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

by Marie Corelli

  “It is for all the world like the shrieks of drowning men” — he said, and shivered, thinking of the pleasantly devious ways of the Rhine and its placid flowing, — placid even in flood, as compared to the howling ocean, all madness and movement and terror. Twice during that turbulent day Karl had asked his master whether the tower “shook.”

  “Of course!” answered Dr. Kremlin with a smile in his mild eyes— “Of course it shakes, — it can hardly do otherwise in such a gale. Even a cottage shakes in a fierce wind.”

  “Oh yes, a cottage shakes,” said Karl meditatively— “but then if a cottage blows away altogether, it doesn’t so much matter. Cottages are frequently blown away in America, so they say, with all the family sitting inside. That’s not a bad way of travelling. But when a tower flies through the air, it seldom carries the family with it except in bits.”

  Kremlin laughed, but did not pursue the conversation, and Karl went about his duties in a gloomy humour, not common to his cheerful temperament. He really had enough to put him out, all things considered. Soot fell down the kitchen chimney — a huge brick also landed itself with a crash in the fender, — there were crevices in the doors and windows through which the wind played wailing sounds like a “coronach” on the bagpipes; — and then, when he went out into the courtyard to empty the pail of soot he had taken from the grate, he came suddenly face to face with an ugly bird, whose repulsive aspect quite transfixed him for the moment and held him motionless, staring at it. It was a hooded vulture, and it stood huddled on the pavement, blinking its disagreeable eyes at Karl, — its floppy wings were drenched with the rain, and all over the yard was the wet trail of its feathers and feet.

  “Shoo!” cried Karl, waving his arms and the pail of soot all together— “Shoo! Beast!”

  But the vulture appeared not to mind — it merely set about preening its dirty wing.

  Karl grew savage, and running back to the kitchen, brought shovel, tongs and a broom, all of which implements he flung in turn at the horrid-looking creature, which, finally startled, rose in air uttering dismal cries as it circled higher and higher, the while Karl watched its flight, — higher and higher it soared, till at last he ran out of the courtyard to see where it went. Round and round the house it flew, seeming to be literally tossed to and fro by the wind, its unpleasant shriek still echoing distinctly above the deep boom of the sea, till suddenly it made a short sweep downwards, and sat on the top of the tower like a squat black phantom of the storm.

  “Nasty brute!” said Karl, shaking his clenched fist at it— “If the Herr Doctor were like any other man, which he is not, he would have a gun in the house, and I’d shoot that vile screamer. Now it will sit cackling and yelling there all day and all night perhaps. Pleasant, certainly!”

  And he went indoors, grumbling more than ever. Everything seemed to go wrong that day, — the fire wouldn’t burn, — the kettle wouldn’t boil, — and he felt inwardly vexed that his master was not as morose and irritable as himself. But, as it happened, Dr. Kremlin was in a singularly sweet and placid frame of mind, — the noise of the gale seemed to soothe rather than agitate his nerves. For one thing, he was much better in health, and looked years younger than when El-Râmi visited him, bringing the golden flask whose contents were guaranteed to give him a new lease of life. So far indeed the Elixir had done its work, — and to all appearances, he might have been a well-preserved man of about fifty, rather than what he actually was, close upon his seventy-fourth year. As he could take no particularly interesting or useful observations from his Disc during the progress of the tempest, he amused himself with the task of perfecting one or two of his “Light-Maps” as he called them, and he kept at this work with the greatest assiduity and devotion all the morning. These maps were wonderfully interesting, if only for the extreme beauty, intricacy and regularity of the patterns, — one set of “vibrations” as copied from the reflections on the Disc, formed the exact shape of a branch of coral, — another gave the delicate outline of a frond of fern. All the lines ran in waves, — none of them were straight. Most of them were in small ripples, — others were larger — some again curved broadly, and turned round in a double twist, forming the figure 8 at long intervals of distance, but all resolved themselves into a definite pattern of some sort.

  “Pictures in the sky!” he mused, as he patiently measured and re-touched the lines. “And all different! — not two of them alike! What do they all mean? — for they must mean something. Nothing — not the lowest atom that exists, is without a meaning and a purpose. Shall I ever discover the solution to the Light-mystery, or is it so much God’s secret that it will never become Man’s?”

  So he wondered, puzzling himself, with a good deal of pleasure in the puzzle. He was happy in his work, despite its strange and difficult character, — El-Râmi’s elixir had so calmed and equalized his physical temperament, that he was no longer conscious of worry or perplexity. Satisfied that he had years of life before him in which to work, he was content to let things take their course, and he laboured on in the spirit that all labour claims, “without haste, without rest.” Feverish hurry in work, — eagerness to get the rewards of it before conscientiously deserving them, — this disposition is a curse of the age we live in and the ruin of true art, — and it was this delirium of haste that had seized Kremlin when he had summoned El-Râmi to his aid. Now, haste seemed unnecessary; — there was plenty of time, and — possessed of the slight clue to the “Third Ray,” — plenty of hope as well, or so he thought.

