Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Ce cher Cellini!” the cheery and pleasant little woman had exclaimed, as she set before me a deliciously prepared breakfast. “Je l’aime tant! Il a si bon coeur! et ses beaux yeux! Mon Dieu, comme un ange!”

  As soon as I had settled the various little details respecting my room and attendance, and had changed my travelling-dress for a quiet visiting toilette, I started for the abode of Heliobas.

  The weather was very cold; I had left the summer behind me at Cannes, to find winter reigning supreme in Paris. A bitter east wind blew, and a few flakes of snow fell now and then from the frowning sky. The house to which I betook myself was situated at a commanding corner of a road facing the Champs Elysees. It was a noble-looking building. The broad steps leading to the entrance were guarded on either side by a sculptured Sphinx, each of whom held, in its massive stone paws, a plain shield, inscribed with the old Roman greeting to strangers, “Salve!” Over the portico was designed a scroll which bore the name “Hotel Mars” in clearly cut capitals, and the monogram “C. H.”

  I ascended the steps with some hesitation, and twice I extended my hand towards the bell, desiring yet fearing to awaken its summons. I noticed it was an electric bell, not needing to be pulled but pressed; and at last, after many doubts and anxious suppositions, I very gently laid my fingers on the little button which formed its handle. Scarcely had I done this than the great door slid open rapidly without the least noise. I looked for the servant in attendance — there was none. I paused an instant; the door remained invitingly open, and through it I caught a glimpse of flowers. Resolving to be bold, and to hesitate no longer, I entered. As I crossed the threshold, the door closed behind me instantly with its previous swiftness and silence.

  I found myself in a spacious hall, light and lofty, surrounded with fluted pillars of white marble. In the centre a fountain bubbled melodiously, and tossed up every now and then a high jet of sparkling spray, while round its basin grew the rarest ferns and exotics, which emitted a subtle and delicate perfume. No cold air penetrated here; it was as warm and balmy as a spring day in Southern Italy. Light Indian bamboo chairs provided with luxurious velvet cushions were placed in various corners between the marble columns, and on one of these I seated myself to rest a minute, wondering what I should do next, and whether anyone would come to ask me the cause of my intrusion. My meditations were soon put to flight by the appearance of a young lad, who crossed the hall from the left-hand side and approached me. He was a handsome boy of twelve or thirteen years of age, and he was attired in a simple Greek costume of white linen, relieved with a broad crimson silk sash. A small flat crimson cap rested on his thick black curls; this he lifted with deferential grace, and, saluting me, said respectfully:

  “My master is ready to receive you, mademoiselle.”

  I rose without a word and followed him, scarcely permitting myself to speculate as to how his master knew I was there at all.

  The hall was soon traversed, and the lad paused before a magnificent curtain of deep crimson velvet, heavily bordered with gold. Pulling a twisted cord that hung beside it, the heavy, regal folds parted in twain with noiseless regularity, and displayed an octagon room, so exquisitely designed and ornamented that I gazed upon it as upon some rare and beautiful picture. It was unoccupied, and my young escort placed a chair for me near the central window, informing me as he did so that “Monsieur le Comte” would be with me instantly; whereupon he departed.

  Left alone, I gazed in bewilderment at the loveliness round me. The walls and ceiling were painted in fresco. I could not make out the subjects, but I could see faces of surpassing beauty smiling from clouds, and peering between stars and crescents. The furniture appeared to be of very ancient Arabian design; each chair was a perfect masterpiece of wood-carving, picked out and inlaid with gold. The sight of a semi-grand piano, which stood open, brought me back to the realization that I was living in modern times, and not in a dream of the Arabian Nights; while the Paris Figaro and the London Times — both of that day’s issue — lying on a side-table, demonstrated the nineteenth century to me with every possible clearness. There were flowers everywhere in this apartment — in graceful vases and in gilded osier baskets — and a queer lop-sided Oriental jar stood quite near me, filled almost to overflowing with Neapolitan violets. Yet it was winter in Paris, and flowers were rare and costly.

