“To the memory of heroes!” she said whisperingly, with a slight proud gesture of her hand,— “To the glory of the Dead! Salutation to the great gods and crowned Kings! Salutation and witness to the world of what Hath Been! The river shall find a tongue — the shifting sands shall uphold the record, so that none shall forget the things that Were! For the things that Are, being weak, shall perish, — but the things that Were, being strong, shall endure for ever! Here, as God liveth, is the meeting-place; the palms are gone, but the Nile flows on, and the moon is the sunlight of lovers. Here will I wait for my belovëd, — he knows the appointed hour,...he will not be long!”
She sat down, as close to the Obelisk as she could get, her face turned towards the river and the moonlight; and the clocks of the great city around her slowly tolled eleven. Her head dropped forward on her chest, — though after a few minutes she lifted her face with an anxious look — and,— “Did the child call me?” she said, and listened. Then she relapsed into her former sunken posture,...once a strong shuddering shook her limbs as of intense cold in the warm June night,...and then she was quite still....
The hours passed on, — midnight came and went, — but she never stirred. She seemed to belong to the Obelisk and its attendant Sphinxes, — so rigid was her figure, so weird in its outline, so solemn in its absolute immobility. And in that same attitude she was found later on towards morning, stone dead. There was no clue to her identity, — nothing about her that gave any hint as to her possible home or friends; her statuesque old face, grander than ever in the serene pallor of death, somewhat awed the two burly policemen who lifted her stark body and turned her features to the uncertain light of early dawn, but it told them no history save that of age and sorrow. So, in the sad chronicles entitled “Found Dead,” she was described as “a woman unknown, of foreign appearance and costume, seemingly of Eastern origin,” — and, after a day or two, being unrecognised and unclaimed, she was buried in the usual way common to all who perish without name and kindred in the dreary wilderness of a great city. Féraz, missing her on the morning after her disappearance, searched for her everywhere as well as he knew how, — but, as he seldom read the newspapers, and probably would not have recognised the brief account of her there if he had, — and as, moreover, he knew nothing about certain dreary buildings in London called mortuaries, where the bodies of the drowned, and murdered, and unidentified, lie for a little while awaiting recog — nition, he remained in complete and bewildered ignorance of her fate. He could not imagine what had become of her, and he almost began to believe that she must have taken ship back to her native land — and that perhaps he might hear of her again some day. And truly, she had gone back to her native land, — in fancy; — and truly, it was also possible she might be met with again some day, — in another world than this. But in the meantime she had died, — as best befitted a servant of the old gods, — alone, and in uncomplaining silence.
CHAPTER X.
THE hair’s-breadth balance of a Thought, — the wrong or right control of Will; — on these things hang the world, life, time, and all Eternity. Such slight threads! — imperceptible, ungraspable, — and yet withal strong, — strong enough to weave the everlasting web of good or evil, joy or woe. On some such poise, as fine, as subtly delicate, the whole majestic Universe swings round in its appointed course, — never a pin’s point awry, never halting in its work, never hesitating in the fulfilment of its laws, carrying out the Divine Command with faithful exactitude and punctuality. It is strange — mournfully strange, — that we never seem able to learn the grand lessons that are taught us by this unvarying routine of Natural Forces, — Sub — mission, Obedience, Patience, Resignation, Hope. Preachers preach the doctrine, — teachers teach it, — Nature silently and gloriously manifests it hourly; but we, — we continue to shut our ears and eyes, — we prefer to retreat within ourselves, — our little incomplete ignorant selves, — thinking we shall be able to discover some way out of what has no egress, by the cunning arguments of our own finite intellectual faculties. We fail always; — we must fail. We are bound to find out sooner or later that we must bend our stubborn knees in the presence of the Positive Eternal. But till the poor brain gives way under the prolonged pressure and strain of close inquiry and analysis, so long will it persist in attempting to probe the Impenetrable, — so long will it audaciously attempt to lift the veil that hides the Beyond instead of resting content with what Nature teaches. “Wait” — she says— “Wait till you are mentally able to understand the Explanation. Wait till the Voice which is as a silver clarion, proclaims all truth, saying ‘Awake, Soul, for thy dream is past! Look now and see, — for thou art strong enough to bear the Light.’”
