid the sulphurous surges I heard

  A pale spirit sing to a wild hollow shell;

  And his song was the same, every word.

  And so sad was his singing, all Hell to the sound

  Moaned, and wailing, complained like a monster in pain

  While the fiends hovered near o’er the dismal profound

  With their black wings weighed down by the strain;

  And the song that was sung to the Lost Ones down there

  Is called ‘Love’! But the spirit that sang was Despair!”

  The strings of the mandoline quivered mournfully in tune with the passionate beauty of the verse, and from El-Râmi’s lips there came involuntarily a deep and bitter sigh.

  Féraz ceased playing and looked at him.

  “What is it?” he asked anxiously.

  “Nothing!” replied his brother in a tranquil voice— “What should there be? Only the poem is very beautiful, and out of the common, — though to me, terribly suggestive of — a mistake somewhere in creation. Love to the Saved — Love to the Lost! — naturally it would have different aspects, — but it is an anomaly — Love, to be true to its name, should have no ‘lost’ ones in its chronicle.”

  Féraz was silent.

  “Do you believe” — continued El-Râmi— “that there is a ‘nethermost Hell’? — a place or a state of mind resembling that ‘rock ‘mid the sulphurous surges’?”

  “I should imagine,” replied Féraz with some diffidence, “that there must be a condition in which we are bound to look back and see where we were wrong, — a condition, too, in which we have time to be sorry—”

  “Unfair and unreasonable!” exclaimed his brother hotly. “For, suppose we did not know we were wrong? We are left absolutely without guidance in this world to do as we like.”

  “I do not think you can quite say that” — remonstrated Féraz gently— “We do know when we are wrong — generally; some instinct tells us so — and while we have the book of Nature, we are not left without guidance. As for looking back and seeing our former mistakes, I think that is unquestionable, — for as I grow older, I begin to see where I failed in my former life, and how I deserved to lose my star-kingdom.”

  El-Râmi looked impatient.

  “You are a dreamer” — he said decisively— “and your star-kingdom is a dream also. You cannot tell me truthfully that you remember anything of a former existence?”

  “I am beginning to remember,” said Féraz steadily.

  “My dear boy, anybody but myself hearing you, would say you were mad — hopelessly mad!”

  “They would be at perfect liberty to say so” — and Féraz smiled a little— “Everyone is free to have his own opinion — I have mine. My star exists; and I once existed in it — so did you.”

  “Well, I know nothing about it then,” declared El-Râmi— “I have forgotten it utterly.”

  “Oh no! You think you have forgotten” — said Féraz mildly— “But the truth is, your very knowledge of science and other things is only — memory.”

  El-Râmi moved in his chair impatiently.

  “Let us not argue;” — he said— “We shall never agree. Sing to me again!”

  Féraz thought a moment, and then laid aside his mandoline and went to the piano, where he played a rushing rapid accompaniment like the sound of the wind among trees, and sang the following —

  “Winds of the mountain, mingle with my crying.

  Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying.

  Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo, Follow, O follow!”

  “Through the dark valleys, up the misty mountains.

  Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains.

  Praying not, hoping not, resting nor abiding, Lo, I am riding!”

  “Clangour and anger of elements are round me.

  Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me.

  Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,Fast speed I thither.”

  “Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder.

  Point fiery hands and mock me as I wander;

  Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me,Shrink back and shun me.”

  “Gods, let them follow! — gods, for I defy them!

  They call me, mock me, but I gallop by them;

  If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me,Let them pursue me!”

  He was interrupted in the song by a smothered cry from El-Râmi, and looking round, startled, he saw his brother standing up and staring at him with something of mingled fear and horror. He came to an abrupt stop, his hands resting on the piano keys.

  “Go on, go on!” cried El-Râmi irritably. “What wild chant of the gods and men have you there? Is it your own?”

  “Mine!” echoed Féraz— “No indeed! — I wish it were. It is by a living poet of the day, Robert Buchanan.”

  “Robert Buchanan!”
— and El-Râmi tried to recover his self-possession— “Ah! — Well, I wonder what devil possessed him to write it!”

  “Don’t you like it?” exclaimed Féraz wonderingly— “To my thinking it is one of the finest poems in the English language.”

  “Of course, of course I like it;” — said El-Râmi, sitting down again, angry with himself for his own emotion— “Is there more of it?”

  “Yes, but I need not finish it,” — and Féraz made as though he would rise from the piano.

  El-Râmi suddenly began to laugh.

  “Go on, I tell you, Féraz” — he said carelessly— “There is a tempest of agitation in the words and in your music that leaves one hurried and breathless, but the sensation is not unpleasant, — especially when one is prepared,...go on! — I want to hear the end of this...this-defiance.”

  Féraz looked at him to see if he were in earnest, and perceiving he had settled down to give his whole attention to the rest of the ballad, he resumed his playing, and again the rush of the music filled the room —

  “Faster, O faster! Darker and more dreary

  Groweth the pathway, yet I am not weary —

  Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,Bruise them and break them!”

  “White steed of wonder with thy feet of thunder.

  Find out their temples, tread their high-priests under —

  Leave them behind thee — if their gods speed after,Mock them with laughter.”

  “Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?

  Nay! — by the wild wind around and o’er and in me —

  Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo — Let the god follow!”

  “Clangour and anger of elements are round me.

  Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me.

  Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,Fast speed I thither!”

  The music ceased abruptly with a quick clash as of jangling bells, — and Féraz rose from the piano.

  El-Râmi was sitting quite still.

  “A fine outburst!” he remarked presently, seeing that his young brother waited for him to speak— “And you rendered it finely. In it the voice of the strong man speaks; — Do you believe it?”

  “Believe what?” asked Féraz, a little surprised.

