Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 13

  “I understand what you say,” I said slowly; “but I cannot see your meaning as applied to myself or yourself.”

  “I will teach you in a few words,” went on Heliobas. “You believe in the soul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Now realize that there is no soul on this earth that is complete, ALONE. Like everything else, it is dual. It is like half a flame that seeks the other half, and is dissatisfied and restless till it attains its object. Lovers, misled by the blinding light of Love, think they have reached completeness when they are united to the person beloved. Now, in very, very rare cases, perhaps one among a thousand, this desirable result is effected; but the majority of people are content with the union of bodies only, and care little or nothing about the sympathy or attachment between souls. There are people, however, who do care, and who never find their Twin-Flame or companion Spirit at all on earth, and never will find it. And why? Because it is not imprisoned in clay; it is elsewhere.”

  “Well?” I asked eagerly.

  “Well, you seem to ask me by your eyes what this all means. I will apply it at once to myself. By my researches into human electrical science, I discovered that MY companion, MY other half of existence, though not on earth, was near me, and could be commanded by me; and, on being commanded, obeyed. With Zara it was different. She could not COMMAND — she OBEYED; she was the weaker of the two. With you, I think it will be the same thing. Men sacrifice everything to ambition; women to love. It is natural. I see there is much of what I have said that appears to have mystified you; it is no good puzzling your brain any more about it. No doubt you think I am talking very wildly about Twin-Flames and Spiritual Affinities that live for us in another sphere. You do not believe, perhaps, in the existence of beings in the very air that surrounds us, invisible to ordinary human eyes, yet actually akin to us, with a closer relationship than any tie of blood known on earth?”

  I hesitated. Heliobas saw my hesitation, and his eyes darkened with a sombre wrath.

  “Are you one of those also who must see in order to believe?” he said, half angrily. “Where do you suppose your music comes from? Where do you suppose any music comes from that is not mere imitation? The greatest composers of the world have been mere receptacles of sound; and the emptier they were of self-love and vanity, the greater quantity of heaven-born melody they held. The German Wagner — did he not himself say that he walked up and down in the avenues, ‘trying to catch the harmonies as they floated in the air’? Come with me — come back to the place you left, and I will see if you, like Wagner, are able to catch a melody flying.”

  He grasped my unresisting arm, and led me, half-frightened, half-curious, into the little chapel, where he bade me seat myself at the organ.

  “Do not play a single note,” he said, “till you are compelled.”

  And standing beside me, Heliobas laid his hands on my head, then pressed them on my ears, and finally touched my hands, that rested passively on the keyboard.

  He then raised his eyes, and uttered the name I had often thought of but never mentioned — the name he had called upon in my dream.

  “Azul!” he said, in a low, penetrating voice, “open the gateways of the Air that we may hear the sound of Song!”

  A soft rushing noise of wind answered his adjuration. This was followed by a burst of music, transcendently lovely, but unlike any music I had ever heard. There were sounds of delicate and entrancing tenderness such as no instrument made by human hands could produce; there was singing of clear and tender tone, and of infinite purity such as no human voices could be capable of. I listened, perplexed, alarmed, yet entranced. Suddenly I distinguished a melody running through the wonderful air-symphonies — a melody like a flower, fresh and perfect. Instinctively I touched the organ and began to play it; I found I could produce it note for note. I forgot all fear in my delight, and I played on and on in a sort of deepening rapture. Gradually I became aware that the strange sounds about me were dying slowly away; fainter and fainter they grew — softer — farther — and finally ceased. But the melody — that one distinct passage of notes I had followed out — remained with me, and I played it again and again with feverish eagerness lest it should escape me. I had forgotten the presence of Heliobas. But a touch on my shoulder roused me. I looked up and met his eyes fixed upon, me with a steady and earnest regard. A shiver ran through, me, and I felt bewildered.

  “Have I lost it?” I asked.

  “Lost what?” he demanded.

  “The tune I heard — the harmonies.”

  “No,” he replied; “at least I think not. But if you have, no matter. You will hear others. Why do you look so distressed?”

  “It is lovely,” I said wistfully, “all that music; but it is not MINE;” and tears of regret filled my eyes. “Oh, if it were only mine — my very own composition!”

  Heliobas smiled kindly.

  “It is as much yours as any thing belongs to anyone. Yours? why, what can you really call your own? Every talent you have, every breath you draw, every drop of blood flowing in your veins, is lent to you only; you must pay it all back. And as far as the arts go, it is a bad sign of poet, painter, or musician, who is arrogant enough to call his work his own. It never was his, and never will be. It is planned by a higher intelligence than his, only he happens to be the hired labourer chosen to carry out the conception; a sort of mechanic in whom boastfulness looks absurd; as absurd as if one of the stonemasons working at the cornice of a cathedral were to vaunt himself as the designer of the whole edifice. And when a work, any work, is completed, it passes out of the labourer’s hands; it belongs to the age and the people for whom it was accomplished, and, if deserving, goes on belonging to future ages and future peoples. So far, and only so far, music is your own. But are you convinced? or do you think you have been dreaming all that you heard just now?”