Alas! we will not wait, — hence our life in these latter days of analysis, is a mere querulous Complaint, instead of what it should be, a perpetual Thanksgiving.
Four seasons have passed away since the “Soul of Lilith” was caught up into its native glory, — four seasons, — summer, autumn, winter and spring — and now it is summer again, — summer in the Isle of Cyprus, that once most sacred spot, dear to historic and poetic lore. Up among the low olive-crowned hills of Baffo or Paphos, there is more shade and coolness than in other parts of the island, and the retreat believed to have been the favourite haunt of Venus, is still full of something like the mystical glamour that hallowed it of old. As the singer of “Love-Letters of a Violinist” writes:
“There is a glamour all about the bay
As if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here.
The sands are golden and the rocks appear
Crested with silver; and the breezes play
Snatches of song they humm’d when far away.
And then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”
Flowers bloom luxuriantly, as though the white, blue-veined feet of the goddess had but lately passed by, — there is a suggestive harmony in the subdued low whispering of the trees, accompanied by the gentle murmur of the waves and “Hieros Kipos” or the Sacred Grove, still bends its thick old boughs caressingly towards the greensward as though to remind the dreaming earth of the bygone glories here buried deep in its silent bosom. The poor fragment of the ruined “Temple of Venus” once gorgeous with the gold and precious stones, silks and embroideries, and other offerings brought from luxury-loving Tyre, stands in its desolation among the quiet woods, and no sound of rejoicing comes forth from its broken wall to stir the heated air. Yet there is music not far off, — the sweet and solemn music of an organ chant, accompanying a chorus of mild and mellow voices singing the “Agnus Dei.” Here in this part of the country, the native inhabitants are divided in their notions of religious worship, — they talk Greek, albeit modern Greek, with impurities which were unknown to the sonorous ancient tongue, and they are heroes no more, as the heroic Byron has told us in his superb poesy, but simply slaves. They but dimly comprehend Christianity, — the joyous paganism of the past is not yet extinct, and the Virgin Mother of Christ is here adored as “Aphroditissa.” Perhaps in dirty Famagousta they may be more orthodox, — but among these sea-fronting hills where the sound of the “Agnus Dei” solemnly rises and falls in soft surges of harmony, it is still the old home of the Queen of Beauty, and still the birthplace of Adonis, son of a Cyprian King. Commercial England is now the possessor of this bower of sweet fancies, — this little corner of the world haunted by a thousand poetic memories, — and in these prosy days but few pilgrimages are made to a shrine that was once the glory of a glorious age. To the native Cypriotes themselves the gods have simply changed their names and become a little sadder and less playful, that is all, — and to make up for the lost “Temple of Venus” there is, hidden deep among the foliage, a small monastic retreat with a Cross on its long low roof, — a place where a few poor monks work and pray, — good men whose virtues are chiefly known to the sick, destitute and needy. They call themselves simply “The Brotherhood,” and there are only ten of them in all, including the youngest, who joined their con
fraternity quite recently. They are very poor, — they wear rough white garments and go barefooted, and their food is of the simplest; but they do a vast amount of good in their unassuming way, and when any of their neighbours are in trouble, such afflicted ones at once climb the little eminence where Venus was worshipped with such pomp in ancient days, and make direct for the plain unadorned habitation devoted to the service of One who was “a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with grief.” There they never fail to find consolation and practical aid, — even their persistent prayers to “Aphroditissa” are condoned with a broad and tender patience by these men who honestly strive to broaden and not confine the road that leads to heaven. Thus Paphos is sacred still, — with the glamour of old creeds and the wider glory of the new, — yet though it is an interesting enough nook of the earth, it is seldom that travellers elect to go thither either to admire or explore. Therefore the sight of a travelling-carriage, a tumble-down sort of vehicle, yet one of the best to be obtained thereabouts, making its way slowly up the ascent, with