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A Romance Of Two Worlds

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




"Do not drink that," he said; "you must not! You dare not! I forbid
you!"

I looked up at him in mute astonishment. His face was very pale, and
his large dark eyes shone with suppressed excitement. Slowly my
self-possession returned to me, and I said calmly:

"YOU forbid me, signor? Surely you forget yourself. What harm have I
done in helping myself to a simple glass of water in your studio?
You are not usually so inhospitable."

While I spoke his manner changed, the colour returned to his face,
and his eyes softened--he smiled.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, for my brusquerie. It is true I forgot
myself for a moment. But you were in danger, and----"

"In danger!" I exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, mademoiselle. This," and he held up the Venetian decanter to
the light, "is not water simply. If you will observe it now with the
sunshine beating full against it, I think you will perceive
peculiarities in it that will assure you of my veracity."

I looked as he bade me, and saw, to my surprise, that the fluid was
never actually still for a second. A sort of internal bubbling
seemed to work in its centre, and curious specks and lines of
crimson and gold flashed through it from time to time.

"What is it?" I asked; adding with a half-smile, "Are you the
possessor of a specimen of the far-famed Aqua Tofana?"

Cellini placed the decanter carefully on a shelf, and I noticed that
he chose a particular spot for it, where the rays of the sun could
fall perpendicularly upon the vessel containing it. Then turning to
me, he replied:

"Aqua Tofana, mademoiselle, is a deadly poison, known to the
ancients and also to many learned chemists of our day. It is a clear
and colourless liquid, but it is absolutely still--as still as a
stagnant pool. What I have just shown you is not poison, but quite
the reverse. I will prove this to you at once." And taking a tiny
liqueur glass from a side table, he filled it with the strange fluid
and drank it off, carefully replacing the stopper in the decanter.

"But, Signor Cellini," I urged, "if it is so harmless, why did you
forbid my tasting it? Why did you say there was danger for me when I
was about to drink it?"

"Because, mademoiselle, for YOU it would be dangerous. Your health
is weak, your nerves unstrung. That elixir is a powerful vivifying
tonic, acting with great rapidity on the entire system, and rushing
through the veins with the swiftness of ELECTRICITY. I am accustomed
to it; it is my daily medicine. But I was brought to it by slow, and
almost imperceptible degrees. A single teaspoonful of that fluid,
mademoiselle, administered to anyone not prepared to receive it,
would be instant death, though its actual use is to vivify and
strengthen human life. You understand now why I said you were in
danger?"

"I understand," I replied, though in sober truth I was mystified and
puzzled.

"And you forgive my seeming rudeness?"

"Oh, certainly! But you have aroused my curiosity. I should like to
know more about this strange medicine of yours."

"You shall know more if you wish," said Cellini, his usual equable
humour and good spirits now quite restored. "You shall know
everything; but not to-day. We have too little time. I have not yet
commenced your picture. And I forgot--you were thirsty, and I was,
as you said, inhospitable. You must permit me to repair my fault."

And with a courteous salute he left the room, to return almost
immediately with a tumbler full of some fragrant, golden-coloured
liquid, in which lumps of ice glittered refreshingly. A few loose
rose-leaves were scattered on the top of this dainty-looking
beverage.

"You may enjoy this without fear," said he, smiling; "it will do you
good. It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore
untampered with. I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the
surface. That is a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one. They
float away from your lips in the action of drinking, and therefore
they are no obstacle."

I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow as summer
moonlight. While I sipped it the big Newfoundland, who had stretched
himself in a couchant posture on the hearth-rug ever since Cellini
had first entered the room, rose and walked majestically to my side
and rubbed his head caressingly against the folds of my dress.

"Leo has made friends with you, I see," said Cellini. "You should
take that as a great compliment, for he is most particular in his
choice of acquaintance, and most steadfast when he has once made up
his mind. He has more decision of character than many a statesman."

"How is it we have never seen him before?" I inquired. "You never
told us you had such a splendid companion."

