Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)
Page 757
Perhaps there will be at least one among those who turn over this book, who will be sufficiently interested in the psychic — that is to say the immortal and, therefore, the only REAL side of life — to give a little undivided attention to the subject. To that one I address myself and say: Will you, to begin with, drop your burden of preconceived opinions and prejudices, whatever they are? Will you set aside the small cares and trifles that affect your own material personality? Will you detach yourself from your own private and particular surroundings for a space and agree to THINK with me? Thinking is, I know, the hardest of all hard tasks to the modern mind. But if you would learn, you must undertake this trouble. If you would find the path which is made fair and brilliant by the radiance of the soul’s imperishable summer, you must not grudge time. If I try, no matter how inadequately, to show you something of the mystic power that makes for happiness, do not shut your eyes in scorn or languor to the smallest flash of light through your darkness which may help you to a mastery of the secret.
I say again — Will you THINK with me? Will you, for instance, think of Life? What is it? Of Death? What is it? What is the primary object of Living? What is the problem solved by Dying? All these questions should have answer, — for nothing is without a meaning, — and nothing ever HAS BEEN, or ever WILL BE, without a purpose?
In this world, apparently, and according to our surface knowledge of all physical and mental phenomena, it would seem that the chief business of humanity is to continually re-create itself. Man exists — in his own opinion — merely to perpetuate Man. All the wonders of the earth, air, fire and water, — all the sustenance drawn from the teeming bosom of Nature, — all the progress of countless civilisations in ever recurring and repeated processional order, — all the sciences old and new, — are solely to nourish, support, instruct, entertain and furnish food and employment for the tiny two-legged imp of Chance, spawned (as he himself asserts) out of gas and atoms.
Yet, — as he personally declares, through the mouth of his modern science, — he is not of real importance withal. The little planet on which he dwells would, to all seeming, move on in its orbit in the same way as it does now, without him. In itself it is a pigmy world compared with the rest of the solar system of which it is a part. Nevertheless, the fact cannot be denied that his material surroundings are of a quality tending to either impress or to deceive Man with a sense of his own value. The world is his oyster which he, with the sword of enterprise, will open, — and all his natural instincts urge him to perpetuate himself in some form or other incessantly and without stint. Why? Why is his existence judged to be necessary? Why should he not cease to be? Trees would grow, flowers would bloom, birds would sing, fish would glide through the rivers and the seas, — the insect and animal tribes of field and forest would enjoy their existence unmolested, and the great sun would shine on ever the same, rising at dawn, sinking at even, with unbroken exactitude and regularity if Man no longer lived. Why have the monstrous forces of Evolution thundered their way through cycles of creation to produce so infinitesimal a prodigy?
Till this question is answered, so long must life seem at its best but vague and unsatisfactory. So long over all things must brood the shadow of death made more gloomy by hopeless contemplation. So long must Creation appear something of a cruel farce, for which peoples and civilisations come into being merely to be destroyed and leave no trace. All the work futile, — all the education useless, — all the hope vain. Only when men and women learn that their lives are not infinitesimal but infinite — that each of them possesses within himself or herself an eternal, active, conscious individual Force, — a Being — a Form — which in its radio-active energy draws to itself and accommodates to its use, everything that is necessary for the accomplishment of its endeavours, whether such endeavours be to continue its life on this planet or to remove to other spheres; only then will it be clearly understood that all Nature is the subject and servant of this Radiant Energy — that Itself is the god-like ‘image’ or emanation of God, and that as such it has its eternal part to perform in the eternal movement towards the Eternal Highest.