people in modern fashionable dress sitting therein, was a rare and wonderful spectacle to the ragged Cypriote youth of both sexes, who either stood by the roadway, pushing their tangled locks from their dark eyes and staring at it, or else ran swiftly alongside its wheels to beg for coppers from its occupants. There were four of these, — two ladies and two gentlemen, — Sir Frederick Vaughan and Lady Vaughan (née Idina Chester); the fair and famous authoress, Irene Vassilius, and a distinguished-looking handsome man of about forty or thereabouts, the Duke of Strathlea, a friend of the Vaughans, who had entertained them royally during the previous autumn at his grand old historic house in Scotland. By a mere chance during the season, he had made the acquaintance of Madame Vassilius, with whom he had fallen suddenly, deeply and ardently in love. She, however, was the same unresponsive far-gazing dreamy sibyl as ever, and though not entirely indifferent to the gentle reverential homage paid to her by this chivalrous and honourable gentleman, she could not make up her mind to give him any decided encouragement. He appeared to make no progress with her whatever, — and of course his discouragement increased his ardour. He devised every sort of plan he could think of for obtaining as much of her society as possible, — and finally, he had entreated the Vaughans to persuade her to join them in a trip to the Mediterranean in his yacht. At first she had refused, — then, with a sudden change of humour, she had consented to go, provided the Island of Cyprus were one of the places to be visited. Strathlea eagerly caught at and agreed to this suggestion, — the journey had been undertaken, and had so far proved most enjoyable. Now they had reached the spot Irene most wished to see, — it was to please her that they were making the present excursion to the “Temple of Venus,” or rather, to the small and obscure monastery among the hills which she had expressed a strong desire to visit, — and Strathlea, looking wistfully at her fair thoughtful face, wondered whether after all these pleasant days passed together between sparkling sea and radiant sky, she had any kinder thoughts of him, — whether she would always be so quiet, so impassive, so indifferent to the love of a true man’s heart?
The carriage went slowly, — the view widened with every upward yard of the way, — and they were all silent, gazing at the glittering expanse of blue ocean below them.
“How very warm it is!” said Lady Vaughan at last breaking the dumb spell, and twirling her sunshade round and round to disperse a cloud of gnats and small flies— “Fred, you look absolutely broiled! You are so dreadfully sunburnt!”
“Am I?” and Sir Frederick smiled blandly, — he was as much in love with his pretty frivolous wife as it is becoming for a man to be, and all her remarks were received by him with the utmost docility— “Well, I dare say I am. Yachting doesn’t improve the transparent delicacy of a man’s complexion. Strathlea is too dark to show it much, — but I was always a florid sort of fellow. You’ve no lack of colour yourself, Idina.”
“Oh, I’m sure I look a fright!” responded her ladyship vivaciously and with a slight touch of petulance— “Irene is the only one who appears to keep cool. I believe her aspect would be positively frosty with the thermometer marking 100 in the shade!”
Irene, who was gazing abstractedly out to sea, turned slowly and lifted her drooping lace parasol slightly higher from her face. She was pale, — and her deep-set gray eyes were liquid as though unshed tears filled them.
“Did you speak to me, dear?” she inquired gently. “Have I done something to vex you?”
Lady Vaughan laughed.
“No, of course you haven’t. The idea of your vexing anybody! You look irritably cool in this tremendous heat, — that’s all.”
“I love the sun,” — said Irene dreamily— “To me it is always the visible sign of God in the world. In London we have so little sunshine, — and, one might add, so little of God also! I was just then watching that golden blaze of light upon the sea.”
Strathlea looked at her interrogatively.
“And what does it suggest to you, Madame?” he asked— “The glory of a great fame, or the splendour of a great love?”
“Neither” — she replied tranquilly— “Simply the reflex of Heaven on Earth.”
“Love might be designated thus,” said Strathlea in a low tone.
She coloured a little, but offered no response.
“It was odd that you alone should have been told the news of poor El-Râmi’s misfortune,” — said Sir Frederick, abruptly addressing her,— “None of us, not even my cousin Melthorpe, who knew him before you did, had the least idea of it.”
