Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Ah! — and what of the millions of creatures who, in the bygone eras, having no clue, have passed away without any sort of comfort?” asked El-Râmi.

  “Nature takes time to manifest her laws,” replied the monk.— “And it must be remembered that what we call ‘time’ is not Nature’s counting at all. The method Nature has of counting time may be faintly guessed by proven scientific fact, — as, for instance, take the Comet which appeared in 1744. Strict mathematicians calculated that this brilliant world (for it is a world) needs 122,683 years to perform one single circuit! And yet the circuit of a Comet is surely not so much time to allow for God and Nature to declare a Meaning!”

  El-Râmi shuddered slightly.

  “All the same, it is horrible to think of,” he said.— “All those enormous periods, — those eternal vastnesses! For, during the 122,683 years we die, and pass into the Silence.”

  “Into the Silence or the Explanation?” queried the monk softly.— “For there is an Explanation, — and we are all bound to know it at some time or other, else Creation would be but a poor and bungling business.”

  “If we are bound to know,” said El-Râmi, “then every living creature is bound to know, since every living creature suffers cruelly, in wretched ignorance of the cause of its suffering. To every atom, no matter how infinitely minute, must be given this ‘explanation,’ — to dogs and birds as well as men — nay, even to flowers must be declared the meaning of the mystery.”

  “Unless the flowers know already!” suggested the monk with a smile.— “Which is quite possible!”

  “Oh, everything is ‘possible’ according to your way of thinking,” said El-Râmi somewhat impatiently. “If one is a visionary, one would scarcely be surprised to see the legended ‘Jacob’s ladder’ leaning against that dark midnight sky and the angels descending and ascending upon it. And so—” here he touched the two rolls of manuscript lying on the table— “you find no use in these?”

  “I personally have no use for them,” responded his guest,— “but as you desire it, I will take charge of them and place them in safe keeping at the monastery. Every little link helps to forge the chain of discovery, of course. By the way, while on this subject, I must not forget to speak to you about poor old Kremlin. I had a letter from him about two months ago. I very much fear that famous Disc of his will be his ruin.”

  “Such an intimation will console him vastly!” observed El-Râmi sarcastically.

  “Consolation has nothing to do with the matter. If a man rushes wilfully into danger, danger will not move itself out of the way for him. I always told Kremlin that his proposed design was an unsafe one, even before he went out to Africa fifteen years ago in search of the magnetic spar — a crystalline formation whose extraordinary reflection-power he learned from me. However, it must be admitted that he has come marvellously close to the unravelling of the enigma at which he works. And when you see him next you may tell him from me, that if he can — mind, it is a very big ‘if’ — if he can follow the movements of the Third Ray on his Disc he will be following the signals from Mars. To make out the meaning of those signals is quite another matter — but he can safely classify them as the light-vibrations from that particular planet.”

  “How is he to tell which is the Third Ray that falls, among a fleeting thousand?” asked El-Râmi dubiously.

  “It will be difficult of course, but he can try,” returned the monk.— “Let him first cover the Disc with thick, dark drapery, and then when it is face to face with the stars in the zenith, uncover it quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on its surface. In one minute there will be three distinct flashes — the third is from Mars. Let him endeavour to follow that third ray in its course on the Disc, and probably he will arrive at something worth remark. This suggestion I offer by way of assisting him, for his patient labour is both wonderful and pathetic, — but, — it would be far better and wiser were he to resign his task altogether. Yet — who knows! — the ordained end may be the best!”

  “And do you know this ‘ordained end’?” questioned El-Râmi.

  The monk met his incredulous gaze calmly.

  “I know it as I know yours,” he replied. “As I know my own, and the end (or beginning) of all those who are, or who have been, in any way connected with my life and labours.”

  “How can you know!” exclaimed El-Râmi brusquely.— “Who is there to tell you these things that are surely hidden in the future?”

  “Even as a picture already hangs in an artist’s brain before it is painted,” said the monk,— “so does every scene of each human unit’s life hang, embryo-like, in air and space, in light and colour. Explanations of these things are well-nigh impossible — it is not given to mortal speech to tell them. One must see, — and to see clearly, one must not become wilfully blind.” he paused, — then added— “For instance, El-Râmi, I would that you could see this room as I see it.”

  El-Râmi looked about half carelessly, half wonderingly.

  “And do I not?” he asked.

  The monk stretched out his hand.

  “Tell me first, — is there anything visible between this my extended arm and you?”

  El-Râmi shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  Whereupon the monk raised his eyes, and in a low thrilling voice said solemnly —

  “O God with whom Thought is Creation and Creation Thought, for one brief moment, be pleased to lift material darkness from the sight of this man Thy subject-creature, and by Thy sovereign-power permit him to behold with mortal eyes, in mortal life, Thy deathless Messenger!”

