Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “I’m afraid you have imbibed some of my cynicism,” he said, slowly. “It is perhaps, a pity! For now, when you have come to think love a ‘delusion,’ you will be greatly loved! It is always the way! If you have nothing to give to men, it is then they clamour for everything!”

  He looked at her as he spoke and saw her smile — a cruel little smile.

  “You are lovely now,” he went on,” and you will be lovelier. For all I can tell, you may attain an almost maddening beauty. And a sexless beauty is like that of a goddess, — slaying its votaries as with lightning. Supposing this to be so with you, you should learn to love! — if only out of pity for those whom your indifference might destroy!”

  She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him curiously. The pale light showed his dark, inscrutable face, and the glitter of the steely eyes under the black lashes, and there was a shadow of melancholy upon his features.

  “You forget!” she said—” You forget that I am old! I am not really young in the sense you expect me to be. I know myself. Deep in my brain the marks of lonely years and griefs are imprinted — of disappointed hopes, and cruelties inflicted on me for no other cause than too much love and constancy — those marks are ineffaceable! So it happens that beneath the covering of youth which your science gives me, and under the mark of this outward loveliness, I, the same Diana, live with a world’s experience, as one in prison, — knowing that whatever admiration or liking I may awaken, it is for my outward seeming, not for my real self! And you can talk of love! Love is a divinity of the soul, not of the body!”

  “And how many human beings have ‘soul,’ do you think? “he queried, ironically. “Not one in ten million!”

  The boat ran in to shore and they landed. Diana looked back wistfully at the rippling silver gleam on the water.

  “It was a beautiful sail!” she said, more naturally than she had expressed herself for many days. “Thank you for taking me!”

  She smiled frankly up into his eyes as she spoke, and her spiritualized loveliness thrilled him with sudden surprise.

  “It is I who must thank you for coming,” he answered, very gently. “I know how keenly you are now attuned to Nature — you have the light of the sun in your blood and the force of the air in your veins, and whether you admit it or not, you enjoy your life without consciousness of joy! Strange! — but true! — yet — Diana — believe me, I want you to be happy! — not only to ‘suppose’ yourself happy! Your whole being must radiate like the sunlight, of which it is now in part composed.”

  She made no reply, but walked in her floating, graceful way beside him to the house, where he took her to the door of her own apartments, and there left her with a kindly “good-night.”

  “I shall not see very much of you now till the evening of the twentieth,” he said. “And then I hope you will not only pray for yourself, but — for me!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE fated eve, — eve of the longest day in the year, — came in a soft splendour of misty violet skies and dimly glittering stars — after lovely hours of light and warmth which had bathed all nature in radiant summer glory from earliest dawn till sunset.; Diana had risen with the sun itself in the brightest of humours without any forebodings of evil or danger resulting from the trial to which she was ready to be subjected, and when Madame Dimitrius came up to spend the afternoon with her as usual, she was gayer and more conversational than she had been for many a day. It was Madame who seemed depressed and anxious, and Diana, looking quite charming in her simple gown of white batiste with a bunch of heliotrope at her bosom, rather rallied her on her low spirits.

  “Ah, my dear!” sighed the old lady—” If I could only understand Féodor! — but I cannot! He does not seem to be my son — he grows harsh and impatient, — this wicked science of his has robbed him of nature! He is altogether unlike what he used to be when he first began these studies — and to-day the reason I am sad is that he tells me I am not to come to you any more till the afternoon of the twenty-fifth! — five days! — it seems so strange! It frightens me—”

  “Dear, why be frightened?” and Diana smiled encouragingly. “You know now what he is trying to do — and you can see for yourself that he has partially succeeded! I’m quite pleased to hear that you are coming to see me again in five days! — that shows he thinks I shall be alive to receive you!”

  Madame Dimitrius looked at her in a scared way.

  “Alive? But of course! Surely, oh, surely, you have never thought it possible—”

  “That Science may kill me?” Diana finished, carelessly. “Very naturally I have thought it possible! Science sometimes kills more than it saves, — owing to our fumbling ignorance. And I wonder — supposing Dr. Féodor makes sure of his discovery — supposing he can give youth and beauty to those who are willing to go through his experiment — I wonder whether it is worth while to possess these attractions without any emotional satisfaction?”

  “Then you are not satisfied?” asked Madame a little sorrowfully. “You are not happy?”

  Diana moved to the open window, and with an expressive gesture, pointed to the fair landscape of lake and mountain.

  “With this I am happy!” she answered. “With this I am satisfied! I feel that all this is part of Me! — it is one with me and I with it — my own blood cannot be closer to me than this air and light. But the pleasure a woman is supposed to take in her looks if she is beautiful, — the delight in pretty things for one’s self, — this does not touch me. I have lost all such sensations. When I was a girl I rather liked to look at myself in the glass, — to try contrasts of colour or wear a dainty jewelled trinket, — but now when I see in the mirror a lovely face that does not belong to me, I am not even interested!”

  “But, my dear Diana, the lovely face does belong to you!” exclaimed Madame Dimitrius, “You are yourself, and no other!”

  Diana looked at her rather wistfully.