  In the afternoon the gale gradually abated, and sank to a curiously sudden dead calm. The sea still lifted toppling foam-crowned peaks to the sky, and still uttered shattering roars of indignation, — but there was a break in the clouds and a pale suggestion of sunshine. As the evening closed in, the strange dull quietness of the air deepened, — the black mists on the horizon flashed into stormy red for an instant when the sun set, — and then darkened again into an ominous greenish-gray. Karl, who was busy cooking his master’s dinner, stopped stirring some sauce he was making, to listen, as it were, to the silence, — the only sound to be heard was the long roll and swish of the sea on the beach, — and even the scream of the gulls was stilled. Spoon in hand he went out in the yard to observe the weather; all movement in the heavens seemed to have been suddenly checked, and masses of black cloud rested where they were, apparently motionless. And while he looked up at the sky, he could hardly avoid taking the top of the tower also into his view; — there, to his intense disgust, still sate his enemy of the morning, the hooded vulture. Something that was not quite choice in the way of language escaped his lips as he saw the hateful thing; — its presence was detestable to him and filled his mind with morbid imaginations which no amount of reasoning could chase away.

  “And yet what is it but a bird!” he argued with himself angrily, as he went indoors and resumed his cooking operations— “A bird of prey, fond of carrion — nothing more. Why should I bother myself about it? If I told the Herr Doctor that it was there, squatting at ease on his tower, he would very likely open the window, invite the brute in, and offer it food and shelter for the night. For he is one of those kind-hearted people who think that all the animal creation are worthy of consideration and tenderness. Well, — it may be very good and broad philosophy, — all the same, if I caught a rat sitting in my bed, I shouldn’t like it, — nor would I care to share my meals with a lively party of cockroaches. There are limits to Christian feelings. And as for that beast of a bird outside, why it’s better outside than in, so I’ll say nothing about it.”

  And he devoted himself more intently than ever to the preparation of the dinner, for his master had now an excellent appetite, and ate good things with appreciation and relish, a circumstance which greatly consoled Karl for many other drawbacks in the service he had undertaken. For he was a perfect cook, and proud of his art, and that night he was particularly conscious of the excellence of the little tasty dishes he had, to use an artterm, “created,” a
nd he watched his master enjoy their flavour, with a proud, keen sense of his own consummate skill.

  “When a man relishes his food it is all right with him,” he thought.— “Starving for the sake of science may be all very well, but if it kills the scientist, what becomes of the science?”

  And he grew quite cheerful in the contemplation of the “Herr Doctor’s” improved appetite, and by degrees almost forgot the uncanny bird that was still sitting on the topmost ledge of the tower.

  Among other studious habits engendered by long solitude into which Kremlin had fallen, was the somewhat unhygienic one of reading at meals. Most frequently it was a volume of poems with which he beguiled the loneliness of his dinner, for he was one of those rare few who accept and believe in what may be called the “Prophecies” of Poesy. These are in very truth often miraculous, and it can be safely asserted that if the writers of the Bible had not been poets they would never have been prophets. A poet, — if he indeed be a poet, and not a mere manufacturer of elegant verse, — always raves, — raves madly, blindly, incoherently of things he does not really understand. Moreover, it is not himself that raves — but a Something within him, — some demoniac or angelic spirit that clamours its wants in wild music, which by throbbing measure and degree resolves itself, after some throes of pain on the poet’s part, into a peculiar and occasionally vague language. The poet as man, is no more than man; but that palpitating voice in his mind gives him no rest, tears his thoughts piecemeal, rends his soul, and consumes him with feverish trouble and anxiety not his own, till he has given it some sort of speech, however mystic and strange. If it resolves itself into a statement which appals or amazes, he, the poet, cannot help it; if it enunciates a prophecy he is equally incapable of altering or refuting it. When Shakespeare wrote the three words, “Sermons in stones,” he had no idea that he was briefly expounding with perfect completeness the then to him unknown science of Geology. The poet is not born of Flesh alone, but of Spirit — a Spirit which dominates him whether he will or no, from the very first hour in which his childish eyes look inquiringly on leaves and flowers and stars — a Spirit which catches him by the hands, kisses him on the lips, whispers mad nothings in his startled ears, flies restlessly round and about him, brushing his every sense with downy, warm, hurrying wings, — snatches him up altogether at times and bids him sing, write, cry out strange oracles, weep forth wild lamentations, and all this without ever condescending to explain to him the reason why. It is left to the world to discover this “Why,” and the discovery is often not made till ages after the poet’s mortal dust has been transformed to flowers in the grass which little children gather and wear unknowingly. The poet whose collected utterances Dr. Kremlin was now reading as he sipped the one glass of light Burgundy which concluded his meal, was Byron; the fiery singer whose exquisite music is pooh-poohed by the insipid critics of the immediate day, who, jealous of his easily-won and worldwide fame, grudge him the laurel, even though it spring from the grave of a Hero as well as Bard. The book was open at “Manfred,” and the lines on which old Kremlin’s eyes rested were these: —

  “How beautiful is all this visible world!

  How glorious in its action and itself!

  But we who name ourselves its sovereigns, we.

