Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Does this teach no lesson on the resurrection of the dead? Of the ‘blown away part’ which decays in a few days or weeks? — of the ‘Radia’ or ‘Radiance’ of the Soul, rising in strength again AT THE SAME RATE that the other, the Body, or ‘grown portion of the activity,’ decays? Of the ‘new form of matter’ and the ‘radio-activity as a concomitant of the CHANGE OF FORM’? Does not Science here almost unwittingly verify the words of St. Paul:— “It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body”? There is nothing impossible or ‘miraculous’ in such a consummation, even according to modern material science, — it is merely the natural action of PURE radio-activity or that etherical composition for which we have no name, but which we have vaguely called the SOUL for countless ages.

  To multitudes of people this expression ‘the Soul’ has become overfamiliar by constant repetition, and conveys little more than the suggestion of a myth, or the hint of an Imaginary Existence. Now there is nothing in the whole Universe so REAL as the Vital Germ of the actual Form and Being of the living, radiant, active Creature within each one of us, — the creature who, impressed and guided by our Free Will, works out its own delight or doom. The WILL of each man or woman is like the compass of a ship, — where it points, the ship goes. If the needle directs it to the rocks, there is wreck and disaster, — if to the open sea, there is clear sailing. God leaves the WILL of man at perfect liberty. His Divine Love neither constrains nor compels. We must Ourselves learn the ways of Right and Wrong, and having learned, we must choose. We must injure Ourselves. God will not injure us. We invite our own miseries. God does not send them. The evils and sorrows that afflict mankind are of mankind’s own making. Even in natural catastrophes, which ruin cities and devastate countries, it is well to remember that Nature, which is the MATERIAL EXPRESSION of the mind of God, will not tolerate too long a burden of human iniquity. Nature destroys what is putrescent; she covers it up with fresh earth on which healthier things may find place to grow.

  I tried to convey some hint of these truths in my “Romance of Two Worlds.” Some few gave heed, — others wrote to me from all parts of the world concerning what they called my ‘views’ on the subjects treated of, — some asked to be ‘initiated’ into my ‘experience’ of the Unseen, — but many of my correspondents (I say it with regret) were moved by purely selfish considerations for their own private and particular advancement, and showed, by the very tone of their letters, not only an astounding hypocrisy, but also the good opinion they entertained of their own worthiness, their own capabilities, and their own great intellectuality, forgetful of the words:— “Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  Now the spirit of a little child is receptive and trustful. It has no desire for argument, and it is instinctively confident that it will not be led into unnecessary difficulty or danger by its responsible guardians. This is the spirit in which, if we are sincere in our seeking for knowledge, we should and must approach the deeper psychological mysteries of Nature. But as long as we interpose the darkness of personal doubt and prejudice between ourselves and the Light Eternal no progress can be made, — and every attempt to penetrate into the Holy of Holies will be met and thrust back by that ‘flaming Sword’ which from the beginning, as now, turns every way to guard the Tree of Life.

  Knowing this, and seeing that Self was the stumbling-block with most of my correspondents, I was anxious to write another book at once, also in the guise of a romance, to serve as a little lamp of love whereby my readers might haply discover the real character of the obstacle which blocked their way to an intelligent Soul-advancement. But the publisher I had at the time (the late Mr. George Bentley) assured me that if I wrote another ‘spiritualistic’ book, I should lose the public hearing I had just gained. I do not know why he had formed this opinion, but as he was a kindly personal friend, and took a keen interest in my career, never handing any manuscript of mine over to his ‘reader,’ but always reading it himself, I felt it incumbent upon me, as a young beginner, to accept the advice which I knew could only be given with the very best intentions towards me. To please him, therefore, and to please the particular public to which he had introduced me, I wrote something entirely different, — a melodramatic tale entitled: “Vendetta: The Story of One Forgotten.” The book made a certain stir, and Mr. Bentley next begged me to try ‘a love-story, pur et simple’ (I quote from his own letter). The result was my novel of “Thelma,” which achieved a great popular success and still remains a favourite work with a large majority of readers. I then considered myself free to move once more upon the lines which my study of psychic forces had convinced me were of pre-eminent importance. And moved by a strong conviction that men and women are hindered from attaining their full heritage of life by the obstinate interposition of their merely material Selves, I wrote “Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self.” The plan of this book was partially suggested by the following passages from the Second Apocryphal Book of Esdras: —

  “Go into a field of flowers where no house is builded. And pray unto the Highest continually, then will I come and talk with thee. So I went my way into the field which is called Ardath, like as he commanded me, and there I sat among the flowers.”

  In this field the Prophet sees the vision of a woman.

  “And it came to pass while I was talking with her, behold her face upon a sudden shined exceedingly and her countenance glistened, so that I was afraid of her and mused what it might be. And I looked, and behold the woman appeared unto me no more, but there was a city builded, and a large place showed itself from the foundations.”

  On this I raised the fabric of my own “Dream City,” and sought to elucidate some of the meaning of that great text in Ecclesiastes which contains in itself all the philosophy of the ages: “That which Hath Been is Now; and that which is To Be hath already Been; and God requireth that which is Past.”

