Ardath - Marie Corelli (love story novels in english .txt) 📗

class="calibre1">OF UNITY,—thirdly, in failing to prove to the multitude that Death is is not DESTRUCTION, but simply CHANGE. Nothing really DIES; and the priests should make use of Science to illustrate this fact to the people. Each of these virtues has its Miracle Effect: Unity is strength; Self abnegation attracts the Divine Influences, and Death, viewed as a glorious transformation, which it IS, inspires the soul with a sense of larger life. Sects are UNChristian,—there should he only ONE vast, UNITED Church for all the Christian world—a Church, whose pure doctrines should include all the hints received from Nature and the scientific working of the Universe,—the marvels of the stars and the planetary systems,—the wonders of plants and minerals,—the magic of light and color and music; and the TRUE MIRACLES of Spirit and Matter should be inquired into reverently, prayerfully, and always with the deepest HUMILITY;—while the first act of worship performed every holy Morn and Eve should be Gratitude! Gratitude—gratitude!

Ay, even for a sorrow we should be thankful,—it may conceal a blessing we wot not of! For sight, for sense, for touch, for the natural beauty of this present world,—for the smile on a face we love—for the dignity and responsibility of our lives, and the immortality with which we are endowed,—Oh my friend! would that every breath we drew could in some way express to the All Loving Creator our adoring recognition of His countless benefits!”

 

Carried away by his inward fervor, his eyes flashed with extraordinary brilliancy,—his countenance was grand, inspired, and beautiful, and Alwyn gazed at him in wondering, fascinated silence. Here was a man who had indeed made the best of his manhood!—what a life was his! how satisfying and serene! Master of himself, he was, as it were, master of the world,—all Nature ministered to him, and the pageant of passing history was as a mere brilliant picture painted for his instruction,—a picture on which he, looking, learned all that it was needful for him to know. And concerning this mystic Brotherhood of the Cross and Star, what treasures of wisdom they must have secreted in their chronicles through so many thousands of years! What a privilege it would be to explore such world-forgotten tracks of time! Yielding to a sudden impulse, Alwyn spoke his thought aloud: “Heliobas,” he said, “tell me, could not I, too, become a member of your Fraternity?”

 

Heliobas smiled kindly. “You could, assuredly”—he replied—“if you chose to submit to fifteen years’ severe trial and study. But I think a different sphere of duty is designed for you. Wait and see! The rules of our Order forbid the disclosure of knowledge attained, save through the medium of others not connected with us; and we may not write out our discoveries for open publication.

Such a vow would be the death-blow to your poetical labors,—and the command your Angel gave you points distinctly to a life lived IN the world of men,—not out of it.”

 

“But you yourself are in the world of men at this moment”—argued Alwyn—“And you are free; did you not tell me you were bound for Mexico?”

 

“Does going to Mexico constitute liberty?” laughed Heliobas. “I assure you I am closely constrained by my vows wherever I am,—as closely as though I were shut in our turret among the heights of Caucasus! I am going to Mexico solely to receive some manuscripts from one of our brethren, who is dying there. He has lived as a recluse, like Elzear of Melyana, and to him have been confided certain important chronicles, which must be taken into trustworthy hands for preservation. Such is the object of my journey. But now, tell me, have you thoroughly understood all I have said to you?”

 

“Perfectly!” rejoined Alwyn. “My way seems very clear before me,—

a happy way enough, too, if it were not quite so lonely!” And he sighed a little.

 

Heliobas rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder.

“Courage!”…he said softly. “Bear with the loneliness a while, IT

MAY NOT LAST LONG!”

 

A slight thrill ran through Alwyn’s nerves,—he felt as though he were on the giddy verge of some great and unexpected joy,—his heart beat quickly and his eyes grew dim. Mastering the strange emotion with an effort, he was reluctantly beginning to think it was time to take his leave, when Heliobas, who had been watching him intently, spoke in a cheerful, friendly tone: “Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. Alwyn, suppose you come with me and hear the Ange-Demon of music at St. James’s Hall?

Will you? He can bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet sound,—a benediction not to be despised in this workaday world of clamor,—and out of all the exquisite symbols of Heaven offered to us on earth, Music, I think, is the grandest and best.”

 

“I will go with you wherever you please,” replied Alwyn, glad of any excuse that gave him more of the attractive Chaldean’s company,—“But what Ange-Demon are you speaking of?”

 

“Sarasate,—or ‘Sarah Sayty,’ as some of the clear Britishers call him—” laughed Heliobas, putting on his overcoat as he spoke; “the ‘Spanish fiddler,’ as the crabbed musical critics define him when they want to be contemptuous, which they do pretty often. These, together with the literary ‘oracles,’ have their special cliques, —their little chalked out circles, in which they, like tranced geese, stand cackling, unable to move beyond the marked narrow limit. As there are fools to be found who have the ignorance, as well as the effrontery, to declare that the obfuscated, ill-expressed, and ephemeral productions of Browning are equal, if not superior, to the clear, majestic, matchless, and immortal utterances of Shakespeare,—ye gods! the force of asinine braying can no further go than this! … even so there are similar fools who say that the cold, correct, student-like playing of Joachim is superior to that of Sarasate. But come and judge for yourself,—if you have never heard him, it will be a sort of musical revelation to you,—he is not so much a violinist, as a human violin played by some invisible sprite of song. London listens to him, but doesn’t know quite what to make of him,—he is a riddle that only poets can read. If we start now, we shall be just in time,—I have two stalls. Shall we go?”