I now leave the following pages to the reader’s attentive or indifferent consideration. To me, as I have already stated, outside opinion is of no moment. Personally speaking, I should perhaps have preferred, had it been possible, to set forth the incidents narrated in the ensuing ‘romance’ in the form of separate essays on the nature of the mystic tuition and experience through which some of us in this workaday world have the courage to pass successfully, but I know that the masses of the people who drift restlessly to and fro upon the surface of this planet, ever seeking for comfort in various forms of religion and too often finding none, will not listen to any spiritual truth unless it is conveyed to them, as though they were children, in the form of a ‘story.’ I am not the heroine of the tale — though I have narrated it (more or less as told to me) in the first person singular, because it seemed to me simpler and more direct. She to whom the perfect comprehension of happiness has come with an equally perfect possession of love, is one out of a few who are seeking what she has found. Many among the world’s greatest mystics and philosophers have tried for the prizes she has won, — for the world possesses Plato, the Bible and Christ, but in its apparent present ways of living has learned little or nothing from the three, so that other would-be teachers may well despair of carrying persuasion where such mighty predecessors have seemingly failed. The serious and REAL things of life are nowadays made subjects for derision rather than reverence; — then, again, there is unhappily an alarmingly increasing majority of weak-minded and degenerate persons, born of drunken, diseased or vicious parents, who are mentally unfit for the loftier forms of study, and in whom the mere act of thought-concentration would be dangerous and likely to upset their mental balance altogether; while by far the larger half of the social community seek to avoid the consideration of anything that is not exactly suited to their tastes. Some of our most respected social institutions are nothing but so many self-opinionated and unconscious oppositions to the Law of Nature which is the Law of God, — and thus it often happens that when obstinate humanity persists in considering its own ideas of Right and Wrong superior to the Eternal Decrees which have been visibly presented through Nature since the earliest dawn of creation, a faulty civilisation sets in and is presently swept back upon its advancing wheels, and forced to begin again with primal letters of learning. In the same way a faulty Soul, an imperfect individual Spirit, is likewise compelled to return to school and resume the study of the lessons it has failed to put into practice. Nevertheless, people cannot bear to have it plainly said or written down, as it has been said and written down over and over again any time since the world began, that all the corrupt government, wars, slaveries, plagues, diseases and despairs that afflict humanity are humanity’s own sins taking vengeance upon the sinners, ‘even unto the third and fourth generation.’ And this not out of Divine cruelty, but because of Divine Law which from the first ordained that Evil shall slay Itself, leaving room only for Good. Men and women alike will scarce endure to read any book which urges this unalterable fact upon their attention. They pronounce the author ‘arrogant’ or ‘presuming to lay down the law’; — and they profess to be scandalised by an encounter with honesty. Nevertheless, the faithful writer of things as they Are will not be disturbed by the aspect of things as they Seem.
Spirit, — the creative Essence of all that is, — works in various forms, but always on an ascending plane, and it invariably rejects and destroys whatever interrupts that onward and upward progress. Being in Itself the Radiant outflow of the Mind of God, it is the LIFE of the Universe. And it is very needful to understand and to remember that there is nothing which can properly be called SUPER-natural, or above Nature, inasmuch as this Eternal Spirit of Energy is in and throughout all Nature. Therefore, what to the common mind appears miraculous or impossible, is nevertheless actually ordinary, and only seems EXTRA-ordinary to the common m
ind’s lack of knowledge and experience. The Fountain of Youth and the Elixir of Life were dreams of the ancient mystics and scientists, but they are not dreams to-day. To the Soul that has found them they are Divine Realities.
MARIE CORELLI
“There is no Death,
What seems so is transition.”
I. THE HEROINE BEGINS HER STORY
It is difficult at all times to write or speak of circumstances which though perfectly at one with Nature appear to be removed from natural occurrences. Apart from the incredulity with which the narration of such incidents is received, the mere idea that any one human creature should be fortunate enough to secure some particular advantage which others, through their own indolence or indifference, have missed, is sufficient to excite the envy of the weak or the anger of the ignorant. In all criticism it is an understood thing that the subject to be criticised must be UNDER the critic, never above, — that is to say, never above the critic’s ability to comprehend; therefore, as it is impossible that an outsider should enter at once into a clear understanding of the mystic Spiritual-Nature world around him, it follows that the teachings and tenets of that Spiritual-Nature world must be more or less a closed book to such an one, — a book, moreover, which he seldom cares or dares to try and open.
In this way and for this reason the Eastern philosophers and sages concealed much of their most profound knowledge from the multitude, because they rightly recognised the limitations of narrow minds and prejudiced opinions. What the fool cannot learn he laughs at, thinking that by his laughter he shows superiority instead of latent idiocy. And so it has happened that many of the greatest discoveries of science, though fully known and realised in the past by the initiated few, were never disclosed to the many until recent years, when ‘wireless telegraphy’ and ‘light-rays’ are accepted facts, though these very things were familiar to the Egyptian priests and to that particular sect known as the ‘Hermetic Brethren,’ many of whom used the ‘violet ray’ for chemical and other purposes ages before the coming of Christ. Wireless telegraphy was also an ordinary method of communication between them, and they had their ‘stations’ for it in high towers on certain points of land as we have now. But if they had made their scientific attainments known to the multitude of their day they would have been judged as impostors or madmen. In the time of Galileo men would not believe that the earth moved round the sun, — and if anyone had then declared that messages could be sent from one ship to another in mid-ocean without any visible means of communication, he would probably have been put to torture and death as a sorcerer and deliberate misleader of the public. In the same way those who write of spiritual truths and the psychic control of our life-forces are as foolishly criticised as Galileo, and as wrongfully condemned.
