“True!” answered Santoris— “But to understand the ‘why’ of life we must first of all realise that its origin Is Love. Love creates life because it MUST; even agnostics, when pushed to the wall in argument grant that some mysterious and mighty Force is at the back of creation, — a Force which is both intelligent and beneficent. The trite saying ‘God is Love’ is true enough, but it is quite as true to say ‘Love is God.’ The commencement of universes, solar systems and worlds is the desire of Love to express Itself. No more and no less than this. From desire springs action, — from action life. It only remains for each living unit to bring itself into harmonious union with this one fundamental law of the whole cosmos, — the expression and action of Love which is based, as naturally it must be, on a dual entity.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Dr. Brayle.
“As a physician, and I presume as a scientist, you ought scarcely to ask,” replied Santoris, with a slight smile. “For you surely know there is no single thing in the Universe. The very microbes of disease or health go in pairs. Light and darkness, — the up and the down, — the right and the left, — the storm and the calm, — the male and the female, — all things are dual; and the sorrows of humanity are for the most part the result of ill-assorted numbers, — figures brought together that will not count up properly — wrong halves of the puzzle that will never fit into place. The mischief runs through all civilization, — wrong halves of races brought together which do not and never can assimilate, — and in an individual personal sense wrong halves of spirit and matter are often forced together which are bound by law to separate in time with some attendant disaster. The error is caused by the obstinate miscomprehension of man himself as to the nature and extent of his own powers and faculties. He forgets that he is not ‘as the beasts that perish,’ but that he has the breath of God in him, — that he holds within himself the seed of immortality which is perpetually re-creative. He is bound by all the laws of the Universe to give that immortal life its dual entity and attendant power, without which he cannot attain his highest ends. It may take him thousands of years — cycles of time, — but it has to be done. Materially speaking, he may perhaps consider that he has secured his dual entity by a pleasing or fortunate marriage — but if he is not spiritually mated, his marriage is useless, — ay! worse than useless, as it only interposes fresh obstacles between himself and his intended progress.”
“Marriage can hardly be called a useless institution,” said Dr. Brayle, with an uplifting of his sinister brows; “It helps to populate the world.”
“It does,” answered Santoris, calmly— “But if the pairs that are joined in marriage have no spiritual bond between them and nothing beyond the attraction of the mere body — they people the world with more or less incapable, unthinking and foolish creatures like themselves. And supposing these to be born in tens of millions, like ants or flies, they will not carry on the real purpose of man’s existence to anything more than that stoppage and recoil which is called Death, but which in reality is only a turning back of the wheels of time when the right road has been lost and it becomes imperative to begin the journey all over again.”
We sat silent; no one had any comment to offer.
“We are arriving at that same old turning-point once more,” he continued— “The Western civilisation of two thousand years, assisted (and sometimes impeded) by the teachings of Christianity, is nearing its end. Out of the vast wreckage of nations, now imminent, only a few individuals can be saved, — and the storm is so close at hand that one can almost hear the mutterings of the thunder! But why should I or you or anyone else think about it? We have our own concerns to attend to — and we attend to these so well that we forget all the most vital necessities that should make them of any importance! However — in this day — nothing matters! Shall I go on with my own story, or have you heard enough?”
“Not half enough!” said Catherine Harland, quite suddenly — she had scarcely spoken before, but she now leaned forward, looking eagerly interested— “You speak of power over yourself, — do you possess the same power over others?”
“Not unless they come into my own circle of action,” he answered. “It would not be worth my while to exert any influence on persons who are, and ever must be, indifferent to me. I can, of course, defend myself against enemies — and that without lifting a hand.”
Everyone, save myself, looked at him inquisitively, — but he did not explain his meaning. He went on very quietly with his own personal narrative.
“As I have told you,” he said— “I came out of my studies with Aselzion successfully enough to feel justified in going on with my work alone. I took up my residence in Egypt in my father’s old home — a pretty place enough with wide pleasure grounds planted thickly with palm trees and richly filled with flowers, — and here I undertook the mastery and comprehension of the most difficult subject ever propounded for learning — the most evasive, complex, yet exact piece of mathematics ever set out for solving — Myself! Myself was my puzzle! How to unite myself with Nature so thoroughly as to insinuate myself into her secrets, — possess all she could offer me, — and yet detach myself from Self so completely as to be ready to sacrifice all I had gained at a moment’s notice should that moment come.”
“You are paradoxical,” said Mr. Harland, irritably. “What’s the use of gaining anything if it is to be lost at a moment’s bidding?”
“It is the only way to hold and keep whatever there is to win,” answered Santoris, calmly— “And the paradox is no greater than that of ‘He that loveth his life shall lose it.’ The only ‘moment’ of supreme self-surrender is Love — when that comes everything else must go. Love alone can compass life, perfect it, complete it and carry it on to eternal happiness. But please bear in mind that I am speaking of real Love, — not mere physical attraction. The two things are as different as light from darkness.”
“Is your curious conception or ideal of love the reason, why you have never married?” asked Brayle, abruptly.
“Precisely!” replied Santoris. “It is most unquestionably and emphatically the reason why I have never married.”
