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

by Marie Corelli

  “Pardon me!” he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own words; “I fancy, — I think, — we have met, — before! May I, . . dare I, . . ask your name?”

  Slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly, she lifted her bent head, and smiled at him! Oh, the lovely light upon her face! Oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!

  “My name is EDRIS!” — she said, and as the pure bell-like tone of her voice smote the air with its silvery sound, the mysterious music of the organ and the invisible singers throbbed away, — away, — away, — into softer and softer echoes, that died at last tremulously and with a sigh, as of farewell, into the deepest silence.

  “EDRIS!” — In a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her hand, — the warm, delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in submissive tenderness, — pulsations of terror, pain, and wild joy, all commingled, rushed through him, — with adoring, wistful gaze he scanned every feature of that love-smiling countenance, — a countenance no longer lustrous with Heaven’s blinding glory, but only most maiden-like and innocently fair, — dazzled, perplexed, and half afraid, he could not at once grasp the true comprehension of his ineffable delight! He had no doubt of her identity — he knew her well! she was his own heartworshipped Angel, — but on what errand had she wandered out of paradise? Had she come once more, as on the Field of Ardath, to comfort him for a brief space with the beauty of her visible existence, or did she bring from Heaven the warrant for his death?

  “Edris!” he said, as softly as one may murmur a prayer, “Edris, my life, my love! Speak to me again! make me sure that I am not dreaming! Tell me where I have failed in my sworn faith since we parted; teach me how I must still further atone! Is this the hour appointed for my spirit’s ransom? — has this dear and sacred hand I hold, brought me my quittance of earth? — and have I so soon won the privilege to die?”

  As he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the glistening light of the stained window falling royally about her, — and he obeying her mute gesture, rose also and faced her in wondering ecstasy, half expecting to see her vanish suddenly in the sun-rays that poured through the Cathedral, even as she had vanished before like a white cloud absorbed in clear space. But no! She remained quiet as a tame bird, — her eyes met his with beautiful trust and tenderness, — and when she answered him, her low, sweet accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note of HUMAN affection, as well as of angelic sympathy!

  “Theos, my Beloved, I am ALL THINE!” she said, a holy rapture vibrating through her exquisite voice.— “Thine now, in mortal life as in immortal! — one with thee in nature and condition, — pent up in perishable clay, even as thou art, — subject to sorrow, and pain, and weariness, — willing to share with thee thine earthly lot, — ready to take my part in thy grief or joy! By mine own choice have I come hither, — sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but safe in Christ! Every time thou hast renounced the desire of thine own happiness, so much the nearer hast thou drawn me to thee; every time thou hast prayed God for my peace, rather than thine own, so much the closer has my existence been linked with thine! And now, O my Poet, my lord, my king! — we are together forever more, — together in the brief Present, as in the eternal Future! — the solitary heaven-days of Edris are past, and her mission is not Death, but Love!”

  Oh, the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her face! — the splendid hope, faith, and triumph of her attitude! What strange miracle was here accomplished! — an Angel had become human for the sake of love, even as light substantiates itself in the colors of flowers! — the Eden lily had consented to be gathered, — the paradise dove had fluttered down to earth! Breathless, bewildered, lifted to a height of transport beyond all words, Alwyn gazed upon her in entranced, devout silence, — the vast cathedral seemed to swing round and round in great glittering circles, and nothing was real, nothing steadfast, but that slight, sweet maiden in her soft gray robes, with the Ardath-blossoms gleaming white against her breast! Angel she was, — angel she ever would be, — and yet — what did she SEEM? Naught but:

  “A child-like woman, wise and very fair,

  Crowned with the garland of her golden hair!”

  This, and no more, — and yet in this was all earth and all heaven comprised! — He gazed and gazed, overwhelmed by the amazement of his own bliss, — he could have gazed upon her so in speechless ravishment for hours, when, with a gesture of infinite grace and appeal, she stretched out her hands toward him:

  “Speak to me, dearest one!” she murmured wistfully— “Tell me, — am I welcome?”

