A Romance of Two Worlds - Marie Corelli (online e reader .TXT) 📗

would rather die than sink into the miserable nonentity of such lives as are lived by the majority of women.”

I paused, overcome by my own feelings. Heliobas smiled.

“So! You are stung!” he said quietly; “stung into action. That is as it should be. Resume your seat, mademoiselle, and do not be angry with me. I am studying you for your own good. In the meantime permit me to analyze your words a little. You are young and inexperienced. You speak of the ‘over-sensitiveness, the fatal delicacy, the highly-strung nervousness of the feminine nature.’ My dear lady, if you had lived as long as I have, you would know that these are mere stock phrases—for the most part meaningless. As a rule, women are less sensitive than men. There are many of your sex who are nothing but lumps of lymph and fatty matter—women with less instinct than the dumb beasts, and with more brutality. There are others who,— adding the low cunning of the monkey to the vanity of the peacock,— seek no other object but the furtherance of their own designs, which are always petty even when not absolutely mean. There are obese women whose existence is a doze between dinner and tea. There are women with thin lips and pointed noses, who only live to squabble over domestic grievances and interfere in their neighbours’ business. There are your murderous women with large almond eyes, fair white hands, and voluptuous red lips, who, deprived of the dagger or the poison-bowl, will slay a reputation in a few lazily enunciated words, delivered with a perfectly high-bred accent. There are the miserly woman, who look after cheese-parings and candle-ends, and lock up the soap. There are the spiteful women whose very breath is acidity and venom. There are the frivolous women whose chitter-chatter and senseless giggle are as empty as the rattling of dry peas on a drum. In fact, the delicacy of women is extremely overrated—their coarseness is never done full justice to. I have heard them recite in public selections of a kind that no man would dare to undertake—such as Tennyson’s ‘Rizpah,’ for instance. I know a woman who utters every line of it, with all its questionable allusions, boldly before any and everybody, without so much as an attempt at blushing. I assure you men are far more delicate than women—far more chivalrous—far larger in their views, and more generous in their sentiments. But I will not deny the existence of about four women in every two hundred and fifty, who may be, and possibly are, examples of what the female sex was originally intended to be—pure-hearted, self-denying, gentle and truthful— filled with tenderness and inspiration. Heaven knows my own mother was all this and more! And my sister is—. But let me speak to you of yourself. You love music, I understand—you are a professional artist?”

“I was,” I answered, “till my state of health stopped me from working.”

Heliobas bent his eyes upon me in friendly sympathy.

“You were, and you will be again, an improvisatrice” he went on. “Do you not find it difficult to make your audiences understand your aims?”

I smiled as the remembrance of some of my experiences in public came to my mind.

“Yes,” I said, half laughing. “In England, at least, people do not know what is meant by IMPROVISING. They think it is to take a little theme and compose variations on it—the mere ABC of the art. But to sit down to the piano and plan a whole sonata or symphony in your head, and play it while planning it, is a thing they do not and will not understand. They come to hear, and they wonder and go away, and the critics declare it to be CLAP-TRAP.”

“Exactly!” replied Heliobas. “But you are to be congratulated on having attained this verdict. Everything that people cannot quite understand is called CLAP-TRAP in England; as for instance the matchless violin-playing of Sarasate; the tempestuous splendor of Rubinstein; the wailing throb of passion in Hollmann’s violoncello— this is, according to the London press, CLAP-TRAP; while the coldly correct performances of Joachim and the ‘icily-null’ renderings of Charles Halle are voted ‘magnificent’ and ‘full of colour.’ But to return to yourself. Will you play to me?”

“I have not touched the instrument for two months,” I said; “I am afraid I am out of practice.”

“Then you shall not exert yourself to-day,” returned Heliobas kindly. “But I believe I can help you with your improvisations. You compose the music as you play, you tell me. Well, have you any idea how the melodies or the harmonies form themselves in your brain?”

“Not the least in the world,” I replied.

“Is the act of thinking them out an effort to you?” he asked.

“Not at all. They come as though someone else were planning them for me.”

“Well, well! I think I can certainly be of use to you in this matter as in others. I understand your temperament thoroughly. And now let me give you my first prescription.”

He went to a corner of the room and lifted from the floor an ebony casket, curiously carved and ornamented with silver. This he unlocked. It contained twelve flasks of cut glass, stoppered with gold and numbered in order. He next pulled out a side drawer in this casket, and in it I saw several little thin empty glass tubes, about the size of a cigarette-holder. Taking two of these he filled them from two of the larger flasks, corked them tightly, and then turning to me, said:

“To-night, on going to bed, have a warm bath, empty the contents of the tube marked No. 1 into it, and then immerse yourself thoroughly for about five minutes. After the bath, put the fluid in this other tube marked 2, into a tumbler of fresh spring water, and drink it off. Then go straight to bed.”