"I am not his master," replied the artist. "He only favours me with
a visit occasionally. He arrived from Paris last night, and came
straight here, sure of his welcome. He does not confide his plans to
me, but I suppose he will return to his home when he thinks it
advisable. He knows his own business best."

I laughed.

"What a clever dog! Does he journey on foot, or does he take the
train?"

"I believe he generally patronizes the railway. All the officials
know him, and he gets into the guard's van as a matter of course.
Sometimes he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of
the way. But if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the
train reaches its destination. At the end of every six months or so,
the railway authorities send the bill of Leo's journeyings in to his
master, when it is always settled without difficulty."

"And who IS his master?" I ventured to ask.

Cellini's face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of
grave contemplation as he answered:

"His master, mademoiselle, is MY master--one who among men, is
supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among
thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To
him I owe everything--even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no
extreme devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my
gratitude. But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as
the sun is above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY
FRIEND, BEHOLD HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too
poor and unmeaning; but hereafter--who knows?----" and he broke off
abruptly with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the
tenor of his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: "But,
mademoiselle, I am wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of
the favour you have shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat
yourself here?" and he placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in
one corner of the studio, opposite his own easel. "I should be sorry
to fatigue you at all," he went on; "do you care for reading?"

I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume
bound in curiously embossed leather, and ornamented with silver
clasps. It was entitled "Letters of a Dead Musician."

"You will find clear gems of thought, passion, and feeling in this
book," said Cellini; "and being a musician yourself, you will know
how to appreciate them. The writer was one of those geniuses whose
work the world repays with ridicule and contempt. There is no fate
more enviable!"

I looked at the artist with some surprise as I took the volume he
recommended, and seated myself in the position he indicated; and
while he busied himself in arranging the velvet curtains behind me
as a background, I said:

"Do you really consider it enviable, Signor Cellini, to receive the
world's ridicule and contempt?"

"I do indeed," he replied, "since it is a certain proof that the
world does not understand you. To achieve something that is above
human comprehension, THAT is greatness. To have the serene sublimity
of the God-man Christ, and consent to be crucified by a gibing world
that was fated to be afterwards civilized and dominated by His
teachings, what can be more glorious? To have the magnificent
versatility of a Shakespeare, who was scarcely recognized in his own
day, but whose gifts were so vast and various that the silly
multitudes wrangle over his very identity and the authenticity of
his plays to this hour--what can be more triumphant? To know that
one's own soul can, if strengthened and encouraged by the force of
will, rise to a supreme altitude of power--is not that sufficient to
compensate for the little whining cries of the common herd of men
and women who have forgotten whether they ever had a spiritual spark
in them, and who, straining up to see the light of genius that burns
too fiercely for their earth-dimmed eyes, exclaim: 'WE see nothing,
therefore there CAN be nothing.' Ah, mademoiselle, the knowledge of
one's own inner Self-Existence is a knowledge surpassing all the
marvels of art and science!"

Cellini spoke with enthusiasm, and his countenance seemed illumined
by the eloquence that warmed his speech. I listened with a sort of
dreamy satisfaction; the visual sensation of utter rest that I
always experienced in this man's presence was upon me, and I watched
him with interest as he drew with quick and facile touch the outline
of my features on his canvas.

Gradually he became more and more absorbed in his work; he glanced
at me from time to time, but did not speak, and his pencil worked
rapidly. I turned over the "Letters of a Dead Musician" with some
curiosity. Several passages struck me as being remarkable for their
originality and depth of thought; but what particularly impressed me
as I read on, was the tone of absolute joy and contentment that
seemed to light up every page. There were no wailings over
disappointed ambition, no regrets for the past, no complaints, no
criticism, no word for or against the brothers of his art;
everything was treated from a lofty standpoint of splendid equality,
save when the writer spoke of himself, and then he became the
humblest of the humble, yet never abject, and always happy.