  I rose from the organ, closed it gently, and, moved by a sudden impulse, held out both my hands to Heliobas. He took them and held them in a friendly clasp, watching me intently as I spoke.

  “I believe in YOU,” I said firmly; “and I know thoroughly well that I was not dreaming; I certainly heard strange music, and entrancing voices. But in acknowledging your powers over something unseen, I must explain to you the incredulity I at first felt, which I believe annoyed you. I was made sceptical on one occasion, by attending a so-called spiritual seance, where they tried to convince me of the truth of table-turning—”

  Heliobas laughed softly, still holding my hands.

  “Your reason will at once tell you that disembodied spirits never become so undignified as to upset furniture or rap on tables. Neither do they write letters in pen and ink and put them under doors. Spiritual beings are purely spiritual; they cannot touch anything human, much less deal in such vulgar display as the throwing about of chairs, and the opening of locked sideboards. You were very rightly sceptical in these matters. But in what I have endeavoured to prove to you, you have no doubts, have you?”

  “None in the world,” I said. “I only ask you to go on teaching me the wonders that seem so familiar to you. Let me know all I may; and soon!” I spoke with trembling eagerness.

  “You have been only eight days in the house, my child,” said Heliobas, loosening my hands, and signing me to come out of the chapel with him; “and I do not consider you sufficiently strong as yet for the experiment you wish me to try upon you. Even now you are agitated. Wait one week more, and then you shall be—”

  “What?” I asked impatiently.

  “Lifted up,” he replied. “Lifted up above this little speck called earth. But now, no more of this. Go to Zara; keep your mind well employed; study, read, and pray — pray much and often in few and simple words, and with as utterly unselfish a heart as you can prepare. Think that you are going to some high festival, and attire your soul in readiness. I do not say to you ‘Have faith;’ I would not compel your belief in anything against your own will. You wish to be convinced of a future existence; you see
k proofs; you shall have them. In the meantime avoid all conversation with me on the subject. You can confide your desires to Zara if you like; her experience may be of use to you. You had best join her now. Au revoir!” and with a kind parting gesture, he left me.

  I watched his stately figure disappear in the shadow of the passage leading to his own study, and then I hastened to Zara’s room. The musical episode in the chapel had certainly startled me, and the words of Heliobas were full of mysterious meaning; but, strange to say, I was in no way rendered anxious or alarmed by the prospect I had before me of being “lifted up,” as my physician had expressed it. I thought of Raffaello Cellini and his history, and I determined within myself that no cowardly hesitation or fear should prevent me from making the attempt to see what he professed to have seen. I found Zara reading. She looked up as I entered, and greeted me with her usual bright smile.

  “You have had a long practice,” she began; “I thought you were never coming.”

  I sat down beside her, and related at once all that had happened to me that afternoon. Zara listened with deep and almost breathless interest.

  “You are quite resolved,” she said, when I had concluded, “to let Casimir exert his force upon you?”

  “I am quite resolved,” I answered.

  “And you have no fear?”

  “None that I am just now conscious of.”

  Zara’s eyes became darker and deeper in the gravity of her intense meditation. At last she said:

  “I can help you to keep your courage firmly to the point, by letting you know at once what Casimir will do to you. Beyond that I cannot go. You understand the nature of an electric shock?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Well, there are different kinds of electric shocks — some that are remedial, some that are fatal. There are cures performed by a careful use of the electric battery — again, people are struck dead by lightning, which is the fatal result of electric force. But all this is EXTERNAL electricity; now what Casimir will use on you will be INTERNAL electricity.”

  I begged her to explain more clearly. She went on:

  “You have internally a certain amount of electricity, which has been increased recently by the remedies prescribed for you by Casimir. But, however much you have, Casimir has more, and he will exert his force over your force, the greater over the lesser. You will experience an INTERNAL electric shock, which, like a sword, will separate in twain body and spirit. The spiritual part of you will be lifted up above material forces; the bodily part will remain inert and useless, till the life, which is actually YOU, returns to put its machinery in motion once more.”

  “But shall I return at all?” I asked half doubtfully.

  “You must return, because God has fixed the limits of your life on earth, and no human power can alter His decree. Casimir’s will can set you free for a time, but only for a time. You are bound to return, be it never so reluctantly. Eternal liberty is given by Death alone, and Death cannot be forced to come.”

  “How about suicide?” I asked.

  “The suicide,” replied Zara, “has no soul. He kills his body, and by the very act proves that whatever germ of an immortal existence he may have had once, has escaped from its unworthy habitation, and gone, like a flying spark, to find a chance of growth elsewhere. Surely your own reason proves this to you? The very animals have more soul than a man who commits suicide. The beasts of prey slay each other for hunger or in self-defence, but they do not slay themselves. That is a brutality left to man alone, with its companion degradation, drunkenness.”

  I mused awhile in silence.

  “In all the wickedness and cruelty of mankind,” I said, “it is almost a wonder that there is any spiritual existence left on earth at all. Why should God trouble Himself to care for such few souls as thoroughly believe in and love Him? — they can be but a mere handful.”