  “O exquisite humility! — O beautiful maiden-timid hesitation! Was she, — even she, God’s Angel, so far removed from pride, as to be uncertain of her lover’s reception of such a gift of love? Roused from his half-swooning sense of wonder, he caught those gentle hands, and laid them tenderly against his breast, — tremblingly, and all devoutly, he drew the lovely, yielding form into his arms, close to his heart, — with dazzled sight he gazed down into that pure, perfect face, those clear and holy eyes shining like new-created stars beneath the soft cloud of clustering fair hair!

  “Welcome!” he echoed, in a tone that thrilled with passionate awe and ecstasy;— “My Edris! My Saint! My Queen! Welcome, more welcome than the first flowers seen after winter snows! — welcome, more welcome than swift rescue to one in dire peril! — welcome, my Angel, into the darkness of mortal things, which haply so sweet a Presence shall make bright! O sacred innocence that I am not worthy to shield! … O sinless beauty that I am all unfitted to claim or possess! Welcome to my life, my heart, my soul! Welcome, sweet Trust, sweet Hope, sweet Love, that as Christ lives, I will never wrong, betray, or resign again through all the glory spaces of far Eternity!”

  As he spoke, his arms closed more surely about her, — his lips met hers, — and in the mingled human and divine rapture of that moment, there came a rushing noise, as of thousands of wings beating the air, followed by a mighty wave of music that rolled approachingly and then departingly through and through the Cathedral arches — and a Voice, clear and resonant as a silver clarion, proclaimed aloud:

  “Those whom GOD hath joined together, let no MAN put asunder!”

  Then, with a surging, jubilant sound, like the sea in a storm, the music seemed to tread past in a measured march of stately harmony, — and presently there was silence once more, — the silence and sunshine of the morning pouring through the rose windows of the church and sparkling on the Cross above the Altar, — the silence of a love made perfect, — of twin souls made ONE!

  And then Edris drew herself gently from her lover’s embrace and raised her head, — putting her hand confidingly in his, a lovely smile played on her sweetly parted lips:

  “Take me, Theos,” she said softly, “Lead me, — into the World!”

  * * * * * *

  Slowly the great side-doors of the Cathedral swung back on their hinges, — and out on the steps in a glorious blaze of sunlight came Poet and Angel together. The one, a man in the full prime of splendid and vigorous manhood, — the other, a maiden, timid and sweet, robed in gray attire with a posy of white flowers at her throat. A simple girl, and most distinctly human, — the fresh, pure color reddened in her cheeks, — the soft springtide wind fanned her gold hair, and the sunbeams seemed to dance about her in a bright revel of amaze and curiosity. Her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy Platz below with a vaguely compassionate wonder — a look that suggested some far foreknowledge of things, that at the same time were strangely unfamiliar. Hand in hand with her companion she stood, — while he, holding her fast, drunk in the pureness of her beauty, the love-light of her glance, the holy radiance of her smile, till every sense in him was spiritualized anew by the passionate faith and reverence in his heart, the marvellous glory that had fallen upon his life, the nameless rapture that possessed his soul! — To have knelt at her feet, and bowed his head before her in worshipping silence, would have been to follow the strongest impulse in h
im, — but she had given him a higher duty than this. He was to “LEAD HER,” — lead her “into the world!” — the dreary, dark world, so unfitted to receive such brightness, — she had come to him clad in all the sacred weakness of womanhood; and it was his proud privilege to guard and shelter her from evil, — from the evil in others, but chiefly from the evil in himself. No taint must touch that spotless life with which God had entrusted him! — sorrow might come — nay, MUST come, since, so long as humanity errs, so long must angels grieve, — sorrow, but not sin! A grand, awed sense of responsibility filled him, — a responsibility that he accepted with passionate gratitude and joy … he had attained a vaster dignity than any king on any throne, … and all the visible Universe was transfigured into a golden pageant of loveliness and light, fairer than the fabled Valley of Avilion!