 

Alwyn needed no second invitation,—he was passionately fond of music,—his interest was aroused, his curiosity excited,—

moreover, whatever the fine taste of Heliobas pronounced as good must, he felt sure, be super-excellent. In a few minutes they had left the hotel together, and were walking briskly toward Piccadilly, their singularly handsome faces and stately figures causing many a passer-by to glance after them admiringly, and murmur sotto voce, “Splendid-looking fellows! … not English!”

For though Englishmen are second to none in mere muscular strength and symmetry of form, it is a fact worth noting, that if any one possessing poetic distinction of look, or picturesque and animated grace of bearing, be seen suddenly among the more or less monotonously uniform crowd in the streets of London, he or she is pretty sure to be set down, rightly or wrongly, as “NOT English.”

Is not this rather a pity?—for England!

 

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

 

THE WIZARD OF THE BOW.

 

When they entered the concert-hall, the orchestra had already begun the programme of the day with Mendelssohn’s “Italian”

Symphony. The house was crowded to excess; numbers of people were standing, apparently willing to endure a whole afternoon’s fatigue, rather than miss hearing the Orpheus of Andalusia,—the “Endymion out of Spain,” as one of our latest and best poets has aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant interest was shown in the orchestral performance,—the “Italian” Symphony is not a really great or suggestive work, and this is probably the reason why it so often fails to arouse popular enthusiasm. For, be it understood by the critical elect, that the heart-whole appreciation of the million is by no means so “vulgar” as it is frequently considered,—it is the impulsive response of those who, not being bound hand and foot by any special fetters of thought or prejudice, express what they instinctively FEEL to be true. You cannot force these “vulgar,” by any amount of “societies,” to adopt Browning as a household god,—but they will appropriate Shakespeare, and glory in him, too, without any one’s compulsion.

If authors, painters, and musicians would probe more earnestly than they do to the core of this INSTINCTIVE HIGHER ASPIRATION OF

PEOPLES, it would be all the better for their future fame. For each human unit in a nation has its great, as well as base passions,—and it is the clear duty of all the votaries of art to appeal to and support the noblest side of nature only—moreover, to do so with a simple, unforced, yet graphic eloquence of meaning that can be grasped equally and at once by both the humble and exalted.

 

“It is not in the least Italian”—said Heliobas, alluding to the Symphony, when it was concluded, and the buzz of conversation surged through the hall like the noise that might be made by thousands of swarming bees,—“There is not a breath of Italian air or a glimpse of Italian light about it. The dreamy warmth of the South,—the radiant color that lies all day and all night on the lakes and mountains of Dante’s land,—the fragrance of flowers—

the snatches of peasants’ and fishermen’s songs—the tunefulness of nightingales in the moonlight,—the tinkle of passing mandolins,—all these things should be hinted at in an ‘Italian’

Symphony—and all these are lacking. Mendelssohn tried to do what was not in him,—I do not believe the half-phlegmatic, half-philosophical nature of a German could ever understand the impetuously passionate soul of Italy.”

 

As he spoke, a fair girl, with gray eyes that were almost black, glanced round at him inquiringly,—a faint blush flitted over her cheeks, and she seemed about to speak, but, as though restrained by timidity, she looked away again and said nothing. Heliobas smiled.

 

“That pretty child is Italian,” he whispered to Alwyn. “Patriotism sparkled in those bright eyes of hers—love for the land of lilies, from which she is at present one transplanted!”

 

Alwyn smiled also, assentingly, and thought how gracious, kindly, and gentle were the look and voice of the speaker. He found it difficult to realize that this man, who now sat beside him in the stalls of a fashionable London concert-room, was precisely the same one who, clad in the long flowing white robes of his Order, had stood before the Altar in the chapel at Dariel, a stately embodiment of evangelical authority, intoning the Seven Glorias!

It seemed strange, and yet not strange, for Heliobas was a personage who might be imagined anywhere,—by the bedside of a dying child, among the parliaments of the learned, in the most brilliant social assemblies, at the head of a church,—anything he chose to do would equally become him, inasmuch as it was utterly impossible to depict him engaged in otherwise than good and noble deeds. At that moment a tumultuous clamor of applause broke out on all sides,—applause that was joined in by the members of the orchestra as well as the audience,—a figure emerged from a side door on the left and ascended the platform—a slight, agile creature, with rough, dark hair and eager, passionate eyes—no other than the hero of the occasion, Sarasate himself. Sarasate e il suo Violino!—there they were, the two companions; master and servant—king and subject. The one, a lithe, active looking man of handsome, somewhat serious countenance and absorbed expression,—

the other, a mere frame of wood with four strings deftly knotted across it, in which cunningly contrived little bit of mechanism was imprisoned the intangible, yet living Spirit of Sound. A miracle in its way!—that out of such common