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A Romance Of Two Worlds

M >> Marie Corelli >> A Romance Of Two Worlds



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A Romance of Two Worlds

A NOVEL.

BY MARIE CORELLI,

Author of "Thelma," "Ardath," "Vendetta," Etc.





A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.

PROLOGUE.


We live in an age of universal inquiry, ergo of universal
scepticism. The prophecies of the poet, the dreams of the
philosopher and scientist, are being daily realized--things formerly
considered mere fairy-tales have become facts--yet, in spite of the
marvels of learning and science that are hourly accomplished among
us, the attitude of mankind is one of disbelief. "There is no God!"
cries one theorist; "or if there be one, _I_ can obtain no proof of
His existence!" "There is no Creator!" exclaims another. "The
Universe is simply a rushing together of atoms." "There can be no
immortality," asserts a third. "We are but dust, and to dust we
shall return." "What is called by idealists the SOUL," argues
another, "is simply the vital principle composed of heat and air,
which escapes from the body at death, and mingles again with its
native element. A candle when lit emits flame; blow out the light,
the flame vanishes--where? Would it not be madness to assert the
flame immortal? Yet the soul, or vital principle of human existence,
is no more than the flame of a candle."

If you propound to these theorists the eternal question WHY?--why is
the world in existence? why is there a universe? why do we live? why
do we think and plan? why do we perish at the last?--their grandiose
reply is, "Because of the Law of Universal Necessity." They cannot
explain this mysterious Law to themselves, nor can they probe deep
enough to find the answer to a still more tremendous WHY--namely,
WHY, is there a Law of Universal Necessity?--but they are satisfied
with the result of their reasonings, if not wholly, yet in part, and
seldom try to search beyond that great vague vast Necessity, lest
their finite brains should reel into madness worse than death.
Recognizing, therefore, that in this cultivated age a wall of
scepticism and cynicism is gradually being built up by intellectual
thinkers of every nation against all that treats of the Supernatural
and Unseen, I am aware that my narration of the events I have
recently experienced will be read with incredulity. At a time when
the great empire of the Christian Religion is being assailed, or
politely ignored by governments and public speakers and teachers, I
realize to the fullest extent how daring is any attempt to prove,
even by a plain history of strange occurrences happening to one's
self, the actual existence of the Supernatural around us; and the
absolute certainty of a future state of being, after the passage
through that brief soul-torpor in which the body perishes, known to
us as Death.

In the present narration, which I have purposely called a "romance,"
I do not expect to be believed, as I can only relate what I myself
have experienced. I know that men and women of to-day must have
proofs, or what they are willing to accept as proofs, before they
will credit anything that purports to be of a spiritual tendency;--
something startling--some miracle of a stupendous nature, such as
according to prophecy they are all unfit to receive. Few will admit
the subtle influence and incontestable, though mysterious, authority
exercised upon their lives by higher intelligences than their own--
intelligences unseen, unknown, but felt. Yes! felt by the most
careless, the most cynical; in the uncomfortable prescience of
danger, the inner forebodings of guilt--the moral and mental torture
endured by those who fight a protracted battle to gain the hardly-
won victory in themselves of right over wrong--in the thousand and
one sudden appeals made without warning to that compass of a man's
life, Conscience--and in those brilliant and startling impulses of
generosity, bravery, and self-sacrifice which carry us on, heedless
of consequences, to the performance of great and noble deeds, whose
fame makes the whole world one resounding echo of glory--deeds that
we wonder at ourselves even in the performance of them--acts of
heroism in which mere life goes for nothing, and the Soul for a
brief space is pre-eminent, obeying blindly the guiding influence of
a something akin to itself, yet higher in the realms of Thought.