For hundreds of years man’s vain presumption and belief in his own infallibility caused him to remain in error concerning the simplest elements of astronomy, which would have taught him the true position of the sphere upon which he dwells. With precisely equal obstinacy man lives to-day in ignorance of his own highest powers because he will not take the trouble to study the elements of that supreme and all-commanding mental science which would enable him to understand his own essential life and being, and the intention of his Creator with regard to his progress and betterment. Therefore, in the face of his persistent egotism and effrontery, and his continuous denial of the ‘superhuman’ (which denial is absurdly incongruous seeing that all his religions are built up on a ‘superhuman’ basis), it is generally necessary for students of psychic mysteries to guard the treasures of their wisdom from profane and vulgar scorn, — a scorn which amounts in their eyes to blasphemy. For centuries it has been their custom to conceal the tenets of their creed from the common knowledge for the sake of conventions; because they would, or might, be shut out from such consolations as human social intercourse can give if their spiritual attainments were found to be, as they often are, beyond the ordinary. Thus they move through the world with the utmost caution, and instead of making a display of their powers they, if they are true to their faith, studiously deny the idea that they have any extraordinary or separate knowledge. They live as spectators of the progress or decay of nations, and they have no desire to make disciples, converts or confidants. They submit to the obligations of life, obey all civil codes, and are blameless and generous citizens, only preserving silence in regard to their own private beliefs, and giving the public the benefit of their acquirements up to a certain point, but shutting out curiosity where they do not wish its impertinent eyes.
To this, the creed just spoken of, I, the writer of this present narrative, belong. It has nothing whatever to do with merely human dogma, — and yet I would have it distinctly understood that I am not opposed to ‘forms’ of religion save where they overwhelm religion itself and allow the Spirit to be utterly lost in the Letter. For ‘the letter killeth, — the spirit giveth life.’ So far as a ‘form’ may make a way for truth to become manifest, I am with it, — but when it is a mere Sham or Show, and when human souls are lost rather than saved by it, I am opposed to it. And with all my deficiencies I am conscious that I may risk the chance of a lower world’s disdain, seeing that the ‘higher world without end’ is open to me in its imperishable brightness and beauty, to live in both NOW, and for ever. No one can cast me out of that glorious and indestructible Universe, for ‘whithersoever I go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions and communion with the gods.’
And so I will fulfil the task allotted to me, and will enter at once upon my ‘story’ — in which form I shall endeavour to convey to my readers certain facts which are as far from fiction as the sayings of the prophets of old, — sayings that we know have been realised by the science of to-day. Every great truth has at first been no more than a dream, — that is to say, a thought, or an instinctive perception of the Soul reaching after its own immortal heritage. And what the Soul demands it receives.
* * *
* *
*
At a time of year when the indolent languors of an exceptionally warm summer disinclined most people for continuous hard work, and when those who could afford it had left their ordinary avocations for the joys of a long holiday, I received a pressing invitation from certain persons whom I had met by chance during one London season, to join them in a yachting cruise. My intending host was an exceedingly rich man, a widower with one daughter, a delicate and ailing creature who, had she been poor, would have been irreverently styled ‘a tiresome old maid,’ but who by reason of being a millionaire’s sole heiress was alluded to with sycophantic tenderness by all and sundry as ‘Poor Miss Catherine.’ Morton Harland, her father, was in a certain sense notorious for having written and published a bitter, cold and pitiless attack on religion, which was the favourite reading of many scholars and literary men, and this notable performance, together with the well accredited reports of his almost fabulous wealth, secured for him two social sets, — the one composed of such human sharks as are accustomed to swim round the plutocrat, — the other of the cynical, listless, semi-bored portion of a so-called cultured class who, having grown utterly tired of themselves, presumed that it was clever to be equally tired of God. I was surprised that such a man as he was should think of including me among his guests, for I had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him, and my acquaintance with Miss Harland was restricted to a few casual condolences with her respecting the state of her health. Yet it so chanced that one of those vague impulses to which we can give no name, but which often play an important part in the building up of our life-dramas, moved both father and daughter to a wish for my company. Moreover, the wish was so strong that though on first receiving their invitation I had refused it, they repeated it urgently, Morton Harland himself pressing it upon me with an almost imperative insistence.
“You want rest,” — he said, peering at me narrowly with his small hard brown eyes— “You work all the time. And to what purpose?”
I smiled.
The lines of his mouth grew harder.
“So did I love work when I was your age,” — he said— “I thought I could carve out a destiny. So I could. I have done it. But now it’s done I’m tired! I’m sick of my destiny, — the thing I carved out so cleverly, — it has the stone face of a Sphinx and its eyes are blank and without meaning.”