There was a pause. I saw Catherine glancing at him with a strange furtiveness in which there was something of fear.
“You have never met your ideal, I suppose?” she asked, with a faint smile.
“Oh yes, I’ve met her!” he answered— “Ages ago! On many occasions I have met her; — sometimes she has estranged herself from me, — sometimes she has been torn from me by others — and still more often I have, through my own folly and obstinacy, separated myself from her — but our mutual mistakes do no more than delay the inevitable union at last.” — Here he spoke slowly and with marked meaning— “For it IS an inevitable union! — as inevitable as that of two electrons which, after spinning in space for certain periods of time, rush together at last and remain so indissolubly united that nothing can ever separate them.”
“And then?” queried Dr. Brayle, with an ironical air.
“Then? Why, everything is possible then! Beauty, perfection, wisdom, progress, creativeness, and a world — even worlds — of splendid thought and splendid ideals, bound to lead to still more splendid realisation! It is not difficult to imagine two brains, two minds moving so absolutely in unison that like a grand chord of music they strike harmony through hitherto dumb life-episodes — but think of two immortal souls full of a love as deathless as themselves, conjoined in highest effort and superb attainment! — the love of angel for angel, of god for god! You think this ideal imaginative, — transcendental — impossible! — yet I swear to you it is the most REAL possibility in this fleeting mirage of a world!”
His voice thrilled with a warmth of feeling and conviction, and as I heard him speak I trembled inwardly with a sudden remorse — a quick sense of inferiority and shame. Why could I not let myself go? Why did I not give the fluttering spirit within me room to expand its wings? Something opposing, — something inimical to my p
eace and happiness held me back — and presently I began to wonder whether I should attribute it to the influence of those with whom I was temporarily associated. I was almost confirmed in this impression when Mr. Harland’s voice, harsh and caustic as it could be when he was irritated or worsted in an argument, broke the momentary silence.
“You are more impossible now than you ever were at Oxford, Santoris!” he said— “You out-transcend all transcendentalism! You know, or you ought to know by this time, that there is no such thing as an immortal soul — and if you believe otherwise you have brought yourself voluntarily into that state of blind credulity. All science teaches us that we are the mere spawn of the planet on which we live, — we are here to make the best of it for ourselves and for others who come after us — and there’s an end. What is called Love is the mere physical attraction between the two sexes — no more, — and it soon palls. All that we gain we quickly cease to care for — it is the way of humanity.”
“What a poor creation humanity is, then!” said Santoris, with a smile— “How astonishing that it should exist at all for no higher aims than those of the ant or the mouse! My dear Harland, if your beliefs were really sound we should be bound in common duty and charity to stop the population of the world altogether — for the whole business is useless. Useless and even cruel, for it is nothing but a crime to allow people to be born for no other end than extinction! However, keep your creeds! I thank Heaven they are not mine!”
Mr. Harland gave a slight movement of impatience. I could see that he was disturbed in his mind.
“Let’s talk of something I can follow,” he said— “the personal and material side of things. Your perennial condition of health, for example. Your apparent youth—”
“Oh, is it only ‘apparent’?” laughed Santoris, gaily— “Well, to those who never knew me in my boyhood’s days and are therefore never hurling me back to their ‘thirty years or more ago’ of friendship, etc., my youth seems very actual! You see their non-ability to count up the time I have spent on earth obliges them to accept me at my own valuation! There’s really nothing to explain in the matter. Everyone can keep young if he understands himself and Nature. If I were to tell you the literal truth of the process, you would not believe me, — and even if you did you would not have the patience to carry it out! But what does it matter after all? If we only live for the express purpose of dying, the sooner we get the business over and done with the better — youth itself has no charms under such circumstances. All the purposes of life, however lofty and nobly planned, are bound to end in nothingness, — and it is hardly worth while taking the trouble to breathe the murderous air!”
He spoke with a kind of passion — his eyes were luminous — his face transfigured with an almost superhuman glow, and we all looked at him in something of amazement.
Mr. Harland fidgeted uneasily in his chair.
“You go too far!” he said— “Life is agreeable as long as it lasts—”
“Have you found it so?” Santoris interrupted him. “Has it not, even in your pursuit and attainment of wealth, brought you more pain than pleasure? Number up all the possibilities of life, from the existence of the labourer in his hut to that of the king on his throne, they are none of them worth striving for or keeping if death is the ultimate end. Ambition is merest folly, — wealth a temporary possession of perishable goods which must pass to others, — fame a brief noise of one’s name in mouths that will soon be dumb, — and love, sex-attraction only. What a treacherous and criminal act, then, is this Creation of Universes! — what mad folly! — what sheer, blind, reasonless wickedness!”
There was a silence. His eyes flashed from one to the other of us.
“Can you deny it?” he demanded. “Can you find any sane, logical reason for the continuance of life which is to end in utter extinction, or for the creation of worlds doomed to eternal destruction?”
No one spoke.