There are no proofs as to why such things should be; but that they
are, is indubitable. The miracles enacted now are silent ones, and
are worked in the heart and mind of man alone. Unbelief is nearly
supreme in the world to-day. Were an angel to descend from heaven in
the middle of a great square, the crowd would think he had got
himself up on pulleys and wires, and would try to discover his
apparatus. Were he, in wrath, to cast destruction upon them, and
with fire blazing from his wings, slay a thousand of them with the
mere shaking of a pinion, those who were left alive would either say
that a tremendous dynamite explosion had occurred, or that the
square was built on an extinct volcano which had suddenly broken out
into frightful activity. Anything rather than believe in angels--the
nineteenth century protests against the possibility of their
existence. It sees no miracle--it pooh-poohs the very enthusiasm
that might work them.

"Give a positive sign," it says; "prove clearly that what you say is
true, and I, in spite of my Progress and Atom Theory, will believe."
The answer to such a request was spoken eighteen hundred years and
more ago. "A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign,
and no sign shall be given unto them."

Were I now to assert that a sign had been given to ME--to me, as one
out of the thousands who demand it--such daring assurance on my part
would meet with the most strenuous opposition from all who peruse
the following pages; each person who reads having his own ideas on
all subjects, and naturally considering them to be the best if not
the only ideas worth anything. Therefore I wish it to be plainly
understood that in this book I personally advocate no new theory of
either religion or philosophy; nor do I hold myself answerable for
the opinions expressed by any of my characters. My aim throughout is
to let facts speak for themselves. If they seem strange, unreal,
even impossible, I can only say that the things of the invisible
world must always appear so to those whose thoughts and desires are
centred on this life only.






CHAPTER I.

AN ARTIST'S STUDIO.


In the winter of 188--, I was afflicted by a series of nervous
ailments, brought on by overwork and overworry. Chief among these
was a protracted and terrible insomnia, accompanied by the utmost
depression of spirits and anxiety of mind. I became filled with the
gloomiest anticipations of evil; and my system was strung up by slow
degrees to such a high tension of physical and mental excitement,
that the quietest and most soothing of friendly voices had no other
effect upon me than to jar and irritate. Work was impossible; music,
my one passion, intolerable; books became wearisome to my sight; and
even a short walk in the open air brought with it such lassitude and
exhaustion, that I soon grew to dislike the very thought of moving
out of doors. In such a condition of health, medical aid became
necessary; and a skilful and amiable physician, Dr. R----, of great
repute in nervous ailments, attended me for many weeks, with but
slight success. He was not to blame, poor man, for his failure to
effect a cure. He had only one way of treatment, and he applied it
to all his patients with more or less happy results. Some died, some
recovered; it was a lottery on which my medical friend staked his
reputation, and won. The patients who died were never heard of more--
those who recovered sang the praises of their physician everywhere,
and sent him gifts of silver plate and hampers of wine, to testify
their gratitude. His popularity was very great; his skill considered
marvellous; and his inability to do ME any good arose, I must
perforce imagine, out of some defect or hidden obstinacy in my
constitution, which was to him a new experience, and for which he
was unprepared. Poor Dr. R----! How many bottles of your tastily
prepared and expensive medicines have I not swallowed, in blind
confidence and blinder ignorance of the offences I thus committed
against all the principles of that Nature within me, which, if left
to itself, always heroically struggles to recover its own proper
balance and effect its own cure; but which, if subjected to the
experimental tests of various poisons or drugs, often loses strength
in the unnatural contest and sinks exhausted, perhaps never to rise
with actual vigour again. Baffled in his attempts to remedy my
ailments, Dr, R----at last resorted to the usual plan adopted by all
physicians when their medicines have no power. He recommended change
of air and scene, and urged my leaving London, then dark with the
fogs of a dreary winter, for the gaiety and sunshine and roses of
the Riviera. The idea was not unpleasant to me, and I determined to
take the advice proffered. Hearing of my intention, some American
friends of mine, Colonel Everard and his charming young wife,
decided to accompany me, sharing with me the expenses of the journey
and hotel accommodation. We left London all together on a damp foggy
evening, when the cold was so intense that it seemed to bite the
flesh like the sharp teeth of an animal, and after two days' rapid
journey, during which I felt my spirits gradually rising, and my
gloomy forebodings vanishing slowly one by one, we arrived at
Cannes, and put up at the Hotel de L----. It was a lovely place, and
most beautifully situated; the garden was a perfect wilderness of
roses in full bloom, and an avenue of orange-trees beginning to
flower cast a delicate fragrance on the warm delicious air.

