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

for us both,—for I should have chafed at her loving restraint, and she would unquestionably have been disappointed in me. My father was a conscientious, methodical business man, who spent all his days up to almost the last moment of his life in amassing money, though it never gave him any joy so far as I could see, and when at his death I became sole possessor of his hardly-earned fortune, I felt far more sorrow than satisfaction. I wished he had spent his gold on himself and left me poor, for it seemed to me I had need of nothing save the little I earned by my pen—I was content to live an anchorite and dine off a crust for the sake of the divine Muse I worshipped. Fate, however, willed it otherwise,—and though I scarcely cared for the wealth I inherited, it gave me at least one blessing—that of perfect independence. I was free to follow my own chosen vocation, and for a brief wondering while I deemed myself happy, … happy as Keats must have been when the fragment of ‘Hyperion’ broke from his frail life as thunder breaks from a summer-cloud. I was as a monarch swaying a sceptre that commanded both earth and heaven; a kingdom was mine-a kingdom of golden ether, peopled with shining shapes Protean,—alas! its gates are shut upon me now, and I shall enter it no more!”

 

“‘No more’ is a long time, my friend!” interposed Heliobas gently.

“You are too despondent,—perchance too diffident, concerning your own ability.”

 

“Ability!” and he laughed wearily. “I have none,—I am as weak and inapt as an untaught child—the music of my heart is silenced! Yet there is nothing I would not do to regain the ravishment of the past—when the sight of the sunset across the hills, or the moon’s silver transfiguration of the sea filled me with deep and indescribable ecstasy—when the thought of Love, like a full chord struck from a magic harp, set my pulses throbbing with delirious delight—fancies thick as leaves in summer crowded my brain—Earth was a round charm hung on the breast of a smiling Divinity—men were gods—women were angels’—the world seemed but a wide scroll for the signatures of poets, and mine, I swore, should be clearly written!”

 

He paused, as though ashamed of his own fervor. and glanced at Heliobas, who, leaning a little forward in his chair was regaling him with friendly, attentive interest; then he continued more calmly:

 

“Enough! I think I had something in me then,—something that was new and wild and, though it may seem self praise to say so, full of that witching glamour we name Inspiration; but whatever that something was, call it genius, a trick of song, what you will,—it was soon crushed out of me. The world is fond of slaying its singing buds and devouring them for daily fare—one rough pressure of finger and thumb on the little melodious throats, and they are mute forever. So I found, when at last in mingled pride, hope, and fear I published my poems, seeking for them no other recompense save fair hearing and justice. They obtained neither—they were tossed carelessly by a few critics from hand to hand, jeered at for a while, and finally flung back to me as lies—lies all! The finely spun web of any fancy,—the delicate interwoven intricacies of thought,—these were torn to shreds with as little compunction as idle children feel when destroying for their own cruel sport the velvety wonder of a moth’s wing, or the radiant rose and emerald pinions of a dragon-fly. I was a fool—so I was told with many a languid sneer and stale jest—to talk of hidden mysteries in the whisper of the wind and the dash of the waves—such sounds were but common cause and effect. The stars were merely conglomerated masses of heated vapor condensed by the work of ages into meteorites and from meteorites into worlds—and these went on rolling in their appointed orbits, for what reason nobody knew, but then nobody cared! And Love—the key-note of the theme to which I had set my mistaken life in tune—Love was only a graceful word used to politely define the low but very general sentiment of coarse animal attraction—in short, poetry such as mine was altogether absurd and out of date when confronted with the facts of everyday existence—facts which plainly taught us that man’s chief business here below was simply to live, breed, and die—the life of a silk-worm or caterpillar on a slightly higher platform of ability; beyond this—nothing!”

 

“Nothing?” murmured Heliobas, in a tone of suggestive inquiry—

“really nothing?”

 

“Nothing!” repeated Alwyn, with an air of resigned hopelessness; “for I learned that, according to the results arrived at by the most advanced thinkers of the day, there was no God, no Soul, no Hereafter—the loftiest efforts of the highest heaven—aspiring minds were doomed to end in non-fruition, failure, and annihilation. Among all the desperately hard truths that came rattling down upon me like a shower of stones, I think this was the crowning one that killed whatever genius I had. I use the word ‘genius’ foolishly—though, after all, genius itself is nothing to boast of, since it is only a morbid and unhealthy condition of the intellectual faculties, or at least was demonstrated to me as such by a scientific friend of my own who, seeing I was miserable, took great pains to make me more so if possible. He proved,—to his own satisfaction if not altogether to mine,—that the abnormal position of certain molecules in the brain produced an eccentricity or peculiar bias in one direction which, practically viewed, might be described as an intelligent form of monomania, but which most people chose to term ‘genius,’ and that from a purely scientific standpoint it was evident that the poets, painters, musicians, sculptors, and all the widely renowned ‘great ones’ of the earth should be classified as so many brains more or less affected by abnormal molecular formation, which strictly speaking amounted to brain-deformity. He assured me, that to the properly balanced, healthily organized brain of the human animal, genius was an impossibility—it was a malady as unnatural as rare.