  Scarcely had these words been pronounced than El-Râmi was conscious of a blinding flash of fire as though sudden lightning had struck the room from end to end. Confused and dazzled, he instinctively covered his eyes with his hand, then removing it, looked up, stupefied, speechless, and utterly overwhelmed at what he saw. Clear before him stood a wondrous Shape, seemingly human, yet unlike humanity, — a creature apparently composed of radiant colour, from whose transcendent form, great shafts of gold and rose and purple spread upward and around in glowing lines of glory. This marvellous Being stood, or rather was poised in a stedfast attitude, between him, El-Râmi, and the monk, — its luminous hands were stretched out on either side as though to keep those twain asunder — its starry eyes expressed an earnest watchfulness — its majestic patience never seemed to tire. A thing of royal stateliness and power, it stayed there immovable, parting with its radiant intangible Presence the two men who gazed upon it, one with fearless, reverent, yet accustomed eyes — the other with a dazzled and bewildered stare. Another moment and El-Râmi at all risks would have spoken, — but that the Shining Figure lifted its light-crowned head and gazed at him. The wondrous look appalled him, — unnerved him, — the straight, pure brilliancy and limpid lustre of those unearthly orbs sent shudders through him, — he gasped for breath — thrust out his hands, and fell on his knees in a blind, unconscious, swooning act of adoration, mingled with a sense of awe and something like despair, — when a dense chill darkness as of death closed over him, and he remembered nothing more.

  CHAPTER III.

  WHEN he came to himself, it was full daylight. His head was resting on someone’s knee, — someone was sprinkling cold water on his face and talking to him in an incoherent mingling of Arabic and English, — who was that someone? Féraz? Yes! — surely it was Féraz! Opening his eyes languidly, he stared about him and attempted to rise.

  “What is the matter?” he asked faintly. “What are you doing to me? I am quite well, am I not?”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Féraz eagerly, delighted to hear him speak.— “You are well, — it was a swoon that seized you — nothing more! But I was anxious, — I found you here, insensible—”

  With an effort El-Râmi rose to his feet, steadying himself on his brother’s arm.

  “Insensible!” he repeated vaguely.— “Insensible! — that is strange! — I must have been very weak and tired — and overpowered. B
ut, — where is He — ?”

  “If you mean the Master,” said Féraz, lowering his voice to an almost awe-stricken whisper— “He has gone, and left no trace, — save that sealed paper there upon your table.”

  El-Râmi shook himself free of his brother’s hold and hurried forward to possess himself of the indicated missive, — seizing it, he tore it quickly open, — it contained but one line— “Beware the end! With Lilith’s love comes Lilith’s freedom.”

  That was all. He read it again and again — then deliberately striking a match, he set fire to it and burnt it to ashes. A rapid glance round showed him that the manuscripts concerning Neptune and Sirius were gone, — the mysterious monk had evidently taken them with him as desired. Then he turned again to his brother.

  “When could he have gone?” he de — manded.— “Did you not hear the street-door open and shut? — no sound at all of his departure?”

  Féraz shook his head.

  “I slept heavily,” he said apologetically. “But in my dreams it seemed as though a hand touched me, and I awoke. The sun was shining brilliantly — someone called ‘Féraz! Féraz!’ — I thought it was your voice, and I hurried into the room to find you, as I thought, dead, — oh! the horror of that moment of suspense!”

  El-Râmi looked at him kindly, and smiled.

  “Why feel horror, my dear boy?” he inquired.— “Death — or what we call death, — is the best possible fortune for everybody. Even if there were no Afterwards, it would still be an End — an end of trouble and tedium and infinite uncertainty. Could anything be happier? — I doubt it!”

  And sighing, he threw himself into his chair with an air of exhaustion. Féraz stood a little apart, gazing at him somewhat wistfully — then he spoke —

  “I too have thought that, El-Râmi,” he said softly.— “As to whether this End, which the world and all men dread, might not be the best thing? And yet my own personal sensations tell me that life means something good for me if I only learn how best to live it.”

  “Youth, my dear fellow!” said El-Râmi lightly. “Delicious youth, — which you share in common with the scampering colt who imagines all the meadows of the world were made for him to race upon. This is the potent charm which persuades you that life is agreeable. But unfortunately it will pass, — this rosy morning-glory. And the older you grow the wiser and the sadder you will be, — I, your brother, am an excellent example of the truth of this platitude.”

  “You are not old,” replied Féraz quickly. “But certainly you are often sad. You overwork your brain. For example, last night of course you did not sleep — will you sleep now?”

  “No — I will breakfast,” said El-Râmi, rousing himself to seem cheerful.— “A good cup of coffee is one of the boons of existence — and no one can make it as you do. It will put the finishing touch to my complete recovery.”

  Féraz took this hint, and hastened off to prepare the desired beverage, — while El-Râmi, left alone, sat for a few moments wrapped in a deep reverie. His thoughts reverted to and dwelt upon the strange and glorious Figure he had seen standing in that very room between him and the monk, — he wondered doubtfully if such a celestial visitant were anywhere near him now? Shaking off the fantastic impression, he got up and walked to and fro.