Mrs. Everard was delighted.

"If you do not recover your health here," she said half laughingly
to me on the second morning after our arrival, "I am afraid your
case is hopeless. What sunshine! What a balmy wind! It is enough to
make a cripple cast away his crutches and forget he was ever lame.
Don't you think so?"

I smiled in answer, but inwardly I sighed. Beautiful as the scenery,
the air, and the general surroundings were, I could not disguise
from myself that the temporary exhilaration of my feelings, caused
by the novelty and excitement of my journey to Cannes, was slowly
but surely passing away. The terrible apathy, against which I had
fought for so many months, was again creeping over me with its cruel
and resistless force. I did my best to struggle against it; I
walked, I rode, I laughed and chatted with Mrs. Everard and her
husband, and forced myself into sociability with some of the
visitors at the hotel, who were disposed to show us friendly
attention. I summoned all my stock of will-power to beat back the
insidious physical and mental misery that threatened to sap the very
spring of my life; and in some of these efforts I partially
succeeded. But it was at night that the terrors of my condition
manifested themselves. Then sleep forsook my eyes; a dull throbbing
weight of pain encircled my head like a crown of thorns; nervous
terrors shook me from head to foot; fragments of my own musical
compositions hummed in my ears with wearying persistence--fragments
that always left me in a state of distressed conjecture; for I never
could remember how they ended, and I puzzled myself vainly over
crotchets and quavers that never would consent to arrange themselves
in any sort of finale. So the days went on; for Colonel Everard and
his wife, those days were full of merriment, sight-seeing, and
enjoyment. For me, though outwardly I appeared to share in the
universal gaiety, they were laden with increasing despair and
wretchedness; for I began to lose hope of ever recovering my once
buoyant health and strength, and, what was even worse, I seemed to
have utterly parted with all working ability. I was young, and up to
within a few months life had stretched brightly before me, with the
prospect of a brilliant career. And now what was I? A wretched
invalid--a burden to myself and to others--a broken spar flung with
other fragments of ship wrecked lives on the great ocean of Time,
there to be whirled away and forgotten. But a rescue was
approaching; a rescue sudden and marvellous, of which, in my wildest
fancies, I had never dreamed.

Staying in the same hotel with us was a young Italian artist,
Raffaello Cellini by name. His pictures were beginning to attract a
great deal of notice, both in Paris and Rome: not only for their
faultless drawing, but for their wonderfully exquisite colouring. So
deep and warm and rich were the hues he transferred to his canvases,
that others of his art, less fortunate in the management of the
palette, declared he must have invented some foreign compound
whereby he was enabled to deepen and brighten his colours for the
time being; but that the effect was only temporary, and that his
pictures, exposed to the air for some eight or ten years, would fade
away rapidly, leaving only the traces of an indistinct blur. Others,
more generous, congratulated him on having discovered the secrets of
the old masters. In short, he was admired, condemned, envied, and
flattered, all in a breath; while he himself, being of a singularly
serene and unruffled disposition, worked away incessantly, caring
little or nothing for the world's praise or blame.

Cellini had a pretty suite of rooms in the Hotel de L----, and my
friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly.
He was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship,
and so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us,
where we would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures,
or to discuss our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to
Cellini's studio, strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and
calming effect upon my suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room,
furnished with that "admired disorder" and mixed luxuriousness
peculiar to artists, with its heavily drooping velvet curtains, its
glimpses of white marble busts and broken columns, its flash and
fragrance of flowers that bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out
from the studio and leading to the garden, where a fountain bubbled
melodiously--all this pleased me and gave me a curious, yet most
welcome, sense of absolute rest. Cellini himself had a fascination
for me, for exactly the same reason. As an example of this, I
remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one occasion, and hurrying to
the most secluded part of the garden, in order to walk up and down
alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of nervous agitation which
had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about in feverish
restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as if in
thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near me,
he raised his eyes--they were clear and darkly brilliant--he
regarded me steadfastly with a kindly smile. Then lifting his hat
with the graceful reverence peculiar to an Italian, he passed on,
saying no word. But the effect of his momentary presence upon me was
remarkable--it was ELECTRIC. I was no longer agitated. Calmed,
soothed and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered
into her plans for the day with so much alacrity that she was
surprised and delighted.