  Looking about me, I perceived an excellent cabinet photograph of Raffaello Cellini, framed in antique silver; and I rose to examine it more closely, as being the face of a friend. While I looked at it, I heard the sound of an organ in the distance playing softly an old familiar church chant. I listened. Suddenly I bethought myself of the three dreams that had visited me, and a kind of nervous dread came upon me. This Heliobas, — was I right after all in coming to consult him? Was he not perhaps a mere charlatan? and might not his experiments upon me prove fruitless, and possibly fatal? An idea seized me that I would escape while there was yet time. Yes! ... I would not see him to-day, at any rate; I would write and explain. These and other disjointed thoughts crossed my mind; and yielding to the unreasoning impulse of fear that possessed me, I actually turned to leave the room, when I saw the crimson velvet portiere dividing again in its regular and graceful folds, and Heliobas himself entered.

  I stood mute and motionless. I knew him well; he was the very man I had seen in my third and last dream; the same noble, calm features; the same commanding presence; the same keen, clear eyes; the same compelling smile. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance except his stately bearing and handsome countenance; his dress was that of any well-to-do gentleman of the present day, and there was no affectation of mystery in his manner. He advanced and bowed courteously; then, with a friendly look, held out his hand. I gave him mine at once.

  “So you are the young musician?” he said, in those warm mellifluous accents that I had heard before and that I so well remembered. “My friend Raffaello Cellini has written to me about you. I hear you have been suffering from physical depression?”

  He spoke as any physician might do who inquired after a patient’s health. I was surprised and relieved. I had prepared myself for something darkly mystical, almost cabalistic; but there was nothing unusual in the demeanour of this pleasant and good-looking gentleman who, bidding me be seated, took a chair himself opposite to me, and observed me with that sympathetic and kindly interest which any well-bred doctor would esteem it his duty to exhibit. I became quite at ease, and answered all his questions fully and frankly. He felt my pulse in the customary way, and studied my face attentively. I described all my symptoms, and he listened with the utmost patience. When I had concluded, he leaned back in his chair and appeared to ponder deeply for some moments. Then he spoke.

  “You know, of course, that I am not a doctor?”

  “I know,” I said; “Signer Cellini explained to me.”

  “Ah!” and Heliobas smiled. “Raffaello explained as much as he might; but not everything. I must tell you I have a simple pharmacopoeia of my own — it contains twelve remedies, and only twelve. In fact there me no more that are of any use to the human mechanism. All are made of the juice of plants, and six of them are electric. Raffaello tried you with one of them, did he not?”

  As he put this question, I was aware of a keenly inquiring look sent from the eyes of my interrogator into mine.

  “Yes,” I answered frankly, “and it made me dream, and I dreamt of YOU.”

  Heliobas laughed lightly.

  “So! — that is well. Now I am going in the first place to give you what I am sure will be satisfactory information. If you agree to trust yourself to my care, you will be in perfect health in a little less than a fortnight — but you must follow my rules exactly.”

  I started up from my seat.

  “Of course!” I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting all my previous fear of him; “I will do all you advise, even if you wish to magnetize me as you magnetized Signor Cellini!”

  “I never MAGNETIZED Raffaello,” he
said gravely; “he was on the verge of madness, and he had no faith whereby to save himself. I simply set him free for a time, knowing that his was a genius which would find out things for itself or perish in the effort. I let him go on a voyage of discovery, and he came back perfectly satisfied. That is all. You do not need his experience.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “You are a woman — your desire is to be well and strong, health being beauty — to love and to be beloved — to wear pretty toilettes and to be admired; and you have a creed which satisfies you, and which you believe in without proofs.”

  There was the slightest possible tinge of mockery in his voice as he said these words. A tumultuous rush of feelings overcame me. My high dreams of ambition, my innate scorn of the trite and commonplace, my deep love of art, my desires of fame — all these things bore down upon my heart and overcame it, and a pride too deep for tears arose in me and found utterance.