  “What a fool I am!” he exclaimed half-aloud— “As if my eyes could not be as much deluded for once in a way, as the eyes of anyone else! It was a strange shape, — a marvellously divine-looking apparition; — but he evolved it — he is as great a master in the art of creating phantasma as Moses himself, and could, if he chose, make thunder echo at his will on another Mount Sinai. Upon my word, the things that men can do are as wonderful as the things that they would fain attempt; and the only miraculous part of this particular man’s force is that he should have overpowered ME, seeing I am so strong. And then one other marvel, — (if it be true) — he could see the Soul of Lilith.”

  Here he came to a full stop in his walk, and with his eyes fixed on vacancy he repeated musingly —

  “He could see the Soul of Lilith. If that is so — if that is possible, then I will see it too, if I die in the attempt. To see the Soul — to look upon it and know its form — to discern the manner of its organization, would surely be to prove it. Sight can be deceived, we know — we look upon a star (or think we look upon it), that may have disappeared some thirty thousand years ago, as it takes thirty thousand years for its reflex to reach us — all that is true — but there are ways of guarding against deception.”

  He had now struck upon a new line of thought, — ideas more daring than he had ever yet conceived began to flit through his brain, — and when Féraz came in with the breakfast he partook of that meal with avidity and relish, his excellent appetite entirely reassuring his brother with regard to his health.

  “You are right, Féraz,” he said, as he sipped his coffee.— “Life can be made enjoyable after a fashion, no doubt. But the best way to get enjoyment out of it is to be always at work — always putting a brick in to help the universal architecture.”

  Féraz was silent. El-Râmi looked at him inquisitively.

  “Don’t you agree with me?” he asked.

  “No — not entirely” — and Féraz pushed the clustering hair off his brow with a slightly troubled gesture.— “Work may become as monotonous and wearisome as anything else if we have too much of it. If we are always working — that is, if we are always obtruding ourselves into affairs and thinking they cannot get on without us, we make an obstruction in the way, I think — we are not a help. Besides, we leave ourselves no time to absorb suggestions, and I fancy a great deal is learned by simply keeping the brain quiet and absorbing light.”

  “‘Absorbing light?’” queried his brother perplexedly— “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it is difficult to explain my meaning,” said Féraz with hesitation— “but yet I feel there is truth in what I try to express. You see, everything absorbs something, and you will assuredly admit that the brain absorbs certain impressions?”

  “Of course, — but impressions are not ‘light’?”

  “Are they not? Not even the effects of light? Then what is the art of photography? However, I do not speak of the impressions received from our merely external surroundings. If you can relieve the brain from conscious thought, — if you have the power to shake off outward suggestions and be willing to think of nothing personal, your brain will receive impressions which are to some extent new, and with which you actually have very little connection. It is strange, — but it is so; — you become obediently receptive, and perhaps wonder where your ideas come from. I say they are the result of light. Light can use up immense periods of time in travelling from a far distant star into our area of vision, and yet at last we see it, — shall not God’s inspiration travel at a far swifter pace than star-beams, and reach the human brain as surely? This thought has often startled me, — it has filled me with an almost apprehensive awe, — the capabilities it opens up are so immense and wonderful. Even a man can suggest ideas to his fellow-man and cause them to germinate in the mind and blossom into action, — how can we deny to God the power to do the same? And so, — imagine it! — the first strain of the glorious ‘Tannhauser’ may have been played on the harps of Heaven, and rolling sweetly through infinite space may have touched in fine far echoes the brain of the musician who afterwards gave it form and utterance — ah yes! — I would love to think it were so! — I would love to think that nothing, — nothing is truly ours; but that all the marvels of poetry, of song, of art, of colour, of beauty, were only the echoes and distant impressions of that Eternal Grandeur which comes hereafter!”

  His eyes flashed with all a poet’s enthusiasm, — he rose from the table and paced the room excitedly, while his brother, sitting silent, watched him meditatively.

  “El-Râmi, you have no idea,” he continued— “of the wonders and delights of the land I call my Star! You think it is a dream — an unexplained portion of a splendid tranc
e, — and I am now fully aware of what I owe to your magnetic influence, — your forceful spell that rests upon my life; — but see you! — when I am alone — quite, quite alone, when you are absent from me, when you are not influencing me, it is then I see the landscapes best, — it is then I hear my people sing! I let my brain rest; — as far as it is possible, I think of nothing, — then suddenly upon me falls the ravishment and ecstasy, — this world rolls up as it were in a whirling cloud and vanishes, and lo! I find myself at home. There is a stretch of forest-land in this Star of mine, — a place all dusky green with shadows, and musical with the fall of silvery waters, — that is my favourite haunt when I am there, for it leads me on and on through grasses and tangles of wild flowers to what I know and feel must be my own abode, where I should rest and sleep if sleep were needful; but this abode I never reach; I am debarred from entering in, and I do not know the reason why. The other day, when wandering there, I met two maidens bearing flowers, — they stopped, regarding me with pleased yet doubting eyes, and one said— ‘Look you, our lord is now returned!’ And the other sighed and answered— ‘Nay! he is still an exile and may not stay with us.’ Whereupon they bent their heads, and shrinking past me, disappeared. When I would have called them back I woke! — to find that this dull earth was once again my house of bondage.”

  El-Râmi heard him with patient interest.