Ardath by Marie Corelli (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

far-glimmering of a silvery dawn,—till out of the shuddering notes there seemed to grow up a vague, vast, and cool whiteness, splendid and mystical,—a whiteness that from shapeless, fleecy mist took gradual form and substance, … the great concert-hall, with its closely packed throng of people, appeared to fade away like vanishing smoke,—and lo!—before the poet’s entranced gaze there rose up a wondrous vision of stately architectural grandeur,—a vision of snowy columns and lofty arches, upon which fell a shimmering play of radiant color flung by the beams of the sun through stained glass windows glistening jewel-wise,—a tremulous sound of voices floated aloft, singing, “Kyrie Eleison!—Kyrie Eleison!”—and the murmuring undertone of the organ shook the still air with deep vibrations of holy tune.

Everywhere peace,—everywhere purity! everywhere that spacious whiteness, flecked with side-gleams of royal purple, gold, and ardent crimson,—and in the midst of all,—O dearest tenderness!—

O fairest glory!—a face, shining forth like a star in a cloud!—a face dazzlingly beautiful and sweet,—a golden head, above which the pale halo of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant ring!

 

“EDRIS!”—The chaste name breathed itself silently in Alwyn’s thoughts,—silently and yet with all the passion of a lover’s prayer! How was it, he wondered dimly, that he saw her thus distinctly NOW,—now, when the violin-music wept its wildest tears—now when love, love, love, seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from the low, pulsating melody of the marvellous “Zigeunerweisen,” a melody which, despite its name, had revealed to one listener, at any rate, nothing concerning the wanderings of gypsies over forest and moorland,—but on the contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral arches, this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was his life! How had he found his way into such a dream sanctuary of frozen snow?—what was his mission there?—and why, when the picture slowly faded, did it still haunt his memory invitingly,—

persuasively,—nay, almost commandingly?

 

He could not tell,—but his mind was entirely ravished and possessed by an absorbing impression of white, sculptured calm,—

and he was as startled as though he had been brusquely awakened from a deep sleep, when the loud plaudits of the people made him aware that Sarasate had finished his programme, and was departing from the scene of his triumphs. The frenzied shouts and encores, however brought him once more before the excited public, to play a set of Spanish dances, fanciful and delicate as the gamboling of a light breeze over rose-gardens and dashing fountains,—and when this wonder-music ceased, Alwyn woke from tranced rapture into enthusiasm, and joined in the thunders of applause with fervent warmth and zeal. Eight several times did the wearied, but ever affable, maestro ascend the platform to bow and smile his graceful acknowledgments, till the audience, satisfied with having thoroughly emphasized their hearty appreciation of his genius, permitted him to finally retire. Then the people flocked out of the hall in crowds, talking, laughing, and delightedly commenting upon the afternoon’s enjoyment, the brief remarks exchanged by two Americans who were sauntering on immediately in front of Heliobas and Alwyn being perhaps the very pith and essence of the universal opinion concerning the great artist they had just heard.

 

“I tell you what he is,” said one, “he’s a demi-god!”

 

“Oh, don’t halve it!” rejoined the other wittily, “he’s the whole thing anyway!”

 

Once outside the hall and in the busy street, now rendered doubly brilliant by the deep saffron light of a gloriously setting sun, Heliobas prepared to take leave of his somewhat silent and preoccupied companion.

 

“I see you are still under the sway of the Ange-Demon,” he remarked cheerfully, as he shook hands, “Is he not an amazing fellow? That bow of his is a veritable divining-rod, it finds out the fountain of Elusidis [Footnote: A miraculous fountain spoken of in old chronicles, whose waters rose to the sound of music, and, the music ceasing, sank again.] in each human heart,—it has but to pronounce a note, and straightway the hidden waters begin to bubble. But don’t forget to read the newspaper accounts of this concert! You will see that the critics will make no allusion whatever to the enthusiasm of the audience, and that the numerous encores will not even be mentioned!”

 

“That is unfair,” said Alwyn quickly. “The expression of the people’s appreciation should always be chronicled.”

 

“Of course!—but it never is, unless it suits the immediate taste of the cliques. Clique-Art, clique-Literature, clique-Criticism, keep all three things on a low ground that slopes daily more and more toward decadence. And the pity of it is, that the English get judged abroad chiefly by what their own journalists say of them,—

thus, if Sarasate is coldly criticised, foreigners laugh at the ‘UNmusical English,’ whereas, the fact is that the nation itself is NOT unmusical, but its musical critics mostly are. They are very often picked out of the rank and file of the dullest Academy students and contrapuntists, who are incapable of understanding anything original, and therefore are the persons most unfitted to form a correct estimate of genius. However, it has always been so, and I suppose it always will be so,—don’t you remember that when Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain critic-ass-ter wrote of him, ‘The absurdity of his effort is only equalled by the hideousness of its result’.”

 

He laughed lightly, and once more shook hands, while Alwyn, looking at him wistfully, said:

 

“I wonder when we shall meet again?”

 

“Oh, very soon, I dare say,” he rejoined. “The world is a wonderfully small place, after all, as men find when they jostle up against each other unexpectedly in the most unlikely corners of far countries. You may, if you choose, correspond with me, and that is a privilege I accord to few, I assure you!” He smiled, and then went on in a more serious tone, “You are, of course, welcome at our monastery whenever you wish to come, but, take my advice, do not wilfully step out of the sphere in which you are placed.