“You have no answer ready,” he said — and smiled— “Naturally! For an answer is impossible! And here you have the key to what you consider my mystery — the mystery of keeping young instead of growing old — the secret of living instead of dying! It is simply the conscious PRACTICAL realisation that there is no Death, but only Change. That is the first part of the process. Change, or transmutation and transformation of the atoms and elements of which we are composed, is going on for ever without a second’s cessation, — it began when we were born and before we were born — and the art of LIVING YOUNG consists simply in using one’s soul and will-power to guide this process of change towards the ends we desire, instead of leaving it to blind chance and to the association with inimical influences, which interfere with our best actions. For example — I — a man in sound health and condition — realise that with every moment SOME change is working in me towards SOME end. It rests entirely with myself as to whether the change shall be towards continuance of health or towards admission of disease — towards continuance of youth or towards the encouragement of age, — towards life as it presents itself to me now, or towards some other phase of life as I perceive it in the future. I can advance or retard myself as I please — the proper management of Myself being my business. If I should suffer pain or illness I am very sure it will be chiefly through my own fault — if I invite decay and decrepitude, it will be because I allow these forces to encroach upon my well-being — in fact, briefly — I AM what I WILL to be! — and all the laws that brought me into existence support me in this attitude of mind, body and spirit!”
“If we could all become what we WOULD be,” said Dr. Brayle, “we should attain the millennium!”
“Are you sure of that?” queried Santoris. “Would it not rather depend on the particular choice each one of us might make? You, for example, might wish to be something that would hardly tend to your happiness, — and your wish being obtained you might become what (if you had only realised it) you would give worlds not to be! Some men desire to be thieves — even murderers — and become so — but the end of their desires is not perhaps what they imagined!”
“Can you read people’s thoughts?” asked Catherine, suddenly.
Santoris looked amused. He replied by a counter question.
“Would you be sorry if I could?”
She flushed a little. I smiled, knowing what was in her mind.
“It would be a most unpleasant accomplishment — that of reading the thoughts of others,” said Mr. Harland; “I would rather not cultivate it.” “But Mr. Santoris almost implies that he possesses it,” said Dr. Brayle, with a touch of irritation in his manner; “And, after all, ‘thought-reading’ is a kind of society amusement nowadays. There is nothing very difficult in it.”
“Nothing, indeed!” agreed Santoris, lightly; “And being as easy as it is, why do you not show us at once that antique piece of jewellery you have in your pocket! You brought it with you this evening to show to me and ask my opinion of its value, did you not?”
Brayle’s eyes opened in utter amazement. If ever a man was taken completely by surprise, he was.
“How did you know?” he began, stammeringly, while Mr. Harland, equally astonished, stared at him through his round spectacles as though challenging some defiance.
Santoris laughed.
“Thought-reading is only a society amusement, as you have just observed,” he said— “And I have been amusing myself with it for the last few minutes. Come! — let us see your treasure!”
Dr. Brayle was thoroughly embarrassed, — but he tried to cover his confusion by an awkward laugh.
“Well, you have made a very clever hit!” he said— “Quite a random shot, of course — which by mere coincidence went to its mark! It’s quite true I have brought with me a curious piece of jewel-work which I always carry about wherever I go — and something moved me to-night to ask your opinion of its value, as well as to place its period. It is old Italian; but even experts are not agreed as to its exact date.”
He put his hand in his breast pocket and dr
ew out a small silk bag from which he took with great care a collar of jewels, designed in a kind of chain-work which made it perfectly flexible. He laid it out on the table, — and I bit my lip hard to suppress an involuntary exclamation. For I had seen the thing before — and for the immediate moment could not realise where, till a sudden flash of light through the cells of my brain reminded me of that scene of love and death in the vision of the artist’s studio when the name ‘Cosmo de Medicis’ had been whispered like an evil omen. The murderer in that dream-picture had worn a collar of jewels precisely similar to the one I now saw; but I could only keep silence and listen with every nerve strained to utmost attention while Santoris took the ornament in his hand and looked at it with an intent earnestness in which there was almost a touch of compassion.
“A beautiful piece of workmanship,” he said, at last, slowly, while Mr. Harland, Catherine, and Swinton the secretary all drew up closer to him at the table and leaned eagerly forward— “And I should say” — here he raised his eyes and looked full at the dark, brooding, sinister face of Brayle— “I should say that it belonged to the Medici period. It must have been part of the dress of a nobleman of that time — the design seems to me to be Florentine. Perhaps if these jewels could speak they might tell a strange story! — they are unhappy stones!”
“Unhappy!” exclaimed Catherine— “You mean unlucky?”
“No! — there is no such thing as luck,” answered Santoris, quietly, turning the collar over and over in his hands— “Not for either jewels or men! But there IS unhappiness, — and unhappiness simply means life being put to wrong uses. I call these gems ‘unhappy’ because they have been wrongfully used. A precious stone is a living thing — it absorbs influences as the earth absorbs light, and these jewels have absorbed some sense of evil that renders them less beautiful than they might be. These diamonds and rubies, these emeralds and sapphires, have not the full lustre of their own true nature, — they are in the condition of pining flowers. It will take centuries before they resume their natural brilliancy. There is some tragedy hidden among them.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 776