  The book, however, so my publisher Mr. Bentley told me in a series of letters which I still possess, and which show how keen was his own interest in my work, was ‘entirely over the heads of the general public.’ His opinion was, no doubt, correct, as “Ardath” still remains the least ‘popular’ of any book I have ever written. Nevertheless it brought me the unsought and very generous praise of the late Poet Laureate, Alfred Lord Tennyson, as well as the equally unsought good opinion and personal friendship of the famous statesman, William Ewart Gladstone, while many of the better-class literary journals vied with one another in according me an almost enthusiastic eulogy. Such authorities as the “Athenaeum” and “Spectator” praised the whole conception and style of the work, the latter journal going as far as to say that I had beaten Beckford’s famous “Vathek” on its own ground.

  Whatever may now be the consensus of opinion on its merits or demerits, I know and feel it to be one of my most worthy attempts, even though it is not favoured by the million. It does not appeal to anything ‘of the moment’ merely, because there are very few people who can or will understand that if the Soul or ‘Radia’ of a human being is so forgetful of its highest origin as to cling to its human Self only (events the hero of “Ardath” clung to the Shadow of his Former Self and to the illusory pictures of that Former Self’s pleasures and vices and vanities) then the way to the eternal Happier Progress is barred. There is yet another intention in this book which seems to be missed by the casual reader, namely, — That each human soul is a germ of SEPARATE and INDIVIDUAL spiritual existence. Even as no two leaves are exactly alike on any tree, and no two blades of grass are precisely similar, so no two souls resemble each other, but are wholly different, endowed with different gifts and different capacities. Individuality is strongly insisted upon in material Nature. And why? Because material Nature is merely the reflex or mirror of the more strongly insistent individuality of psychic form. Again, psychic form is generated from a divinely eternal psychic substance, — a ‘radia’ or emanation of God’s own Bein
g which, as it progresses onward through endless aeons of constantly renewed vitality, grows more and more powerful, changing its shape often, but never its everlasting composition and quality. Therefore, all the experiences of the ‘Soul’ or psychic form, from its first entrance into active consciousness, whether in this world or in other worlds, are attracted to itself by its own inherent volition, and work together to make it what it is now and what it will be hereafter.

  That is what “Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self” seeks to explain, and I have nothing to take back from what I have written in its pages. In its experimental teaching it is the natural and intended sequence of “A Romance of Two Worlds,” and was meant to assist the studies of the many who had written to me asking for help. And despite the fact that some of these persons, owing to an inherent incapacity for concentrated thought upon any subject, found it too ‘difficult’ as they said, for casual reading, its reception was sufficiently encouraging to decide me on continuing to press upon public attention the theories therein set forth. “The Soul of Lilith” was, therefore, my next venture, — a third link in the chain I sought to weave between the perishable materialism of our ordinary conceptions of life, and the undying spiritual quality of life as it truly is. In this I portrayed the complete failure that must inevitably result from man’s prejudice and intellectual pride when studying the marvellous mysteries of what I would call the Further World, — that is to say, the ‘Soul’ of the world which is hidden deeply behind its external Appearance, — and how impossible it is and ever must be that any ‘Soul’ should visibly manifest itself where there is undue attachment to the body. The publication of the book was a very interesting experience. It was and is still less ‘popular’ than “Ardath” — but it has been gladly welcomed by a distinctly cultured minority of persons famous in art, science and literature, whose good opinion is well worth having. With this reward I was perfectly content, but my publisher was not so easily pleased. He wanted something that would ‘sell’ better. To relieve his impatience, therefore, I wrote a more or less ‘sensational’ novel dealing with the absinthe drinkers of Paris, entitled “Wormwood,” which did a certain amount of good in its way, by helping to call public attention to the devastation wrought by the use of the pernicious drug among the French and other Continental peoples — and after this, receiving a strong and almost imperative impetus towards that particular goal whither my mind was set, I went to work again with renewed vigour on my own favourite and long studied line of argument, indifferent alike to publisher or public. Filled with the fervour of a passionate and proved faith, I wrote “Barabbas: A Dream of the World’s Tragedy,” — and this was the signal of separation from my excellent old friend, George Bentley, who had not the courage to publish a poetic romance which introduced, albeit with a tenderness and reverence unspeakable, so far as my own intention was concerned, the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Christ. He wrote to me expressing his opinion in these terms:— “I can conscientiously praise the power and feeling you exhibit for your vast subject, and the rush and beauty of the language, and above all I feel that the book is the genuine outcome of a fervent faith all too rare in these days, but — I fear its effect on the public mind.” Yet, when urged to a given point in the discussion, he could not deny that ‘the effect on the public mind’ of the Passion Play at Ober-Ammergau is generally impressive and helpful, while he was bound to admit that there was something to be said for the introduction of Divine personages in the epic romances of Milton and Dante. What could be written in poetic verse did not, however, seem to him suitable for poetic prose, and I did not waste words in argument, as I knew the time had come for the parting of the ways. I sought my present publisher, Mr. Methuen, who, being aware, from a business point of view, that I had now won a certain reputation, took “Barabbas” without parley. It met with an almost unprecedented success, not only in this country but all over the world. Within a few months it was translated into every known European language, inclusive even of modern Greek, and nowhere perhaps has it awakened a wider interest than in India, where it is published in Hindustani, Gujarati, and various other Eastern dialects. Its notable triumph was achieved despite a hailstorm of abuse rattled down upon me by the press, — a hailstorm which I, personally, found welcome and refreshing, inasmuch as it cleared the air and cleaned the road for my better wayfaring. It released me once and for all from the trammels of such obligation as is incurred by praise, and set me firmly on my feet in that complete independence which to me (and to all who seek what I have found) is a paramount necessity. For, as Thomas a Kempis writes: “Whosoever neither desires to please men nor fears to displease them shall enjoy much peace.” I took my freedom gratefully, and ever since that time of unjust and ill-considered attack from persons who were too malignantly minded to even read the work they vainly endeavoured to destroy, have been happily indifferent to all so-called ‘criticism’ and immune from all attempts to interrupt my progress or turn me back upon my chosen way. From henceforth I recognised that no one could hinder or oppose me but myself — and that I had the making, tinder God, of my own destiny. I followed up “Barabbas” as quickly as possible by “The Sorrows of Satan,” thus carrying out the preconceived intention I had always had of depicting, first, the martyrdom which is always the world’s guerdon to Absolute Good, — and secondly, the awful, unimaginable torture which must, by Divine Law, for ever be the lot of Absolute Evil.