  “I am not so sure of that!” she said. “Now please don’t think I am losing my senses, for I’m not! I’m perfectly sane, and my thoughts are particularly clear. But Science is a terrible thing! — it is a realization more or less of the Egyptian Sphinx — a sort of monster with the face of a spirit and the body of an animal. Science, dear Madame — please don’t look so frightened — has lately taught men more about killing each other than curing! It also tells us that nothing is or can be lost; all sights and sounds are garnered up in the treasure-houses of air and space. The forms and faces of human creatures long dead are about us, — the aura of their personalities remains though their bodies have perished. Now I feel just as if I had unconsciously absorbed somebody else’s outward personality — and here I am, making use of it as a sort of cover to my own. My own interior self admires my outward appearance without any closer connection than that felt by anyone looking at a picture. I live within the picture — and no one seeing the picture could think it was me!”

  Poor Madame Dimitrius listened to Diana’s strange analysis of herself with feelings of mingled bewilderment and terror. In her own mind she began to be convinced that her son’s” experiment” would destroy his “subject’s” mentality.

  “It seems all very dreadful!” she murmured, tremblingly. “And I think, dear Diana, you should say something of this to Féodor. For I am afraid he is making you suffer, and that you are unhappy.”

  “No, — that is not so,” and Diana smiled reassuringly. “I do not suffer — I have forgotten what suffering is like! And I am not unhappy, because what is called ‘happiness’ has no special meaning for me? I exist — that is all! I am conscious of the principal things of existence — air, light, movement — these keep me living without any real effort or desire on my own part to live!”

  She spoke in a dreamy way, with a far-off look in her eyes, — then, perceiving that Madame Dimitrius looked nervously distressed, she brought herself back from her dreamland as it were with an effort, and went on:

  “You must not worry about me in the least, dear
Madame! After all, it may be an excellent thing for me that I appear to have done with emotions! One has only to think how people constantly distress themselves for nothing! People who imagine themselves in love, for instance! — how they torment themselves night and day! — if they fail to get letters from each other! — if they quarrel! — if they think themselves neglected! — why, it is a perpetual turbulence! Then the parents who spend all their time looking after their children! — and the children grow up and go their own way, — they grow from pretty little angels into great awkward men and women, and it is as if one had played with charming dolls, and then saw them suddenly changed into clothes-props! Well, I am free from all these tiresome trivialities — I have what I think the gods must have, — Indifference!”

  Madame Dimitrius sighed.

  “Ah, Diana, it is a pity you were never made a happy wife and mother!” she said, softly.

  “I thought so too, — once!” and Diana laughed carelessly—” But I’m sure I’m much better off as I am! Now, dear, we’ll part for the present. I want to rest a little — and to say my prayers — before Dr. Féodor sends for me.”

  Madame at once rose to leave the room. But, before doing so, she took Diana in her arms and kissed her tenderly.

  “God bless and guard thee, dear child!” she murmured.” Thou art brave and loyal, and I have grown to love thee! If Féodor should bring thee to harm, he is no son of mine!”

  For a moment the solitary-hearted, unloved woman felt a thrill of pleasure in this simple expression of affection, — the real sensation of youth filled her veins, as if she were a confiding girl with her mother’s arms about her, and something like tears sprang to her eyes. But she suppressed the emotion quickly. Smiling and apparently unmoved, she let the gentle old lady go from her, and watched her to the last as she moved with the careful step of age along the entresol and out through the entrance to the head of the staircase, where she disappeared. Once alone, Diana stood for a few moments lost in thought. She knew instinctively that her life was at stake, — Dimitrius had reached the final test of his mysterious dealings with the innermost secrets of Nature, and he had passed the “problem of the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh,” which according to his theories, meant certain refractions and comminglings of light. Now he had arrived at “the ultimate culmination of the Eighth,” or, as he described it “the close or the rebound of the Octave,” — and in this “rebound” or “culmination” his subject, Diana, was to take part as a mote within a sun-ray. She did not disguise from herself the danger in which she stood, — but she had thought out every argument for and against the ordeal which she had voluntarily accepted. She measured the value of her life from each standpoint and found it nil, except in so far as her love for natural beauty was concerned. She would be sorry, she said inwardly, to leave the trees, the flowers, the birds, the beautiful things of sky and sea, but she would not be sorry at all to see the last of human beings! With all her indifference, which even to her own consciousness, enshrined her as within barriers of ice, her memory was keen, — she looked back to the few months of distance and time which separated her from the old life of the dutiful daughter to inconsiderate and selfish parents — and beyond that, she went still further and saw herself as a young girl full of hope and joy, given up heart and soul to the illusion of love, from which she was torn by the rough hand of the very man to whom she had consecrated her every thought. In all this there was nothing enviable or regrettable that she should now be sorry or afraid to die — and in her life to come — if she lived — what would there be? Her eyes turned almost without her own consent towards the mirror — and there she read the answer. She would possess the power to rule and sway the hearts of all men, — if she cared! But now it had so happened that she did not care. Smouldering in her soul like the last spent ashes of a once fierce fire, there was just one passion left — the strong desire of vengeance on all the forces that had spoilt and embittered her natural woman’s life. She was no longer capable of loving, but she knew she could hate! A woman seldom loves deeply and truly more than once in her life — she stakes her all on the one chance and hope of happiness, and the man who takes advantage of that love and ruthlessly betrays it may well beware. His every moment of existence is fraught with danger, for there is no destructive power more active and intense than love transformed to hate through falsehood and injustice. And Diana admitted to herself, albeit reluctantly, that she could hate deeply and purposefully. She hated herself for the fact that it was so, — but she was too honest not to acknowledge it. Her spirit had been wounded and maltreated by all on whom she had set her affections, — and as her way of life had been innocent and harmless, she resented the unfairness of her fate. Wrong or right, she longed to retaliate in some way on the petty slights, the meannesses, the hypocrisies and neglect of those who had assisted in spoiling her youth and misjudging her character, and though she was willing to “love her enemies” in a broad and general sense, she was not ready to condone the easy callousness and cruelty of the persons and circumstances which had robbed her of the natural satisfaction and peace of happy womanhood.