"O Music!" he wrote, "Music, thou Sweetest Spirit of all that serve
God, what have I done that thou shouldst so often visit me? It is
not well, O thou Lofty and Divine One, that thou shouldst stoop so
low as to console him who is the unworthiest of all thy servants.
For I am too feeble to tell the world how soft is the sound of thy
rustling pinions, how tender is the sighing breath of thy lips, how
beyond all things glorious is the vibration of thy lightest whisper!
Remain aloft, thou Choicest Essence of the Creator's Voice, remain
in that pure and cloudless ether, where alone thou art fitted to
dwell. My touch must desecrate thee, my voice affright thee. Suffice
it to thy servant, O Beloved, to dream of thee and die!"

Meeting Cellini's glance as I finished reading these lines, I asked:

"Did you know the author of this book, signor?"

"I knew him well," he replied; "he was one of the gentlest souls
that ever dwelt in human clay. As ethereal in his music as John
Keats in his poetry, he was one of those creatures born of dreams
and rapture that rarely visit this planet. Happy fellow! What a
death was his!"

"How did he die?" I inquired.

"He was playing the organ in one of the great churches of Rome on
the day of the Feast of the Virgin. A choir of finely trained voices
sang to his accompaniment his own glorious setting of the "Regina
Coeli." The music was wonderful, startling, triumphant--ever rising
in power and majesty to a magnificent finale, when suddenly a slight
crash was heard; the organ ceased abruptly, the singers broke off.
The musician was dead. He had fallen forward on the keys of the
instrument, and when they raised him, his face was fairer than the
face of any sculptured angel, so serene was its expression, so rapt
was its smile. No one could tell exactly the cause of his death--he
had always been remarkably strong and healthy. Everyone said it was
heart-disease--it is the usual reason assigned by medical savants
for these sudden departures out of the world. His loss was regretted
by all, save myself and one other who loved him. We rejoiced, and
still do rejoice, at his release."

I speculated vaguely on the meaning of these last words, but I felt
disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing
this, worked on at his sketch without further converse. My eyes were
growing heavy, and the printed words in the "Dead Musician's
Letters" danced before my sight like active little black demons with
thin waving arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness
stole over me, in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open
window, the singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the
hotel gardens, all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a
long way off. I saw the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic
Leo stretched full length near the easel, and the slight supple form
of Raffaello Cellini standing out in bold outline against the light;
yet all seemed shifting and mingling strangely into a sort of wide
radiance in which there was nothing but varying tints of colour. And
could it have been my fancy, or did I actually SEE the curtain fall
gradually away from my favourite picture, just enough for the face
of the "Angel of Life" to be seen smiling down upon me? I rubbed my
eyes violently, and started to my feet at the sound of the artist's
voice.

"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his
words sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a
thick wall. "You can leave me now if you like."

I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent
me clasped in my hand. Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the
"Lords of our Life and Death." It was closely veiled. I had then
experienced an optical illusion. I forced myself to speak--to smile
--to put back the novel sensations that were overwhelming me.

"I think," I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were
somebody else at a great distance off--"I think, Signor Cellini,
your Eastern wine has been too potent for me. My head is quite
heavy, and I feel dazed."

"It is mere fatigue and the heat of the day," he replied quietly. "I
am sure you are not too DAZED, as you call it, to see your favourite
picture, are you?"

I trembled. Was not that picture veiled? I looked--there was no
curtain at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the
canvas with intense brilliancy! Strange to say, I felt no surprise
at this circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously,
would have unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me. The
mistiness of my brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I
heard distinctly; and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as
full and ringing as it had previously seemed low and muffled. I
gazed steadfastly at the painting, and replied, half smiling:

"I should be indeed 'far gone,' as the saying is, if I could not see
that, signor! It is truly your masterpiece. Why have you never
exhibited it?"

"Can YOU ask that?" he said with impressive emphasis, at the same
time drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating glance of his
dark fathomless eyes. It then seemed to me that some great inner
force compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I
had taken no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them,
conveyed no special meaning to my own ears.

"Of course," I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, "you
would not so betray the high trust committed to your charge."

"Well said!" replied Cellini; "you are fatigued, mademoiselle. Au
revoir! Till to-morrow!" And, throwing open the door of his studio,
he stood aside for me to pass out. I looked at him inquiringly.

"Must I come at the same time to-morrow?" I asked.

"If you please."