  “Such a mere handful are worth more than the world to him,” said Zara gravely. “Oh, my dear, do not say such things as why should God trouble Himself? Why do you trouble yourself for the safety and happiness of anyone you love?”

  Her eyes grew soft and tender, and the jewel she wore glimmered like moonlight on the sea. I felt a little abashed, and, to change the subject, I said:

  “Tell me, Zara, what is that stone you always wear? Is it a talisman?”

  “It belonged to a king,” said Zara,— “at least, it was found in a king’s coffin. It has been in our family for generations. Casimir says it is an electric stone — there are such still to be found in remote parts of the sea. Do you like it?”

  “It is very brilliant and lovely,” I said.

  “When I die,” went on Zara slowly, “I will leave it to you.”

  “I hope I shall have to wait a long time before I get it, then,” I exclaimed, embracing her affectionately. “Indeed, I will pray never to receive it.”

  “You will pray wrongly,” said Zara, smiling. “But tell me, do you quite understand from my explanation what Casimir will do to you?”

  “I think I do.”

  “And you are not afraid?”

  “Not at all. Shall I suffer any pain?”

  “No actual pang. You will feel giddy for a moment, and your body will become unconscious. That is all.”

  I meditated for a few moments, and then looking up, saw Zara’s eyes watching me with a wistful inquiring tenderness. I answered her look with a smile, and said, half gaily:

  “L’audace, l’audace, et toujours l’audace! That must be my motto, Zara. I have a chance now of proving how far a woman’s bravery can go, and I assure you I am proud of the opportunity. Your brother uttered some very cutting remarks on the general inaptitude of the female sex when I first made his acquaintance; so, for the honour of the thing, I must follow the path I have begun to tread. A plunge into the unseen world is surely a bold step for a woman, and I am determined to take it courageously.”

  “That is well,” said Zara. “I do not think it possible for you ever to regret it. It is growing late — shall we prepare for dinner?”

  I assented, and we separated to our different rooms. Before commencing to dress I opened the pianette that stood near my window, and tried very softly to play the melody I had heard in the chapel. To my joy it came at once to my fingers, and I was able to remember every note. I did not attempt to write it down — somehow I felt sure it would not escape me now. A sense of profound gratitude filled my heart, and, remembering the counsel given by Heliobas, I knelt reverently down and thanked God for the joy and grace of music. As I did so, a faint breath of sound, like a distant whisper of harps played in unison, floated past my ears, — then appeared to sweep round in ever-widening circles, till it gradually died away. But it was sweet and entrancing enough for me to understand how glorious and full of rapture must have been the star-symphony played on that winter’s night long ago, when the angels chanted together, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good-will to Man!”

  CHAPTER IX.

  AN ELECTRIC SHOCK.

  Prince Ivan Petroffsky was a constant visitor at the Hotel Mars, and I began to take a certain interest in him, not unmingled with pity, for it was evident that he was hopelessly in love with my beautiful friend Zara. She received him always with courtesy and kindness; but her behaviour to him was marked by a somewhat cold dignity, which, like a barrier of ice, repelled the warmth of his admiration and attention. Once or twice, remembering what he had said to me, I endeavoured to speak to her concerning him and his devotion; but she so instantly and decisively turned the conversation that I saw I should displease her if I persisted in it. Heliobas appeared to be really attached to the Prince, at which I secretly wondered; the worldly and frivolous young nobleman was of so entirely different a temperament to that of the thoughtful and studious Chaldean philosopher. Yet there was evidently some mysterious attraction between them — the Prince appeared to be profoundly interested in electric theories and experiments, and Heliobas never wearied of expounding
them to so attentive a listener. The wonderful capabilities of the dog Leo also were brought into constant requisition for Prince Ivan’s benefit, and without doubt they were most remarkable. This animal, commanded — or, I should say, brain-electrified — by Heliobas, would fetch anything that was named to him through his master’s force, providing it was light enough for him to carry; and he would go into the conservatory and pluck off with his teeth any rare or common flower within his reach that was described to him by the same means. Spoken to or commanded by others, he was simply a good-natured intelligent Newfoundland; but under the authority of Heliobas, he became more than human in ready wit and quick obedience, and would have brought in a golden harvest to any great circus or menagerie.

  He was a never-failing source of wonder and interest to me, and even more so to the Prince, who made him the subject of many an abstruse and difficult discussion with his friend Casimir. I noticed that Zara seemed to regret the frequent companionship of Ivan Petroffsky and her brother, and a shade of sorrow or vexation often crossed her fair face when she saw them together absorbed in conversation or argument.

  One evening a strange circumstance occurred which startled and deeply impressed me. Prince Ivan had dined with us; he was in extraordinarily high spirits — his gaiety was almost boisterous, and his face was deeply flushed. Zara glanced at him half indignantly more than once when his laughter became unusually uproarious, and I saw that Heliobas watched him closely and half-inquiringly, as if he thought there was something amiss.