Live IN society, it needs men of your stamp and intellectual calibre; show it a high and consistent example—let no eccentricity mar your daily actions—work at your destiny steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest to God, and—

the angels!”

 

There was a slight, tender inflection in his voice as he spoke the last words,—and Alwyn gave him a quick, searching glance. But his blue, penetrating eyes were calm and steadfast, full of their usual luminous softness and pathos, and there was nothing expressed in them but the gentlest friendliness.

 

“Well! I’m glad I may write to you, at any rate,” said Alwyn at last, reluctantly releasing his hand. “It is possible I may not remain long in London; I want to finish my poem, and it gets on too slowly in the tumult of daily life in town.”

 

“Then will you go abroad again?” inquired Heliobas.

 

“Perhaps. I may. Bonn, where I was once a student for a time. It is a peaceful, sleepy little place,—I shall probably complete my work easily there. Moreover, it will be like going back to a bit of my youth. I remember I first began to entertain all my dreams of poesy at Bonn.”

 

“Inspired by the Seven Mountains and the Drachenfels!” laughed Heliobas. “No wonder you recalled the lost ‘Sahluma’ period in the sight of the entrancing Rhine! Ah, Sir Poet, you have had your fill of fame! and I fear the plaudits of London will never be like those of Al-Kyris! No monarchs will honor you now, but rather despise! for the kings and queens of this age prefer financiers to Laureates! Now, wherever you wander, let me hear of your well-being and progress in contentment; when you write, address to our Dariel retreat, for though on my return from Mexico I shall probably visit Lemnos, my letters will always be forwarded.

Adieu!”

 

“Adieu!” and their eyes met. A grave sweet smile brightened the Chaldean’s handsome features.

 

“God remain with you, my friend!” he said, in a low, thrillingly earnest tone. “Believe me, you are elected to a strangely happy fate!—far happier than you at present know!”

 

With these words he turned and was gone,—lost to sight in the surging throng of passers-by. Alwyn looked eagerly after him, but saw him no more. His tall figure had vanished as utterly as any of the phantom shapes in Al-Kyris, only that, far from being spectre-like, he had seemed more actually a living personality than any of the people in the streets who were hurrying to and fro on their various errands of business or pleasure.

 

That same night when Alwyn related his day’s adventure to Villiers, who heard it with the most absorbed interest, he was describing the effect of Sarasate’s violin-playing, when all at once he was seized by the same curious, overpowering impression of white, lofty arches, stained windows, and jewel-like glimmerings of color, and he suddenly stopped short in the midst of his narrative.

 

“What’s the matter?” asked Villiers, astonished. “Go on!—you were saying,—”

 

“That Sarasate is one of the divinest of God’s wandering melodies,” went on Alwyn, slowly and with a faint smile. “And that though, as a rule, musicians are forgotten when their music ceases, this Andalusian Orpheus in Thrace will be remembered long after his violin is laid aside, and he himself has journeyed to a sunnier land than Spain! But I am not master of my thoughts tonight, Villiers; my Chaldean friend has perhaps mesmerized me—who knows! and I have an odd fancy upon me. I should like to spend an hour in some great and beautiful cathedral, and see the light of the rising sun flashing through the stained windows across the altar!”

 

“Poet and dreamer!” laughed Villiers. “You can’t gratify that whim in London; there’s no ‘great and beautiful’ edifice of the kind here,—only the unfinished Oratory, Westminster Abbey, broken up into ugly pews and vile monuments, and the repellently grimy St.

Paul’s—so go to bed, old boy, and indulge yourself in some more ‘visions,’ for I assure you you’ll never find any reality come up to your ideal of things in general.”

 

“No?” and Alwyn smiled. “Strange that I see it in quite the reverse way! It seems to me, no ideal will ever come up to the splendor of reality!”

 

“But remember,” said Villiers quickly, “YOUR reality is heaven,—

a, ‘reality’ that is every one else’s myth!”

 

“True! terribly true!”.. and Alwyn’s eyes darkened sorrowfully.

“Yet the world’s myth is the only Eternal Real, and for the shadows of this present Seeming we barter our immortal Substance!”

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.

 

BY THE RHINE.

 

In the two or three weeks that followed his meeting with Heliobas, Alwyn made up his mind to leave London for a while. He was tired and restless,—tired of the routine society more or less imposed upon him,—restless because he had come to a standstill in his work—an invisible barrier, over which his creative fancy was unable to take its usual sweeping flight. He had an idea of seeking some quiet spot among mountains, as far remote as possible from the travelling world of men,—a peaceful place, where, with the majestic silence of Nature all about him, he might plead in lover-like retirement with his refractory Muse, and strive to coax her into a sweeter and more indulgent humor. It was not that thoughts were lacking to him,—what he complained of was the monotony of language and the difficulty of finding new, true, and choice forms of expression. A great thought leaps into the brain like a lightning flash; there it is, an indescribable mystery, warming the soul and pervading the intellect, but the proper expression of that thought is a matter of the deepest anxiety to