I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had
something else to say before I left him. He waited patiently,
holding back with one hand the curtains of the portiere.

"I think I had a parting word to give you," I said at last, meeting
his gaze frankly; "but I seem to have forgotten what it was."
Cellini smiled gravely.

"Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle. I am unworthy the
effort on your part."

A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed
eagerly:

"I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!"

He bent his head reverentially.

"Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde--vous aussi. Au
revoir."

And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed
the door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense
of high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began
gradually to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a
languid feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as
though I had walked incessantly for many miles. I went straight to
my own room. I consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at
which the hotel luncheon was usually served. Mrs. Everard had
evidently not returned from her drive. I did not care to attend the
table d'hote alone; besides, I had no inclination to eat. I drew
down the window-blinds to shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful
Southern sunlight, and throwing myself on my bed I determined to
rest quietly till Amy came back. I had brought the "Letters of a
Dead Musician" away with me from Cellini's studio, and I began to
read, intending to keep myself awake by this means. But I found I
could not fix my attention on the page, nor could I think at all
connectedly. Little by little my eyelids closed; the book dropped
from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I was in a deep and
tranquil slumber.




CHAPTER III.

THREE VISIONS.


Roses, roses! An interminable chain of these royal blossoms, red and
white, wreathed by the radiant fingers of small rainbow-winged
creatures as airy as moonlight mist, as delicate as thistledown!
They cluster round me with smiling faces and eager eyes; they place
the end of their rose-garland in my hand, and whisper, "FOLLOW!"
Gladly I obey, and hasten onward. Guiding myself by the fragrant
chain I hold, I pass through a labyrinth of trees, whose luxuriant
branches quiver with the flight and song of birds. Then comes a
sound of waters; the riotous rushing of a torrent unchecked, that
leaps sheer down from rocks a thousand feet high, thundering forth
the praise of its own beauty as it tosses in the air triumphant
crowns of silver spray. How the living diamonds within it shift, and
change, and sparkle! Fain would I linger to watch this magnificence;
but the coil of roses still unwinds before me, and the fairy voices
still cry, "FOLLOW!" I press on. The trees grow thicker; the songs
of the birds cease; the light around me grows pale and subdued. In
the far distance I see a golden crescent that seems suspended by
some invisible thread in the air. Is it the young moon? No; for as I
gaze it breaks apart into a thousand points of vivid light like
wandering stars. These meet; they blaze into letters of fire. I
strain my dazzled eyes to spell out their meaning. They form one
word--HELIOBAS. I read it. I utter it aloud. The rose-chain breaks
at my feet, and disappears. The fairy voices die away on my ear.
There is utter silence, utter darkness,--save where that one NAME
writes itself in burning gold on the blackness of the heavens.

* * * *

The interior of a vast cathedral is opened before my gaze. The lofty
white marble columns support a vaulted roof painted in fresco, from
which are suspended a thousand lamps that emit a mild and steady
effulgence. The great altar is illuminated; the priests, in
glittering raiment, pace slowly to and fro. The large voice of the
organ, murmuring to itself awhile, breaks forth in a shout of
melody; and a boy's clear, sonorous treble tones pierce the incense-
laden air. "Credo!"--and the silver, trumpet-like notes fall from
the immense height of the building like a bell ringing in a pure
atmosphere--"Credo in unum Deum; Patrem omni-potentum, factorem
coeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium."

The cathedral echoes with answering voices; and, involuntarily
kneeling, I follow the words of the grand chant. I hear the music
slacken; the notes of rejoicing change to a sobbing and remorseful
wail; the organ shudders like a forest of pines in a tempest,
"Crucifixus etiam pro nobis; passus et sepultus est." A darkness
grows up around me; my senses swim. The music altogether ceases; but
a brilliant radiance streams through a side-door of the church, and
twenty maidens, clad in white and crowned with myrtle, pacing two by
two, approach me. They gaze at me with joyous eyes. "Art thou also
one of us?" they murmur; then they pass onward to the altar, where
again the lights are glimmering. I watch them with eager interest; I
hear them uplift their fresh young voices in prayer and praise. One
of them, whose deep blue eyes are full of lustrous tenderness,
leaves her companions, and softly approaches me. She holds a pencil
and tablet in her hand.