  Half dust, half deity, alike unfit

  To sink or soar, with our mix’d essence make

  A conflict of its elements, and breathe

  The breath of degradation and of pride.

  Contending with low wants and lofty will.

  Till our mortality predominates.

  And men are, — what they name not to themselves.

  And trust not to each other.”

  “Now that passage is every whit as fine as anything in Shakespeare,” thought Kremlin— “and the whole secret of human trouble is in it; — it is not the world that is wrong, but we — we ‘who make a conflict of its elements.’ The question is, if we are really ‘unfit to sink or soar’ is it our fault? — and may we not ask without irreverence why we were made so incomplete? Ah, my clever friend El-Râmi Zarânos has set himself a superhuman task on the subject of this ‘Why,’ and I fancy I shall find out the riddle of Mars and many another planet besides, before he ‘proves,’ as he is trying to do, the conscious and individual existence of the soul.”

  He turned over the pages of “Manfred” thoughtfully, and then stopped, his gaze riveted on the splendid lines in which the unhappy hero of the tragedy flings his last defiance to the accusing demons —

  “The mind which is immortal makes itself

  Requital for its good or evil thoughts —

  Is its own origin of ill and end —

  And its own place and time — its innate sense.

  When stripped of this mortality, derives

  No colour from the fleeting things without.

  But is absorbed in sufferance or in joy.

  Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

  Thou did’st not tempt me, and thou could’st not tempt;

  I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey —

  But was my own destroyer, and will be

  My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends!

  The hand of death is on me, — but not yours!”

  “And yet people will say that Byron was an immoral writer!” murmured Kremlin— “In spite of the tremendous lesson conveyed in those lines! There is something positively terrifying in that expression —

  “‘But was my own destroyer, and will be

  My own hereafter.’

  What a black vista of possibilities—”

  Here he broke off, suddenly startled by a snaky blue glare that flashed into the room like the swift sweep of a sword-blade. Springing up from the table, he rubbed his dazzled eyes.

  “Why — what was that?” he exclaimed.

  “Lightning!” replied Karl, just entering at the moment— “and a very nasty specimen of it.... I’d better put all the knives and steel things by.”

  And he proceeded to do this, while Kremlin still stood in the centre of the room, his sight yet a little confused by the rapidity and brilliancy of that unexpected storm-flash. A long low ominous muttering of thunder, beginning far off and rolling up nearer and nearer till it boomed like a volley of cannon in unison with the roar of the sea, followed, then came silence. No rain fell, and the wind only blew moderately enough to sway the shrubs in front of the house lightly to and fro.

  “It will be a stormy night,” said Dr. Kremlin then, recovering himself and taking up his Byron— “I am sorry for the sailors! You had better see well to all the fastenings of the doors and windows.”

  “Trust me!” replied Karl sententiously— “You shall not be carried out to sea against your will if I can help it — nor have I any desire to make such a voyage myself. I hope, Herr Doctor” — he added with a touch of anxiety— “you are not going to spend this evening in the tower?”

  “I certainly am!” answered Kremlin, smiling— “I have work up there, and I cannot afford to be idle on account of a thunderstorm. Why do you look so scared? There is no danger.”

  “I didn’t say there was” — and Karl fidgeted uneasily— “but — though I’ve never been inside it, I should think the tower was lonesome, and I should fancy there might be too close a view of the lightning to be quite pleasant.”

  Kremlin looked amused, and walking to the window, pushed back one of the curtains.

  “I believe it was a false alarm,” he said, gazing at the sea— “That flash and thunder-peal were the parting notes of a storm that has taken place somewhere else. See! — the clouds are clearing.”

  So in truth they were; the evening, though very dark, seemed to give promise of a calm. One or two stars twinkled faintly in a blackish-blue breadth of sky, and perceiving these shining monitors and problems of his life’s labour, Kremlin wasted no more time in words, but abruptly left the room and ascended to his solitary studio. Karl, listening, heard the closing of the heavy door aloft and
the grating of the key as it turned in the lock, — and he also heard that strange perpetual whirring noise above, which, though he had in a manner grown accustomed to it, always remained for him a perplexing mystery. Shaking his head dolefully, and with a somewhat troubled countenance, he cleared the dining-table, set the room in order, went down to his kitchen, cleaned, rubbed, and polished everything till his surroundings were as bright as it was possible for them to be, and then, pleasantly fatigued, sat down to indite a letter to his mother in the most elaborate German phraseology he could devise. He was rather proud of his “learning,” and he knew his letters home were read by nearly all the people in his native village as well as by his maternal parent, so that he was particularly careful in his efforts to impress everybody by the exceeding choiceness of his epistolary “style.” Absorbed in his task, he at first scarcely noticed the gradual rising of the wind, which, having rested for a few hours, now seemed to have awakened in redoubled strength and fury. Whistling under the kitchen-door it came, with a cold and creepy chill, — it shook the windows angrily, and then, finding the door of the outside pantry open, shut it to with a tremendous bang, like an irate person worsted in an argument. Karl paused, pen in hand; and as he did so, a dismal cry echoed round the house, the sound seeming to fall from a height and then sweep over the earth with the wind, towards the sea.