“His brother wrote to me” — replied Irene; “Féraz, that beautiful youth who accompanied him to Lady Melthorpe’s reception last year. But he gave me no details, — he simply explained that El-Râmi, through prolonged over-study had lost the balance of his mind. The letter was very short, and in it he stated he was about to enter a religious fraternity who had their abode near Baffo in Cyprus, and that the brethren had consented to receive his brother also and take charge of him in his great helplessness.”
“And their place is what we are going to see now” — finished Lady Vaughan— “I dare say it will be immensely interesting. Poor El-Râmi! Who would ever have thought it possible for him to lose his wits! I shall never forget the first time I saw him at the theatre. ‘Hamlet’ was being played, and he entered in the very middle of the speech ‘To be or not to be.’ I remember how he looked, perfectly. What eyes he had! — they positively scared me!”
Her husband glanced at her admiringly.
“Do you know, Idina” — he said, “that El-Râmi told me on that very night — the night of ‘Hamlet’ — that I was destined to marry you?”
She lifted her eyelids in surprise.
“No! Really! And did you feel yourself compelled to carry out the prophecy?” — and she laughed.
“No, I did not feel myself compelled, — but somehow, it happened — didn’t it?” he inquired with naïve persistency.
“Of course it did! How absurd you are!” and she laughed again— “Are you sorry?”
He gave her an expressive look, — he was really very much in love, and she was still a new enough bride to blush at his amorous regard. Strathlea moved impatiently in his seat; — the assured happiness of others made him envious.
“I suppose this prophet, — El-Râmi, as you call him, prophesies no longer, if his wits are lacking” — he said— “otherwise I should have asked him to prophesy something good for me.”
No one answered. Lady Vaughan stole a meaning glance and smile at Irene, but there was no touch of embarrassment or flush of colour on that fair, serene, rather plaintive face.
“He always went into things with such terrible closeness, did El-Râmi,—” said Sir Frederick after a pause— “No wonder his brain gave way at last. You know you can’t keep on asking the why, why, why of everything without getting shut up in the long run.”
“I think we were not meant to ask ‘why’ at all,” said Irene slowly— “We are made to
accept and believe that everything is for the best.”
“There is a story extant in France of a certain philosopher who was always asking why—” said Strathlea— “He was a taciturn man as a rule, and seldom opened his lips except to say ‘Pourquoi?’ When his wife died suddenly, he manifested no useless regrets — he merely said ‘Pourquoi?’ One day they told him his house in the country was burnt to the ground, — he shrugged his shoulders and said ‘Pourquoi?’ After a bit he lost all his fortune, — his furniture was sold up, — he stared at the bailiffs and said ‘Pourquoi?’ Later on he was suspected of being in a plot to assassinate the King, — men came and seized his papers and took him away to prison, — he made no resistance, — he only said ‘Pourquoi?’ He was tried, found guilty and condemned to death; the judge asked him if he had anything to say? He replied at once ‘Pourquoi?’ No answer was vouchsafed to him, and in due time he was taken to the scaffold. There the executioner bandaged his eyes, — he said ‘Pourquoi?’ — he was told to kneel down; he did so, but again demanded ‘Pourquoi?’ — the knife fell, and his head was severed from his body — yet before it rolled into the basket, it trembled on the block, its eyes opened, its lips moved and for the last time uttered that final, never-to-be-answered query ‘Pourquoi?’!”
They all laughed at this story, and just then the carriage stopped. The driver got down and explained in very bad French that he could go no further, — that the road had terminated and that there was now only a footpath which led through the trees to the little monastic retreat whither they were bound. They alighted, therefore, and found themselves close to the ruin supposed to have once been the “Temple of Venus.” They paused for a moment, looking at the scene in silence.
“There must have been a great joyousness in the old creeds,” said Strathlea softly, with an admiring glance at Irene’s slight slim, almost fairy-like figure clad in its closefitting garb of silky white— “At the shrine of Venus for example, one could declare one’s love without fear or shame.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 282