‘And it is singular, very singular,’ he added with a complacent smile, ‘that the world should owe all its finest art and literature merely to a few varieties of molecular disease!’ I thought it singular enough, too,—however, I did not care to argue with him; I only felt that if the illness of genius had at any time affected ME, it was pretty well certain I should now suffer no more from its delicious pangs and honey-sweet fever. I was cured! The probing-knife of the world’s cynicism had found its way to the musically throbbing centre of divine disquietude in my brain, and had there cut down the growth of fair imaginations for ever. I thrust aside the bright illusions that had once been my gladness; I forced myself to look with unflinching eyes at the wide waste of universal Nothingness revealed to me by the rigid positivists and iconoclasts of the century; but my heart died within me; my whole being froze as it were into an icy apathy,—I wrote no more; I doubt whether I shall ever write again. Of a truth, there is nothing to write about. All has been said. The days of the Troubadours are past,—one cannot string canticles of love for men and women whose ruling passion is the greed of gold.

Yet I have sometimes thought life would be drearier even than it is, were the voices of poets altogether silent; and I wish—yes! I wish I had it in my power to brand my sign-manual on the brazen face of this coldly callous age-brand it deep in those letters of living lire called Fame!”

 

A look of baffled longing and un gratified ambition came into his musing eyes,-his strong, shapely white hand clenched nervously, as though it grasped some unseen yet perfectly tangible substance.

Just then the storm without, which had partially lulled during the last few minutes, began its wrath anew: a glare of lightning blazed against the uncurtained window, and a heavy clap of thunder burst overhead with the sudden crash of an exploding bomb.

 

“You care for Fame?” asked Ileliobas abruptly, as soon as the terrific uproar had subsided into a distant, dull rumbling mingled with the pattering dash of hail.

 

“I care for it—yes!” replied Alwyn, and his voice was very low and dreamy. “For though the world is a graveyard, as I have said, full of unmarked tombs, still here and there we find graves, such as Shelley’s or Byron’s, whereon pale flowers, like sweet suggestions of eversilenced music, break into continuous bloom.

And shall I not win my own death-garland of asphodel?”

 

There was an indescribable, almost heart-rending pathos in his manner of uttering these last words—a hopelessness of effort and a despairing sense of failure which he himself seemed conscious of, for, meeting the fixed and earnest gaze of Ileliobas, he quickly relapsed into his usual tone of indolent indifference.

 

“You see,” he said, with a forced smile, “my story is not very interesting! No hairbreadth escapes, no thrilling adventures, no love intrigues—nothing but mental misery, for which few people have any sympathy. A child with a cut finger gets more universal commiseration than a man with a tortured brain and breaking heart, yet there can be no quotion as to which is the most intense duel long enduring anguish of the two. However, such as my troubles are I have told you all I have laid bare my ‘wound of living’—a wound that throbs and burns, and aches, more intolerably with every pissing hour and day—it is not unnatural, I think, that I should seek for a little cessation of suffering; a brief dreaming space in which to rest for a while, and escape from the deathful Truth—Truth, that like the flaming sword placed east of the fabled garden of Eden, turns ruthlessly every way, keeping us out of the forfeited paradise of imaginative aspiration, which made the men of old time great because they deemed themselves immortal.

It was a glorious faith! that strong consciousness, that in the change and upheaval of whole universes the soul of man should forever over-ride disaster! But now that we know ourselves to be of no more importance, relatively speaking, than the animalculae in a drop of stagnant water, what great works can be done, what noble deeds accomplished, in the face of the declared and proved futility of everything? Still, if you can, as you say, liberate me from this fleshly prison, and give me new sensations and different experiences, why then let me depart with all possible speed, for I am certain I shall find in the storm-swept areas of space nothing worse than life as lived in this present world. Remember, I am quite incredulous as to your professed power—” he paused and glanced at the white-robed, priestly figure opposite, then added, lightly, “but I am curious to test it all the same. Are you ready to being your spells?—and shall I say the Nunc Dimittis?”

 

CHAPTER III.

 

DEPARTURE.

 

Heliobas was silent—he seemed engaged in deep and anxious thought,—and he kept his steadfast eyes fixed on Alwyn’s countenance, as though he sought there the clew to some difficult problem.

 

“What do you know of the Nunc Dimittis?” he asked at last, with a half-smile. “You might as well say PATER NOSTER,—both canticle and prayer would be equally unmeaning to you! For poet as you are,—or let me say as you WERE,—inasmuch as no atheist was ever a poet at the same time—”

 

“You are wrong,” interrupted Alwyn quickly. “Shelley was an atheist.”

 

“Shelley, my good friend, was NOT an atheist [Footnote: See the last two verses of Adonais]. He strove