  For a long time she sat at the open window, lost in a reverie — till she saw the sun beginning to sink in a splendid panoply of crimson and gold, with streaming clouds of fleecy white and pale amber spreading from east to west, from north to south, like the unfurling flags of some great fairy’s victorious army, and then a sudden thrill ran through! her blood which made her heart beat and her face grow pale — it was close upon the destined hour when — ah! — she would not stop to think of the “when” or the “where” — instinctively she knelt down, and with folded hands said her prayers simply as a child, though with more than a child’s’ fervour. She had scarcely breathed the last “Amen,” when a light tap came to her door, and on her calling “Come in” — Vasho entered, carrying a small parcel with a note from Dimitrius. Handing it to her, he signified by his usual expressive signs that he would wait outside for the answer. As soon as he had retired, she opened the note and read as follows:

  “You will please disrobe yourself completely, and wear only this garment which I send. No other material must touch any part of your body. Let your hair be undone and quite free — no hairpins must remain in it, and no metal of any sort must be upon your person, — no ring, bracelet, or anything whatsoever. When you are ready, Vasho will bring you to me in the laboratory.”

  Having mastered these instructions she undid the packet which accompanied them, — and unfolded a plain, long, white robe of the most exquisitely beautiful texture, woven apparently of many double strands of silk. It was perfectly opaque — not the slightest glimmer of the light itself could be seen through it, yet it shone with a curious luminance as though it had been dipped in frosted silver. For a moment she hesitated. A tremor of natural dread shook her nerves, — then, with a determined effort, mastering herself, she hurried into her bedroom, and there undressing, laid all her clothes neatly folded up on the bed. The action reminded her of the way she had folded up her clothes with similar neatness and left them on the rocks above the sea on the morning she had decided to effect a lasting disappearance by “drowning.”

  “And now she thought—” Now comes a far greater plunge into the unknown than ever I could have imagined possible!”

  In a few minutes she was “attired for the, sacrifice,” as she said, addressing these words to herself in the mirror, and a very fair victim she looked. The strange, white sheeny garment in which she was clothed from neck to feet gave her the appearance of an angel in a picture, — and the youthful outline of her face, the delicacy of her skin, the deep brilliancy of her eyes, all set off against a background of glorious amber-brown hair, which rippled in plentiful waves over her shoulders and far below her waist, made her look more of a vision than a reality.

  “Good-bye, you poor, lonely Diana!” she said, softly. “If you never come back I am glad I saw you just like this — for once!”

  She kissed her hand to her own r
eflection, then turned and went swiftly through the rooms, not looking back. Vasho, waiting for her in the outer hall, could not altogether disguise his wonderment at sight of her, — but he saluted in his usual passively humble Eastern manner, and led the way, signing to her to follow. The house was very quiet, — they met no one, and very soon arrived at the ponderous door of the laboratory, which swung noiselessly upwards to give them entrance. Within, there seemed to be a glowing furnace of fire; the great Wheel emitted such ceaseless and brilliant showers of flame in its rotations that the whole place was filled with light that almost blinded the eyes, and Diana could scarcely see Dimitrius, when, like a black speck detaching itself from the surrounding sea of crimson vapour, he advanced to meet her. He was exceedingly pale, and his eyes were feverishly brilliant.

  “So you have come!” he said. “I am such a sceptic that at this last moment I doubted whether you would!”

  She looked at him steadfastly, but answered nothing.

  “You are brave — you are magnificent!” he went on, his voice sinking to a lower tone—” But, Diana — I want you to say one thing before I enter on this final task — and that is—’ I forgive you!’”

  “I will say it if you like,” she answered. “But why should I? I have nothing to forgive!”

  “Ah, you will not see, — you cannot understand—”

  “I see and understand perfectly!” she said, quickly. “But, if I live, my life remains my own — it I die, it will be your affair — but there can be no cause for grudge either way!”

  “Diana,” he repeated, earnestly—” Say just this — Féodor, I forgive you!’”

  She smiled — a strange little smile of pity and pride commingled, and stretched out both hands to him. To her surprise he knelt before her and kissed them.