  Yet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of the mighty Dom, half-longing, half-hesitating to take her further, and ever and anon assailed by a dreamy doubt as to whether she might not even now pass away from him suddenly and swiftly, as a mist fading into heaven, — when all at once the sound of beating drums and martial trumpets struck loudly on the quiet morning air. A brilliant regiment of mounted Uhlans emerged from an opposite street, and cantered sharply across the Platz and over the Rhine-bridge, with streaming pennons, burnished helmets and accoutrements glistening in a long compact line of silvery white, that vanished as speedily as it had appeared, like a winding flash of meteor flame. Alwyn drew a deep, quick breath; the sight of those armed soldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually in the turmoil of present daily events, — that his supernal happiness was no vision, but REALITY, — that Edris, his Spirit-love, was with him in tangible human guise of flesh and blood, — though how such a mysterious marvel had been accomplished, he knew no more than scientists know how the lovely life of green leaf and perfect flower can still be existent in seeds that have lain dormant and dry in old tombs for thousands of years! And as he looked at her proudly, — adoringly, — she raised her beautiful, innocent, questioning eyes to his.

  “This is a city?” she asked— “a city of men who labor for good, and serve each other?”

  “Alas, not so, my sweet!” he answered, his voice trembling with its own infinite tenderness; “there is no city on the sad Earth where men do not labor for mere vanity’s sake, and oppose each other!”

  Her inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compassion.

  “Come, — let us go!” she said gently. “We twain, made one in love and faith, must hasten to begin our work! — darkness gathers and deepens over the Sorrowful Star, — but we, perchance, with Christ’s most holy Blessing, may help to lift the Shadows into Light!”

  * * * * * * *

  Away in a sheltered mountainous retreat, apart from the louder clamor of the world, the Poet and his heavenly companion dwell in peace together. Their love, their wondrous happiness, no mortal language can define, — for spiritual love perfected as far exceeds material passion as the steadfast glory of the sun outshines the nickering of an earthly taper. Few, very few, there are who recognize, or who attain, such joy, — for men chiefly occupy themselves with the SEMBLANCES of things, and therefore fail to grasp all high realities. Perishable beauty, — perishable fame, — these are mere appearances; imperishable Worth is the only positive and lasting good, and in the search for imperishable Worth alone, the seeker must needs encounter Angels unawares!

  But for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all spiritual life and being, the history of Theos Alwyn can be disposed of with much languid ease and cold logic, as a foolish chimera scarce worth narrating. Practically viewed, there is nothing wonderful in it, since it can all be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic skill. Tranced into a dream bewilderment by the arts of the mystic Chaldean, Heliobas, — tricked into visiting the Field of Ardath, what more likely than that a real earth-born maiden, trained to her part, should have met the dreamer there, and, with the secret aid of the hermit Elezar, continued his strange delusion? What more fitting as a sequel to the whole, than that the same maiden should have been sent to him again in the great Rhine Cathedral, to complete the deception and satisfy his imagination by linking her life finally with his? — It is a perfectly simple explanation of what some credulous souls might be inclined to consider a mystery, — and let the dear, wise, oracular people who cannot admit any mystery in anything, and who love to trace all seeming miracles to clever imposture, accept this elucidation by all means, — they will be able to fit every incident of the story into such an hypothesis, with most admirable and consecutive neatness! Al-Kyris was truly a Vision, — the rest was, — What? Merely the working of a poetic imagination under mesmeric influence!

  So be it! The Poet knows the truth, — but what are Poets? Only the Prophets and Seers! Only the Eyes of Time, which clearly behold Heaven’s Fact beyond this world’s Fable. Let them sing if they choose, and we will hear them in our idle hours, — we will give them a little of our gold, — a little of our grudging praise, together with much of our private practical contempt and misprisal! So say the unthinking and foolish — so will they ever say, — and hence it is, that though the fame of Theos Alwyn widens year by year, and his sweet clarion harp of Song rings loud warning, promise, hope, and consolation above the noisy tumult of the whirling age, people listen to him merely in vague wonderment and awe, doubting his prophet utterance, and loth to put away their sin. But he, never weary in well-doing, works on, … ever regardless of Self, caring nothing for Fame, but giving all the riches of his thought for Love. Clear, grand, pure, and musical, his writings fill the time with hope and passionate faith and courage, — his inspiration fails not, and can never fail, since Edris is his fount of ecstasy, — his name, made glorious by God’s blessing, shall never, as in his perished Past, be again forgotten!