"If you go on like this," she said, "you will be perfectly well in a
month."

I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence Raffaello
Cellini's presence had upon me; but such as it was I could not but
be grateful for the respite it gave me from nervous suffering, and
my now daily visits to the artist's studio were a pleasure and a
privilege not to be foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking
at his pictures. His subjects were all original, and some of them
were very weird and fantastic. One large picture particularly
attracted me. It was entitled "Lords of our Life and Death."
Surrounded by rolling masses of cloud, some silver-crested, some
shot through with red flame, was depicted the World, as a globe half
in light, half in shade. Poised above it was a great Angel, upon
whose calm and noble face rested a mingled expression of deep
sorrow, yearning pity, and infinite regret. Tears seemed to glitter
on the drooping lashes of this sweet yet stern Spirit; and in his
strong right hand he held a drawn sword--the sword of destruction--
pointed forever downwards to the fated globe at his feet. Beneath
this Angel and the world he dominated was darkness--utter
illimitable darkness. But above him the clouds were torn asunder,
and through a transparent veil of light golden mist, a face of
surpassing beauty was seen--a face on which youth, health, hope,
love, and ecstatic joy all shone with ineffable radiance. It was the
personification of Life--not life as we know it, brief and full of
care--but Life Immortal and Love Triumphant. Often and often I found
myself standing before this masterpiece of Cellini's genius, gazing
at it, not only with admiration, but with a sense of actual comfort.
One afternoon, while resting in my favourite low chair opposite the
picture, I roused myself from a reverie, and turning to the artist,
who was showing some water-colour sketches to Mrs. Everard, I said
abruptly:

"Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signor Cellini, or
had you a model to copy from?"

He looked at me and smiled.

"It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original," he said.

"A woman's face then, I suppose? How very beautiful she must be!"

"Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent. The
expression of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he
turned over the sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed
his thoughts to be far away from his occupation.

"And the Death Angel?" I went on. "Had you a model for that also?"

This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his
features.

"No indeed," he answered with ready frankness; "that is entirely my
own creation."

I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his
poetical fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.

"If you really admire the picture," he said, "pray do not say so. If
it is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and
spare the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of
having to confess that it is not above human praise. The only true
criticism of high art is silence--silence as grand as heaven
itself."

He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard)
looked at him curiously.

"Say now!" she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, "aren't you a little
bit eccentric, signor? You talk like a long-haired prophet! I never
met an artist before who couldn't stand praise; it is generally a
matter of wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating sweet
they can swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, I must
admit. I congratulate you!"

Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking
curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said:

"I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for
your portrait?"

"I!" I exclaimed, with astonishment. "Signor Cellini, I cannot
imagine why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is
nothing in my poor physiognomy worthy of your briefest attention."

"You must pardon me, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, "if I
presume to differ from you. I am exceedingly anxious to transfer
your features to my canvas. I am aware that you are not in strong
health, and that your face has not that roundness and colour
formerly habitual to it. But I am not an admirer of the milkmaid
type of beauty. Everywhere I seek for intelligence, for thought, for
inward refinement--in short, mademoiselle, you have the face of one
whom the inner soul consumes, and, as such, may I plead again with
you to give me a little of your spare time? YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT,
I ASSURE YOU."

These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular
impressiveness. I rose from my seat and looked at him steadily; he
returned me glance for glance, A strange thrill ran through me,
followed by that inexplicable sensation of absolute calm that I had
before experienced. I smiled--I could, not help smiling.

"I will come to-morrow," I said.

