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

by Marie Corelli

  Dared I trust to these suggestions which the worldly-wise would call mere imagination? A profound philosopher of these latter days has defined Imagination as ‘an advanced perception of truth,’ and avers that the discoveries of the future can always be predicted by the poet and the seer, whose receptive brains are the first to catch the premonitions of those finer issues of thought which emanate from the Divine intelligence. However this may be, my own experience of life had taught me that what ordinary persons pin their faith upon as real, is often unreal, — while such promptings of the soul as are almost incapable of expression lead to the highest realities of existence. And I decided at last to let matters take their own course, though I was absolutely resolved to get away from the Harlands within the next two or three days. I meant to ask Mr. Harland to land me at Portree, where I could take the steamer for Glasgow; — any excuse would serve for a hurried departure — and I felt now that departure was necessary.

  A soft sound of musical bells reached my ears at this moment announcing dinner, — and leaving the ‘princess’s’ apartment, I met Santoris at the entrance to the saloon. There was no one else there for the moment but himself, and as I came towards him he took my hands in his own and raised them to his lips.

  “You are not yet resolved!” he said, in a low tone, smiling— “Take plenty of time!”

  I lifted my eyes to his, and all doubt seemed swept away in the light of our mutual glances — I smiled in response to his look, — and we loosened our hands quickly as Mr. Harland with his doctor and secretary came down from the deck, Catherine joining us from the cabin where she had disburdened herself of her invalid wrappings. She was rather more elegantly attired than usual — she wore a curious purple-coloured gown with threads of gold interwoven in the stuff, and a collar of lace turned back at the throat gave her the aspect of an old Italian picture — a sort of ‘Portrait of a lady, — Artist unknown.’ Not a pleasant portrait, perhaps — but characteristic of a certain dull and self-centred type of woman. We were soon seated at table — a table richly, yet daintily, appointed, and adorned with the costliest flowers and fruits. The men who waited upon us were all Easterns, dark-eyed and dark-skinned, and wore the Eastern dress, — all their movements were swift yet graceful and dignified — they made no noise in the business of serving, — not a dish clattered, not a glass clashed. They were perfect servants, taking care to avoid the common but reprehensible method of offering dishes to persons conversing, thus interrupting the flow of talk at inopportune moments. And what talk it was! — all sorts of subjects, social and impersonal, came up for discussion, and Santoris handled them with such skill that he made us forget that there was anything remarkable or unusual about himself or his surroundings, though, as a matter of fact, no more princely banquet could ever have been served in the most luxurious of palaces. Half-way through the meal, when the conversation came for a moment to a pause, the most exquisite music charmed our ears — beginning softly and far away, it swelled out to rich and glorious harmonies like a full orchestra playing under the sea. We looked at each other and then at our host in charmed enquiry.

  “Electricity again!” he said— “So simply managed that it is not worth talking about! Unfortunately, it is mechanical music, and this can never be like the music evolved from brain and fingers; however, it fills in gaps of silence when conventional minds are at a strain for something to say — something quite ‘safe’ and unlikely to provoke discussion!”

  His keen blue eyes flashed with a sudden gleam of scorn in them. I looked at him half questioningly, and the scorn melted into a smile.

  “It isn’t good form to start any subject which might lead to argument,” he went on— “The modern brain must not be exercised too strenuously, — it is not strong enough to stand much effort. What do you say, Harland?”

  “I agree,” answered Mr. Harland. “As a rule people who dine as well as we are dining to-night have no room left for mentality — they become all digestion!”

  Dr. Brayle laughed.

  “Nothing like a good dinner if one has an appetite for it. I think it quite possible that Faust would have left his Margaret for a full meal!”

  “I’m sure he would!” chimed in Mr. Swinton— “Any man would!”

  Santoris looked down the table with a curious air of half-amused inspection. His eyes, clear and searching in their swift glance, took in the whole group of us — Mr. Harland enjoying succulent asparagus; Dr. Brayle drinking champagne; Mr. Swinton helping himself out of some dish of good things offered to him by one of the servants; Catherine playing in a sort of demure, old-maidish way with knife and fork as if she were eating against her will — and finally they rested on me, to whom the dinner was just a pretty pageant of luxury in which I scarcely took any part.

  “Well, whatever Faust would or would not do,” he said, half laughingly— “it’s certain that food is never at a discount. Women frequently are.”

  “Women,” said Mr. Harland, poising a stem of asparagus in the air, “are so constituted as to invariably make havoc either of themselves or of the men they profess to love. Wives neglect their husbands, and husbands naturally desert their wives. Devoted lovers quarrel and part over the merest trifles. The whole thing is a mistake.”

  “What whole thing?” asked Santoris, smiling.

  “The relations between man and woman,” Harland answered. “In my opinion we should conduct ourselves like the birds and animals, whose relationships are neither binding nor lasting, but are just sufficient to preserve the type. That’s all that is really needed. What is called love is mere sentiment.”

  “Do you endorse that verdict, Miss Harland?” Santoris asked, suddenly.

  Catherine looked up, startled — her yellow skin flushed a pale red.