  And what of Edris? What of the “Flower-crowned Wonder” of the Field of Ardath, strayed for a while out of her native Heaven? Does the world know her marvellous origin? Perhaps the mystic Heliobas knows, — perhaps even good Frank Villiers has hazarded a reverent guess at his friend’s great secret — but to the uninstructed, what does she seem?

  Nothing but a WOMAN, MOST PURE WOMANLY; a woman whose influence on all is strangely sweet and lasting, — whose spirit overflows with tenderest sympathy for the many wants and sorrows of mankind, — whose voice charms away care, — whose smile engenders peace, — whose eyes, lustrous and thoughtful, are unclouded by any shadow of sin, — and on whose serene beauty the passing of years leaves no visible trace. That she is fair and wise, joyous, radiant, and holy is apparent to all, — but only the Poet, her lover and lord, her subject and servant, can tell how truly his Edris is not so much sweet woman as most perfect Angel! A Dream of Heaven made human! … Let some of us hesitate ere we doubt the Miracle; for we are sleepers and dreamers all, — and the hour is close at hand when — we shall Wake.

  THE END

  Wormwood

  A DRAMA OF PARIS

  In May 1890, Corelli’s lifelong “companion,” Bertha Vyver, was freed from her demanding family responsibilities with the death of her mother, liberating Vyver from the role of carer for the first time in years. In order to rest and recuperate, Vyver, Corelli and Corelli’s brother, Eric, spent some time in Stratford-upon-Avon; it was during this summer that Wormwood, Corelli’s fifth novel, was published. The three volume European edition was published by Richard Bentley of London and there were several American editions, such as those by William Allison and Hurst & Co, both of New York; however, Corelli claimed in the preface to one edition by the National Book Company that that was the official edition and all other American editions were superfluous and may be badly proofed or even incomplete.

  Corelli’s nemesis, the satirical magazine Punch, renamed the book Germfood. However, the French language edition was entitled Absinthe and perhaps not unsurprisingly, was extremely popular there because of the setting, despite the author’s denunciation of what she saw as French dec
adence from the overuse of absinthe (a highly alcoholic, anise flavoured drink notorious for its addictive and mind-altering qualities). One wonders if the French language edition included the disparaging introductory notes with comments such as: “The morbidness of the French mind is well known and universally admitted” and of French culture, “a national taste for vice and indecent vulgarity which cannot be too sincerely and compassionately deplored”.

  The story opens in Paris one late evening, with the night time revelries in full flow. A young man is wandering confusedly, in despair, amongst the party goers; his mind is in turmoil – “my heart has turned to stone, my brain to fire; I am conscious of…an all devouring dreadful curiosity…to know dark things forbidden to all but madmen.” This man is Gaston Beauvais, son of a wealthy Parisian banker, who was once sensitive and high minded enough to have written a novel and have it published – now, he cannot even afford to buy a second hand copy of his own book. His mind and circumstances have been destroyed by absinthe and the actions of certain people and this is his story.

  The narrative takes a step backwards in time now as we learn about Beauvais’s meeting with the charming Pauline, “the little angel of beauty” and an old friend of the Beauvais family, who is thrown into the company of the then eligible Beauvais and before long they are planning to marry. Although there is little of the intellectual about Pauline (her wide-eyed admiration of his attempts at writing flatter him immensely), Beauvais feels she will make a pleasant and undemanding wife. Thus, he is smitten first and foremost by her beauty: “Who marries a woman of intellect by choice? No-one and if some unhappy man does it by accident, he generally regrets it.” There are only two things that perturb him; one is Heloise, the serious minded cousin of Pauline, whose intellect seems to outstrip his own and who is deprecating about his attempts at novel writing; the other is Silvion Guidel, a darkly handsome and persuasive trainee priest that Beauvais feels he cannot altogether trust. However, unable to resist the calculating charm of Guidel, they become great friends, or so Beauvais thinks and later on the narrator will rethink his instinctive dislike of the intellectual Heloise. Despite these doubts, Beauvais is “the proudest, the most contented, perfectly light-hearted man in France.”