"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle! Can you be here at noon?"

I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted
enthusiasm.

"Of course! Any time you like, signor. We will arrange our
excursions so that they shall not interfere with the sittings. It
will be most interesting to watch the picture growing day by day.
What will you call it, signor? By some fancy title?"

"It will depend on its appearance when completed," he replied, as he
threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual
ceremonious politeness.

"Au revoir, madame! A demain, mademoiselle!" and the violet velvet
curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.

"Is there not something strange about that young man?" said Mrs.
Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L----
back to our own rooms. "Something fiendish or angelic, or a little
of both qualities mixed up?"

"I think he is what people term PECULIAR, when they fail to
understand the poetical vagaries of genius," I replied. "He is
certainly very uncommon."

"Well!" continued my friend meditatively, as she contemplated her
pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed
attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing;
"all I can say is that I wouldn't let him paint MY portrait if he
were to ask ever so! I should be scared to death. I wonder you,
being so nervous, were not afraid of him."

"I thought you liked him," I said.

"So I do. So does my husband. He's awfully handsome and clever, and
all that--but his conversation! There now, my dear, you must own he
is slightly QUEER. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only
criticism of art is silence? Isn't that utter rubbish?"

"The only TRUE criticism," I corrected her gently.

"Well, it's all the same. How can there be any criticism at all in
silence? According to his idea when we admire anything very much we
ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would
be entirely ridiculous! And what was that dreadful thing he said to
you?"

"I don't quite understand you," I answered; "I cannot remember his
saying anything dreadful."

"Oh, I have it now," continued Amy with rapidity; "it was awful! He
said you had the FACE OF ONE WHOM THE SOUL CONSUMES. You know that
was most horribly mystical! And when he said it he looked--ghastly!
What did he mean by it, I wonder?"

I made no answer; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation
as soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon
absorbed in a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a
blessed one for me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as
calmly as a child, while in my dreams the face of Cellini's "Angel
of life" smiled at me, and seemed to suggest peace.




CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.


The next day, punctually at noon, according to my promise, I entered
the studio. I was alone, for Amy, after some qualms of conscience
respecting chaperonage, propriety, and Mrs. Grundy, had yielded to
my entreaties and gone for a drive with some friends. In spite of
the fears she began to entertain concerning the Mephistophelian
character of Raffaello Cellini, there was one thing of which both
she and I felt morally certain: namely, that no truer or more
honourable gentleman than he ever walked on the earth. Under his
protection the loveliest and loneliest woman that ever lived would
have been perfectly safe--as safe as though she were shut up, like
the princess in the fairy-tale, in a brazen tower, of which only an
undiscoverable serpent possessed the key. When I arrived, the rooms
were deserted, save for the presence of a magnificent Newfoundland
dog, who, as I entered, rose, and shaking his shaggy body, sat down
before me and offered me his huge paw, wagging his tail in the most
friendly manner all the while, I at once responded to his cordial
greeting, and as I stroked his noble head, I wondered where the
animal had come from; for though--we had visited Signor Cellini's
studio every day, there had been no sign or mention of this stately,
brown-eyed, four-footed companion. I seated myself, and the dog
immediately lay down at my feet, every now and then looking up at me
with an affectionate glance and a renewed wagging of his tail.
Glancing round the well-known room, I noticed that the picture I
admired so much was veiled by a curtain of Oriental stuff, in which
were embroidered threads of gold mingled with silks of various
brilliant hues. On the working easel was a large square canvas,
already prepared, as I supposed, for my features to be traced
thereon. It was an exceedingly warm morning, and though the windows
as well as the glass doors of the conservatory were wide open, I
found the air of the studio very oppressive. I perceived on the
table a finely-wrought decanter of Venetian glass, in which clear
water sparkled temptingly. Rising from my chair, I took an antique
silver goblet from the mantelpiece, filled it with the cool fluid,
and was about to drink, when the cup was suddenly snatched from my
hands, and the voice of Cellini, changed from its usual softness to
a tone both imperious and commanding, startled me.

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