  The two books carried their message far and wide with astonishing success and swiftness, and I then drew some of my threads of former argument together in “The Master Christian,” wherein I depicted Christ as a Child, visiting our world again as it is to-day and sorrowfully observing the wickedness which men practise in His Name. This book was seized upon by thousands of readers in all countries of the world with an amazing avidity which proved how deep was the longing for some clear exposition of faith that might console as well as command, — and after its publication I decided to let it take its own uninterrupted course for a time and to change my own line of work to lighter themes, lest I should be set down as ‘spiritualist’ or ‘theosophist,’ both of which terms have been brought into contempt by tricksters. So I played with my pen, and did my best to entertain the public with stories of everyday life and love, such as the least instructed could understand, and that I now allude to the psychological side of my work is merely to explain that these six books, namely: “A Romance of Two Worlds,” “Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self,” “The Soul of Lilith,” “Barabbas,” “The Sorrows of Satan” and “The Master Christian” ARE THE RESULT OF A DELIBERATELY CONCEIVED PLAN AND INTENTION, and are all linked together by the ONE THEORY. They have not been written solely as pieces of fiction for which I, the author, am paid by the publisher, or you, the reader, are content to be temporarily entertained, — they are the outcome of what I myself have learned, practised and proved in the daily experiences, both small and great, of daily life.

  You may probably say and you probably WILL say— “What does that matter to us? We do not care a jot for your ‘experiences’ — they are transcendental and absurd — they bore us to extinction.” Nevertheless, quite callous as you are or may be, there must come a time when pain and sorrow have you in their grip — when what you call ‘death’ stands face to face with you, and when you will find that all you have thought, desired or planned for your own pleasure, and all that you possess of material good or advantage, vanishes like smoke, leaving nothing behind, — when the world will seem no more than a small receding point from which you must fall into the Unknown — and when that “dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns, PUZZLES THE WILL.” You have at present living among you a great professing scientist, Dr. Oliver Lodge, who, wandering among mazy infinities, conceives it even possible to communicate with departed spirits, — while I, who have no such weight of worldly authority and learning behind me, tell you that such a thing is out of all natural law and therefore CAN NEVER BE. Nature ca
n and will unveil to us many mysteries that seem SUPER-natural, when they are only manifestations of the deepest centre of the purest natural — but nothing can alter Divine Law, or change the system which has governed the Universe from the beginning. And by this Divine Law and system we have to learn that the so-called ‘dead’ are NOT dead — they have merely been removed to fresh life and new spheres of action, under which circumstances they cannot possibly hold communication with us in any way unless they again assume the human form and human existence. In this case (which very frequently happens) it takes not only time for us to know them, but it also demands a certain instinctive receptiveness on our parts, or willingness to recognise them. Even the risen Saviour was not at first recognised by His own disciples. It is because I have been practically convinced of this truth, and because I have learned that life is not and never can be death, but only constant change and reinvestment of Spirit into Form, that I have presumed so far as to allude to my own faith and experience, — a ‘personal’ touch for which I readily apologise, knowing that it cannot be interesting to the majority who would never take the trouble to shape their lives as I seek to shape mine. Still, if there are one or two out of a million who feel as I do, that life and love are of little worth if they must end in dark nothingness, these may perhaps have the patience to come with me through the pages of a narrative which is neither ‘incidental’ nor ‘sensational’ nor anything which should pertain to the modern ‘romance’ or ‘novel,’ and which has been written because the writing of it enforced itself upon me with an insistence that would take no denial.