  “This—” and El-Râmi quoted slowly —

  “Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?

  Nay! — by the wild wind around and o’er and in me —

  Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo — Let the god follow!”

  “Do you think” — he continued, “that in the matter of life’s leadership, the ‘god’ should follow, or we the god?”

  Féraz lifted his delicately marked eyebrows in amazement.

  “What an odd question!” he said— “The song is only a song, — part of a poem entitled, ‘The City of Dream,’ which none of the press-critics have ever done justice to. If Lord Tennyson had written the ‘City of Dream’ what columns and columns of praise would have been poured out upon it! What I sang to you is the chant, or lyrical soliloquy of the ‘Outcast Esau,’ who in the poem is evidently ‘outcast’ from all creeds; and it is altogether a character which, if I read it rightly, represents the strong doubter, almost unbeliever, who defies Fate. But we do not receive a mere poem, no matter how beautiful, as a gospel. And if you speak of life’s leadership, it is devoutly to be hoped that God not only leads, but rules us all.”

  “Why should you hope it?” asked El-Râmi gloomily— “Myself, I fear it!”

  Féraz came to his side and rested one hand affectionately on his arm.

  “You are worried and out of sorts, my brother,” — he said gently— “Why do you not seek some change from so much indoor life? You do not even get the advantages I have of going to and fro on the household business. I breathe the fresh air every day, — surely it is necessary for you also?”

  “My dear boy, I am perfectly well” — and El-Râmi regarded him steadily— “Why should you doubt it? I am only — a little tired. Poor human nature cannot always escape fatigue.”

  Féraz said no more, — but there was a certain strangeness in his brother’s manner that filled him with an indefinable uneasiness. In his own quiet fashion he strove to distract El-Râmi’s mind from the persistent fixity of whatever unknown purpose seemed to so mysteriously engross him, — and whenever they were together at meals or at other hours of the day, he talked in as light and desultory a way as possible on all sorts of different topics in the hope of awakening his brother’s interest more keenly in external affairs. He read much and thought more, and was a really brilliant conversationalist when he chose, in spite of his dreamy fancies — but he was obliged to admit to himself that his affectionate endeavours met with very slight success. True, El-Râmi appeared to give his attention to all that was said, but it was only an appearance, — and Féraz saw plainly enough that he was not really moved to any sort of feeling respecting the ways and doings of the outer world. And when, one morning, Féraz read aloud the account of the marriage of Sir Frederick Vaughan, Bart., with Idina, only daughter of Jabez Chester of New York, he only smiled indifferently and said nothing.

  “We were invited to that wedding;” — commented Féraz.

  “Were we?” El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders and seemed totally oblivious of the fact.

  “Why of course we were” — went on Féraz cheerfully— “And, at your bidding I opened and read the letter Sir Frederick wrote you, which said that as you had prophesied the marriage, he would take it very kindly if you would attend in person the formal fulfilment of your prophecy. And all you did in reply was to send a curt refusal on plea of other engagements. Do you think that was quite amiable on your part?”

  “Fortunately for me I am not called upon to be amiable;” — said El-Râmi, beginning to pace slowly up and down the room— “I want no favours from society, so I need not smile to order. That is one of the chief privileges of complete independence. Fancy having to grin and lie and skulk and propitiate people all one’s days! — I could not endure it, — but most men can — and do!”

  “Besides” — he added after a pause— “I cannot look on with patience at the marriage of fools. Vaughan is a fool, and his baronetage will scarcely pass for wisdom, — the little Chester girl is also a fool, — and I can see exactly what they will become in the course of a few years.”

  “Describe them, in futuro!” laughed Féraz.

  “Well — the man will be ‘turfy’; the woman, a blind slave to her dressmaker. That is all. There can be nothing more. They will never do any good or any harm — they are simply — nonentities. These are the sort of folk that make me doubt the immortal soul, — for Vaughan is less ‘spiritual’ than a well-bred dog, and little Chester less mentally gifted than a well-instructed mouse.”

  “Severe!” — commented Féraz smiling— “But, man or woman, — mouse or dog, I suppose they are quite happy just now?”

  “Happy!” echoed El-Râmi satirically— “Well — I daresay they are, — with the only sort of happiness their intelligences can grasp. She is happy because she is now ‘my lady’ and because she was able to wear a wedding-gown of marvellous make and cost, to trail and rustle and sweep after her little person up to God’s altar with, as though she sought to astonish the Almighty before whom she took her vows, with the exuberance of her millinery. He is happy because his debts are paid out of old Jabez Chester’s millions. There the ‘happiness’ ends. A couple of months is sufficient to rub the bloom off such wedlock.”

  “And you really prophesied the marriage?” queried Féraz.

  “It was easy enough” — replied his brother carelessly— “Given two uninstructed, unthinking bipeds of opposite sexes — the male with debts, the female with dollars, and an urbanely obstinate schemer to pull them together like Lord Melthorpe, and the thing is done. Half the marriages in London are made up like that, — and of the after-lives of those so wedded, ‘there needs no ghost from the grave’ to tell
us, — the divorce-courts give every information.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Féraz quickly— “That reminds me, — do you know I saw something in the evening-paper last night that might have interested you?”

  “Really! You surprise me!” and El — Râmi laughed— “That is strange indeed, for papers of all sorts, whether morning or evening, are to me the dullest and worst-written literature in the world.”

  “Oh, for literature one does not go to them” — answered Féraz.— “But this was a paragraph about a man who came here not very long ago to see you — a clergyman. He is up as a co-respondent in some very scandalous divorce case. I did not read it all — I only saw that his Bishop had caused him to be ‘unfrocked,’ whatever that means — I suppose he is expelled from the ministry?”