"Write!" she says, in a thrilling whisper; "and write quickly! for
whatsoever thou shalt now inscribe is the clue to thy destiny."

I obey her mechanically, impelled not by my own will, but by some
unknown powerful force acting within and around me. I trace upon the
tablet one word only; it is a name that startles me even while I
myself write it down--HELIOBAS. Scarcely have I written it when a
thick white cloud veils the cathedral from my sight; the fair maiden
vanishes, and all is again still.

* * * *

I am listening to the accents of a grave melodious voice, which,
from its slow and measured tones, would seem to be in the action of
reading or reciting aloud. I see a small room sparely furnished, and
at a table covered with books and manuscripts is seated a man of
noble features and commanding presence. He is in the full prime of
life; his dark hair has no thread of silver to mar its luxuriance;
his face is unwrinkled; his forehead unfurrowed by care; his eyes,
deeply sunk beneath his shelving brows, are of a singularly clear
and penetrating blue, with an absorbed and watchful look in them,
like the eyes of one accustomed to gaze far out at sea. His hand
rests on the open pages of a massive volume; he is reading, and his
expression is intent and earnest--as if he were littering his own
thoughts aloud, with the conviction and force of an orator who knows
the truth of which he speaks:

"The Universe is upheld solely by the Law of Love. A majestic
invisible Protectorate governs the winds, the tides, the incoming
and outgoing of the seasons, the birth of the flowers, the growth of
forests, the outpourings of the sunlight, the silent glittering of
the stars. A wide illimitable Beneficence embraces all creation. A
vast Eternal Pity exists for all sorrow, all sin. He who first swung
the planets in the air, and bade them revolve till Time shall be no
more--He, the Fountain-Head of Absolute Perfection, is no deaf,
blind, capricious, or remorseless Being. To Him the death of the
smallest singing-bird is as great or as little as the death of a
world's emperor. For Him the timeless withering of an innocent
flower is as pitiful as the decay of a mighty nation. An infant's
first prayer to Him is heard with as tender a patience as the united
petitions of thousands of worshippers. For in everything and around
everything, from the sun to a grain of sand, He hath a portion,
small or great, of His own most Perfect Existence. Should He hate
His Creation, He must perforce hate Himself; and that Love should
hate Love is an impossibility. Therefore He loves all His work; and
as Love, to be perfect, must contain Pity, Forgiveness, and
Forbearance, so doth He pity, forgive, and forbear. Shall a mere man
deny himself for the sake of his child or friend? and shall the
Infinite Love refuse to sacrifice itself--yea, even to as immense a
humility as its greatness is immeasurable? Shall we deny those
merciful attributes to God which we acknowledge in His creature,
Man? O my Soul, rejoice that thou hast pierced the veil of the
Beyond; that thou hast seen and known the Truth! that to thee is
made clear the Reason of Life, and the Recompense of Death: yet
while rejoicing, grieve that thou art not fated to draw more than a
few souls to the comfort thou hast thyself attained!"

Fascinated by the speaker's voice and countenance, I listen,
straining my ears to catch every word that falls from his lips. He
rises; he stands erect; he stretches out his hands as though in
solemn entreaty.

"Azul!" he exclaims. "Messenger of my fate; thou who art a guiding
spirit of the elements, thou who ridest the storm-cloud and sittest
throned on the edge of the lightning! By that electric spark within
me, of which thou art the Twin Flame, I ask of thee to send me this
one more poor human soul; let me change its unrestfulness into
repose, its hesitation to certainty, its weakness to strength, its
weary imprisonment to the light of liberty! Azul!"

His voice ceases, his extended hands fall slowly, and gradually,
gradually he turns his whole figure towards ME. He faces me--his
intense eyes burn through me--his strange yet tender smile absorbs
me. Yet I am full of unreasoning terror; I tremble--I strive to turn
away from that searching and magnetic gaze. His deep, melodious
tones again ring softly on the silence. He addresses me.

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