  “You think I am so slight and weak a thing!” I exclaimed. “YOU, who profess to understand the secrets of electricity — you have no better instinctive knowledge of me than that! Do you deem women all alike — all on one common level, fit for nothing but to be the toys or drudges of men? Can you not realize that there are some among them who despise the inanities of everyday life — who care nothing for the routine of society, and whose hearts are filled with cravings that no mere human love or life can satisfy? Yes — even weak women are capable of greatness; and if we do sometimes dream of what we cannot accomplish through lack of the physical force necessary for large achievements, that is not our fault but our misfortune. We did not create ourselves. We did not ask to be born with the over-sensitiveness, the fatal delicacy, the highly-strung nervousness of the feminine nature. Monsieur Heliobas, you are a learned and far-seeing man, I have no doubt; but you do not read me aright if you judge me as a mere woman who is perfectly contented with the petty commonplaces of ordinary living. And as for my creed, what is it to you whether I kneel in the silence of my own room or in the glory of a lighted cathedral to pour out my very soul to ONE whom I know exists, and whom I am satisfied to believe in, as you say, without proofs, save such proofs as I obtain from my own inner consciousness? I tell you, though, in your opinion it is evident my sex is against me, I would rather die than sink into the miserable nonentity of such lives as are lived by the majority of women.”

  I paused, overcome by my own feelings. Heliobas smiled.

  “So! You are stung!” he said quietly; “stung into action. That is as it should be. Resume your seat, mademoiselle, and do not be angry with me. I am studying you for your own good. In the meantime permit me to analyze your words a little. You are young and inexperienced. You speak of the ‘over-sensitiveness, the fatal delicacy, the highly-strung nervousness of the feminine nature.’ My dear lady, if you had lived as long as I have, you would know that these are mere stock phrases — for the most part meaningless. As a rule, women are less sensitive than men. There are many of your sex who are nothing but lumps of lymph and fatty matter — women with less instinct than the dumb beasts, and with more brutality. There are others who, — adding the low cunning of the monkey to the vanity of the peacock, — seek no other object but the furtherance of their own designs, which are always petty even when not absolutely mean. There are obese women whose existence is a doze between dinner and tea. There are women with thin lips and pointed noses, who only live to squabble over domestic grievances and interfere in their neighbours’ business. There are your murderous women with large almond eyes, fair white hands, and voluptuous red lips, who, deprived of the dagger or the poison-bowl, will slay a reputation in a few lazily enunciated words, delivered with a perfectly high-bred accent. There are the miserly woman, who look after cheese-parings and candle-ends, and lock up the soap. There are the spiteful women whose very breath is acidity and venom. There are the frivolous women whose chitter-chatter and senseless giggle are as empty as the rattling of dry peas on a drum. In fact, the delicacy of women is extremely overrated — their coarseness is never done full justice to. I have heard them recite in public selections of a kind that no man would dare to undertake — such as Tennyson’s ‘Rizpah,’ for instance. I know a woman who utters every line of it, with all its questionable allusions, boldly before any and everybody, without so much as an attempt at blushing. I assure you men are far more delicate than women — far more chivalrous — far larger in their views, and more generous in their sentiments. But I will not deny the existence of about four women in every two hundred and fifty, who may be, and possibly are, examples of what the female sex was originally intended to be — pure-hearted, self-denying, gentle and truthful — filled with tenderness and inspiration. Heaven knows my own mother was all this and more! And my sister is — . But let me speak to you of yourself. You love music, I understand — you are a professional artist?”

  “I was,” I answered, “till my state of health stopped me from working.”

  Heliobas bent his eyes upon me in friendly sympathy.

  “You were, and you will be again, an improvisatrice” he went on. “Do you not find it difficult to make your audiences understand your aims?”

  I smiled as the remembrance of some of my experiences in public came to my mind.

  “Yes,” I said, half laughing. “In England, at least, people do not know what is meant by IMPROVISING. They think it is to take a little theme and compose variations on it — the mere ABC of the art. But to sit down to the piano and plan a whole sonata or symphony in your head, and play it while planning it, is a thing they do not and will not understand. They come to hear, and they wonder and go away, and the critics declare it to be CLAP-TRAP.”