  “I don’t know,” she answered— “I scarcely heard—”“

  “Your father doesn’t believe in love,” he said— “Do you?”

  “I hope it exists,” she murmured— “But nowadays people are so VERY practical—”

  “Oh, believe me, they are no more practical now than they ever were!” averred Santoris, laughing. “There’s as much romance in the modern world as in the ancient; — the human heart has the same passions, but they are more deeply suppressed and therefore more dangerous. And love holds the same eternal sway — so does jealousy.”

  Dr. Brayle looked up.

  “Jealousy is an uncivilised thing,” he said— “It is a kind of primitive passion from which no well-ordered mind should suffer.”

  Santoris smiled.

  “Primitive passions are as forceful as they ever were,” he answered. “No culture can do away with them. Jealousy, like love, is one of the motive powers of progress. It is a great evil — but a necessary one — as necessary as war. Without strife of some sort the world would become like a stagnant pool breeding nothing but weeds and the slimy creatures pertaining to foulness. Even in love, the most divine of passions, there should be a wave of uncertainty and a sense of unsolved mystery to give it everlastingness.”

  “Everlastingness?” queried Mr. Harland— “Or simply life lastingness?”

  “Everlastingness!” repeated Santoris. “Love that lacks eternal stability is not love at all, but simply an affectionate understanding and agreeable companionship in this world only. For the other world or worlds—”

  “Ah! You are going too far,” interrupted Mr. Harland— “You know I cannot follow you! And with all due deference to the fair sex I very much doubt if any one of them would care for a love that was destined to last for ever.”

  “No MAN would,” interrupted Brayle, sarcastically.

  Santoris gave him a quick glance.

  “No man is asked to care!” he said— “Nor woman either. SOULS are not only asked, but COMMANDED, to care! This, however, is beyond you!”

  “And beyond most people,” answered Brayle— “Such ideas are purely imaginary and transcendental.”

  “Granted!” And Santoris gave him a quick, straight g
lance— “But what do you mean by ‘imaginary’ and ‘transcendental’? Imagination is the faculty of conceiving in the brain ideas which may with time spring to the full fruition of realisation. Every item of our present-day civilisation has been ‘imagined’ before taking practical shape. ‘Transcendental’ means BEYOND the ordinary happenings of life and life’s bodily routine — and this ‘beyond’ expresses itself so often that there are few lives lived for a single day without some touch of its inexplicable marvel. It is on such lines as these that human beings drift away from happiness, — they will only believe what they can see, while all the time their actual lives depend on what they do NOT see!”

  There was a moment’s silence. The charm of his voice was potent — and still more so the fascination of his manner and bearing, and Mr. Harland looked at him in something of wonder and appeal.

  “You are a strange fellow, Santoris!” he said, at last, “And you always were! Even now I can hardly believe that you are really the very Santoris that struck such terror into the hearts of some of us undergrads at Oxford! I say I can hardly believe it, though I know you ARE the man. But I wish you would tell me—”

  “All about myself?” And Santoris smiled— “I will, with pleasure! — if the story does not bore you. There is no mystery about it — no ‘black magic,’ or ‘occultism’ of any kind. I have done nothing since I left college but adapt myself to the forces of Nature, AND TO USE THEM WHEN NECESSARY. The same way of life is open to all — and the same results are bound to follow.”

  “Results? Such as — ?” queried Brayle.

  “Health, youth and power!” answered Santoris, with an involuntary slight clenching of the firm, well-shaped hand that rested lightly on the table,— “Command of oneself! — command of body, command of spirit, and so on through an ever ascending scale! Every man with the breath of God in him is a master, not a slave!”

  My heart beat quickly as he spoke; something rose up in me like a response to a call, and I wondered — Did he assume to master ME? No! I would not yield to that! If yielding were necessary, it must be my own free will that gave in, not his compelling influence! As this thought ran through my brain I met his eyes, — he smiled a little, and I saw he had guessed my mind. The warm blood rushed to my cheeks in a fervent glow, nevertheless the defiance of my soul was strong — as strong as the love which had begun to dominate me. And I listened eagerly as he went on.

  “I began at Oxford by playing the slave part,” he said— “a slave to conventions and fossil-methods of instruction. One can really learn more from studying the actual formation of rocks than from those worthy Dons whom nothing will move out of their customary ruts of routine. Even at that early time I felt that, given a man of health and good physical condition, with sound brain, sound lungs and firm nerves, it was not apparent why he, evidently born to rule, should put himself into the leading strings of Oxford or any other forcing-bed of intellectual effort. That it would be better if such an one took HIMSELF in hand and tried to find out HIS OWN meaning, both in relation to the finite and infinite gradations of Spirit and Matter. And I resolved to enter upon the task — without allowing myself to fear failure or to hope for success. My aim was to discover Myself and my meaning, if such a thing were possible. No atom, however infinitesimal, is without origin, history, place and use in the Universe — and I, a conglomerated mass of atoms called Man, resolved to search out the possibilities, finite and infinite, of my own entity. With this aim I began — with this aim I continued.”

  “Your task is not finished, then?” put in Dr. Brayle, with a smilingly incredulous air.