“Shall I have any dreams?” I inquired with a little anxiety.

“Certainly not,” replied Heliobas, smiling. “I wish you to sleep as soundly as a year-old child. Dreams are not for you to-night. Can you come to me tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock? If you can arrange to stay to dinner, my sister will be pleased to meet you; but perhaps you are otherwise engaged?”

I told him I was not, and explained where I had taken rooms, adding that I had come to Paris expressly to put myself under his treatment.

“You shall have no cause to regret this journey,” he said earnestly. “I can cure you thoroughly, and I will. I forget your nationality— you are not English?”

“No, not entirely. I am half Italian.”

“Ah, yes! I remember now. But you have been educated in England?”

“Partly.”

“I am glad it is only partly,” remarked Heliobas. “If it had been entirely, your improvisations would have had no chance. In fact you never would have improvised. You would have played the piano like poor mechanical Arabella Goddard. As it is, there is some hope of originality in you—you need not be one of the rank and file unless you choose.”

“I do not choose,” I said.

“Well, but you must take the consequences, and they are bitter. A woman who does not go with her time is voted eccentric; a woman who prefers music to tea and scandal is an undesirable acquaintance; and a woman who prefers Byron to Austin Dobson is—in fact, no measure can gauge her general impossibility!” I laughed gaily. “I will take all the consequences as willingly as I will take your medicines,” I said, stretching out my hand for the little vases which he gave me wrapped in paper. “And I thank you very much, monsieur. And”—here I hesitated. Ought I not to ask him his fee? Surely the medicines ought to be paid for?

Heliobas appeared to read my thoughts, for he said, as though answering my unuttered question:

“I do not accept fees, mademoiselle. To relieve your mind from any responsibility of gratitude to me, I will tell you at once that I never promise to effect a cure unless I see that the person who comes to be cured has a certain connection with myself. If the connection exists I am bound by fixed laws to serve him or her. Of course I am able also to cure those who are NOT by nature connected with me; but then I have to ESTABLISH a connection, and this takes time, and is sometimes very difficult to accomplish, almost as tremendous a task as the laying down of the Atlantic cable. But in your case I am actually COMPELLED to do my best for you, so you need be under no sense of obligation.”

Here was a strange speech—the first really inexplicable one I had heard from his lips.

“I am connected with you?” I asked, surprised. “How? In what way?”

“It would take too long to explain to you just now,” said Heliobas gently; “but I can prove to you in a moment that a connection DOES exist between YOUR inner self, and MY inner self, if you wish it.”

“I do wish it very much,” I answered.

“Then take my hand,” continued Heliobas, stretching it out, “and look steadily at me.”

I obeyed, half trembling. As I gazed, a veil appeared to fall from my eyes. A sense of security, of comfort, and of absolute confidence came upon me, and I saw what might be termed THE IMAGE OF ANOTHER FACE looking at me THROUGH or BEHIND the actual form and face of Heliobas. And that other face was his, and yet not his; but whatever it appeared to be, it was the face of a friend to ME, one that I was certain I had known long, long ago, and moreover one that I must have loved in some distant time, for my whole soul seemed to yearn towards that indistinct haze where smiled the fully recognised yet unfamiliar countenance. This strange sensation lasted but a few seconds, for Heliobas suddenly dropped my hand. The room swam round me; the walls seemed to rock; then everything steadied and came right again, and all was as usual, only I was amazed and bewildered.

“What does it mean?” I murmured.

“It means the simplest thing in nature,” replied Heliobas quietly, “namely, that your soul and mine are for some reason or other placed on the same circle of electricity. Nothing more nor less. Therefore we must serve each other. Whatever I do for you, you have it in your power to repay me amply for hereafter.”

I met the steady glance of his keen eyes, and a sense of some indestructible force within me gave me a sudden courage.

“Decide for me as you please,” I answered fearlessly. “I trust you completely, though I do not know why I do so.”

“You will know before long. You are satisfied of the fact that my touch can influence you?”

“Yes; most thoroughly.”

“Very well. All other explanations, if you desire them, shall be given you in due time. In the power I possess over you and some others, there is neither mesmerism nor magnetism—nothing but a purely scientific fact which can be clearly and reasonably proved and demonstrated. But till you are thoroughly restored to health, we will defer all discussion. And now, mademoiselle, permit me to escort you to the door. I shall expect you tomorrow.”

Together we left the beautiful room in which this interview had taken place, and crossed the hall. As we approached the entrance, Heliobas turned towards me and said with a smile:

“Did not the manoeuvres of my street-door astonish you?”

“A little,” I confessed.

“It is very simple. The button you touch outside is electric; it opens the door and at the same time rings the bell in my study, thus informing me of a visitor. When the visitor steps