  “Exactly!” replied Heliobas. “But you are to be congratulated on having attained this verdict. Everything that people cannot quite understand is called CLAP-TRAP in England; as for instance the matchless violin-playing of Sarasate; the tempestuous splendor of Rubinstein; the wailing throb of passion in Hollmann’s violoncello — this is, according to the London press, CLAP-TRAP; while the coldly correct performances of Joachim and the ‘icily-null’ renderings of Charles Halle are voted ‘magnificent’ and ‘full of colour.’ But to return to yourself. Will you play to me?”

  “I have not touched the instrument for two months,” I said; “I am afraid I am out of practice.”

  “Then you shall not exert yourself to-day,” returned Heliobas kindly. “But I believe I can help you with your improvisations. You compose the music as you play, you tell me. Well, have you any idea how the melodies or the harmonies form themselves in your brain?”

  “Not the least in the world,” I replied.

  “Is the act of thinking them out an effort to you?” he asked.

  “Not at all. They come as though someone else were planning them for me.”

  “Well, well! I think I can certainly be of use to you in this matter as in others. I understand your temperament thoroughly. And now let me give you my first prescription.”

  He went to a corner of the room and lifted from the floor an ebony casket, curiously carved and ornamented with silver. This he unlocked. It contained twelve flasks of cut glass, stoppered with gold and numbered in order. He next pulled out a side drawer in this casket, and in it I saw several little thin empty glass tubes, about the size of a cigarette-holder. Taking two of these he filled them from two of the larger flasks, corked them tightly, and then turning to me, said:

  “To-night, on going to bed, have a warm bath, empty the contents of the tube marked No. 1 into it, and then immerse yourself thoroughly for about five minutes. After the bath, put the fluid in this other tube marked 2, into a tumbler of fresh spring water, and drink it off. Then go straight to bed.”

  “Shall I have any dreams?” I inquired with a little anxiety.

  “Certainly not,” replied Heliobas, smiling. “I wish you to sleep as soundly as a year-old child. Dreams are not for you to-night. Can you come to me tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock? If you can arr
ange to stay to dinner, my sister will be pleased to meet you; but perhaps you are otherwise engaged?”

  I told him I was not, and explained where I had taken rooms, adding that I had come to Paris expressly to put myself under his treatment.

  “You shall have no cause to regret this journey,” he said earnestly. “I can cure you thoroughly, and I will. I forget your nationality — you are not English?”

  “No, not entirely. I am half Italian.”

  “Ah, yes! I remember now. But you have been educated in England?”

  “Partly.”

  “I am glad it is only partly,” remarked Heliobas. “If it had been entirely, your improvisations would have had no chance. In fact you never would have improvised. You would have played the piano like poor mechanical Arabella Goddard. As it is, there is some hope of originality in you — you need not be one of the rank and file unless you choose.”

  “I do not choose,” I said.

  “Well, but you must take the consequences, and they are bitter. A woman who does not go with her time is voted eccentric; a woman who prefers music to tea and scandal is an undesirable acquaintance; and a woman who prefers Byron to Austin Dobson is — in fact, no measure can gauge her general impossibility!” I laughed gaily. “I will take all the consequences as willingly as I will take your medicines,” I said, stretching out my hand for the little vases which he gave me wrapped in paper. “And I thank you very much, monsieur. And” — here I hesitated. Ought I not to ask him his fee? Surely the medicines ought to be paid for?

  Heliobas appeared to read my thoughts, for he said, as though answering my unuttered question:

  “I do not accept fees, mademoiselle. To relieve your mind from any responsibility of gratitude to me, I will tell you at once that I never promise to effect a cure unless I see that the person who comes to be cured has a certain connection with myself. If the connection exists I am bound by fixed laws to serve him or her. Of course I am able also to cure those who are NOT by nature connected with me; but then I have to ESTABLISH a connection, and this takes time, and is sometimes very difficult to accomplish, almost as tremendous a task as the laying down of the Atlantic cable. But in your case I am actually COMPELLED to do my best for you, so you need be under no sense of obligation.”