  “It will never be finished,” answered Santoris— “An eternal thing has no end.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Well, — go on, Santoris!” said Mr. Harland, with a touch of impatience,— “And tell us especially what we all of us are chiefly anxious to know — how it is that you are young when according to the time of the world you should be old?”

  Santoris smiled again.

  “Ah! That is a purely personal touch of inquisitiveness!” he answered— “It is quite human and natural, of course, but not always wise. In every great lesson of life or scientific discovery people ask first of all ‘How can I benefit by it?’ or ‘How will it affect ME?’ And while asking the question they yet will not trouble to get an answer OUT OF THEMSELVES, — but they turn to others for the solution of the mystery. To keep young is not at all difficult; when certain simple processes of Nature are mastered the difficulty is to grow old!”

  We all sat silent, waiting in mute expectancy. The servants had left us, and only the fruits and dainties of dessert remained to tempt us in baskets and dishes of exquisitely coloured Venetian glass, contrasting with the graceful clusters of lovely roses and lilies which added their soft charm to the decorative effect of the table, and Santoris passed the wine, a choice Chateau-Yquem, round to us all before beginning to speak again. And when he did speak, it was in a singularly quiet, musical voice which exercised a kind of spell upon my ears — I had heard that voice before — ah! — how often! How often through the course of my life had I listened to it wonderingly in dreams of which the waking morning brought no explanation! How it had stolen upon me like an echo from far away, when alone in the pauses of work and thought I had longed for some comprehension and sympathy! And I had reproached myself for my own fancies and imaginings, deeming them wholly foolish and irresponsible! And now! Now its gentle and familiar tone went straight to the centre of my spiritual consciousness, and forced me to realise that for the Soul there is no escape from its immortal remembrance!

  XI. ONE WAY OF LOVE

  “When I left Oxford,” he said— “as I told you before, I left what I conceived to be slavery — that is, a submissively ordered routine of learning in which there occurred nothing new — nothing hopeful — nothing really serviceable. I mastered all there was to master, and carried away ‘honours’ which I deemed hardly worth winning. It was supposed then — most people would suppose it — that as I found myself the possessor of an income of between five and six thousand a year, I would naturally ‘live my life,’ as the phrase goes, and enter upon what is called a social career. Now to my mind a social career simply means social sham — and to live my life had always a broader application for me than for the majority of men. So, having ascertained all I could concerning myself and my affairs from my father’s London solicitors, and learning exactly how I was situated with regard to finances and what is called the ‘practical’ side of life, I left England for Egypt, the land where I was born. I had an object in view, — and that object was not only to see my own old home, but to find out the whereabouts of a certain great sage and mystic philosopher long known in the East by the name of Heliobas.”

  I started, and the blood rushed to my cheeks in a burning flame.

  “I think YOU knew him,” he went on, addressing me directly, with a straight glance— “You met him some years back, did you not?”

  I bent my head in silent assent, — and saw the eyes of my host and hostess turned upon me in questioning scrutiny.

  “In a certain circle of students and mystics he was renowned,” continued Santoris,— “and I resolved to see what he could make of me — what he would advise, and how I should set to work to discover what I had resolved to find. However, at the end of a long and tedious journey, I met with disappointment — Heliobas had removed to another sphere of action—”

  “He was dead, you mean,” interposed Mr. Harland.

  “Not at all,” answered Santoris, calmly. “There is no death. To put it quite simply, he had reached the top of his class in this particular school of life and learning and, therefore, was ready and willing to pass on into the higher grade. He, however, left a successor capable of maintaining the theories he inculcated, — a man named Aselzion, who elected to live in an almost inaccessible spot among mountains with a few followers and disciples. Him I found after considerable difficulty — and we came to underst
and each other so well that I stayed with him some time studying all that he deemed needful before I started on my own voyage of discovery. His methods of instruction were arduous and painful — in fact, I may say I went through a veritable ordeal of fire—”

  He broke off, and for a moment seemed absorbed in recollections.

  “You are speaking, I suppose, of some rule of life, some kind of novitiate to which you had to submit yourself,” said Mr. Harland— “Or was it merely a course of study?”

  “In one sense it was a sort of novitiate or probation,” answered Santoris, slowly, with the far-away, musing look still in his eyes— “In another it was, as you put it, ‘merely’ a course of study. Merely! It was a course of study in which every nerve, every muscle, every sinew was tested to its utmost strength — and in which a combat between the spiritual and material was fiercely fought till the one could master the other so absolutely as to hold it in perfect subjection. Well! I came out of the trial fairly well — strong enough at any rate to stand alone — as I have done ever since.”

  “And to what did your severe ordeal lead?” asked Dr. Brayle, who by this time appeared interested, though still wearing his incredulous, half-sneering air— “To anything which you could not have gained just as easily without it?”

  Santoris looked straight at him. His keen eyes glowed as though some bright fire of the soul had leaped into them.

  “In the first place,” he answered— “it led me to power! Power, — not only over myself but over all things small and great that surround or concern my being. I think you will admit that if a man takes up any line of business, it is necessary for him to understand all its technical methods and practical details. My business was and IS Life! — the one thing that humanity never studies, and therefore fails to master.”