 Chapter 1 of Ardath, The Story of a Dead Self. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ardath by Marie Carelli. Part 1, Saint and Skeptic. The Monastery What mirrored whim seems all this poor endeavor after fame to one who keeps within his steadfast aim a love immortal and immortal too. Look not so wildered, for these things are true and never can be born of atomics that buzz about our slumbers like brain flies, leaving us fancy sick. No, I am sure my restless spirit never could endure to brood so long upon one luxury. Unless it did, though fearfully a spy, a hope beyond the shadow of a dream. Keats. Deep in the heart of the Caucasus Mountains, a wild storm was gathering. Drear shadows drooped and thickened above the pass of Dariel, that terrific gorge which, like a mere thread, seems to hang between the toppling frostbound heights above and the black abysmal depths below. Clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green and white, drifted heavily yet swiftly across the jagged peaks where, looming largely out of the mist, the snow-capped crest of Mount Kazbek rose coldly white against the darkness of the threatening sky. Night was approaching, though away to the west a broad gash of crimson, a seeming wound in the breast of heaven showed where the sun had set an hour since. Now and again the rising wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and spectral pines that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the reluctant earth, clung tenaciously to their stony vantage ground. And mingling with its wailing murmur, there came a distant horse roaring as of tumbling torrents, while at far-off intervals could be heard the sweeping thud of an avalanche slipping from point to point on its disastrous downward way. Through the breathing vapors, the steep bare sides of the near mountains were paledly visible, their icy pinnacles, like uplifted daggers, piercing with sharp glitter the density of the low-hanging haze, from which large drops of moisture began presently to ooze rather than fall. Gradually the wind increased, and soon with sudden fierce gusts shook the pine trees into shuttering anxiety. The red slit in the sky closed, and a gleam of forked lightning leapt a thwart the driving darkness. An appalling crash of thunder followed almost instantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in sullenly grand echoes on all sides of the path, and then, with a swirling, hissing rush of rain, the unbound hurricane burst forth alive and furious, on, on, splitting huge boughs and flinging them aside like straws, swelling the rivers into riotous floods that swept hither and thither, carrying with them masses of rock and stone and tons of loosened snow. On, on, with pitiless force and destructive haste, the tempest rolled, thundered, and shrieked its way through Darriel. As the night darkened and the clamour of the conflicting elements grew more sustained and violent, a sudden sweet sound floated softly through the turbulent air, the slow, measured tolling of a bell. To and fro, to and fro, the silvery chime swung with mild distinctness. It was the Vesper bell ringing in the monastery of Lars, far up among the crags crowning the ravine. There, the wind roared and blustered its loudest. It whirled round and round the quaint, casillated building, battering at the gates and moving their heavy iron hinges to a most dolorous groaning. It flung rattling hailstones at the narrow windows and raged and howled at every corner and through every crevice. While sneaky twists of lightning played threateningly over the tall iron cross that surmounted the roof, as though bent on striking it down and splitting open the firm old walls it guarded. All was war and tumult without. But within a tranquil peace prevailed, enhanced by the grave murmur of organ music, men's voices mingling together in mellow unison chanted the Magnificate and the uplifted steady harmony of the grand old anthem rose triumphantly above the noise of the storm. The monks who inhabited this mountain eerie, once a fortress, now a religious refuge, were assembled in their little chapel, a sort of grotto roughly hewn out of the natural rock. Fifteen in number they stood in rows of three abreast, their white woollen robes touching the ground, their white cowls thrown back, and their dark faces and flashing eyes turned devoutly toward the altar, whereon blazed in strange and solitary brilliancy across a fire. At the first glance it was easy to see that they were a peculiar community devoted to some peculiar form of worship, for their costume was totally different in character and detail from any such as are worn by the various religious fraternities of the Greek, Roman, or Armenian faith, and one a special feature of their outward appearance served as a distinctly marked sign of their severance from all known monastic orders. This was the absence of the disfiguring tonsure. They were all fine-looking men, seemingly in the prime of life, and they entoned the Magnificate, not drowsily or droningly, but with a rich tunefulness and warmth of utterance that stirred to a faint surprise and contempt the jaded spirit of one reluctant listener present among them. This was a stranger who had arrived that evening at the monastery and who intended remaining there for the night, a man of distinguished and somewhat haughty bearing with a dark, sorrowful, poetic face, chiefly remarkable for its mingled expression of dreamy ardor and cold scorn, such as the unknown sculptor of Hadrian's era caught and fixed in the marble of his ivy-crowned Bacchus Antinus, whose half-sweet, half-cruel smile suggests a perpetual doubt of all things and all men. He was clad in the rough and ready garb of the traveling Englishman and his athletic figure in its plain-cut modern attire looked curiously out of place in that mysterious grotto, which, with its rocky walls and flaming symbol of salvation, seemed suited only to the picturesque prophet-like forms of the white-gowned brethren, whom now he surveyed, as he stood behind their ranks with a gleam of something like mockery in his proud, weary eyes. What sort of fellows are these, he mused, fools or knaves? They must be one or the other. Else they would not thus chant praises to a deity of whose existence there is and can be no proof. It is either sheer ignorance or hypocrisy, or both combined. I can pardon ignorance, but not hypocrisy. For, however dreary the results of truth, yet truth alone prevails. Its killing bolt destroys the elusive beauty of the universe. But what then? Is it not better so than that the universe should continue to seem beautiful only through the medium of a lie? His straight brows drew together in a puzzled frowning line as he asked himself this question, and he moved restlessly. He was becoming impatient. The chanting of the monks grew monotonous to his ears. The lighted cross on the altar dazzled him with its glare. Moreover, he disliked all forms of religious service. Though, as a lover of classic lore, it is probable he would have witnessed a celebration in honor of Apollo or Diana with the liveliest interest. But the very name of Christianity was obnoxious to him. Like Shelley, he considered that creed a vulgar and barbarous superstition. Like Shelley, he inquired, if God has spoken, why is the world not convinced? He began to wish he had never set foot inside this abode of what he deemed a pretended sanctity. Although, as a matter of fact, he had a special purpose of his own in visiting the place. A purpose so utterly at variance with the professed tenets of his present life and character that the mere thought of it secretly irritated him, even while he was determined to accomplish it. As yet, he had only made acquaintance with two of the monks, courteous, good-humored personages, who had received him on his arrival with the customary hospitality, which it was the rule of the monastery to afford to all belated wayfarers journeying across the perilous paths of Dariel. They had asked him no questions as to his name or nation. They had simply seen in him a stranger overtaken by the storm and in need of shelter, and had entertained him accordingly. They had conducted him to the refectory where a well-piled log-fire was cheerfully blazing, and there had set before him an excellent supper, flavored with equally excellent wine. He had, however, scarcely begun to converse with them when the Vesper bell had rung, and, obedient to its summons, they had hurried away, leaving him to enjoy his repast in solitude. When he had finished it, he had sat for a while dreamily listening to the solemn strains of the organ, which penetrated to every part of the building, and then, moved by a vague curiosity to see how many men there were dwelling thus together in this lonely retreat, perched like an eagle's nest among the frozen heights of the Caucasus. He had managed to find his way, guided by the sound of the music, through various long corridors and narrow twisting passages into the cavernous grot where he now stood, feeling infinitely bored and listlessly dissatisfied. His primary object in entering the chapel had been to get a good full view of the monks, and of their faces especially. But at present this was impossible, as from the position he was obliged to occupy behind them, their backs alone were visible. And who knows, he thought moodily, how long they will go on intoning their dreary Latin dog-girl, priestcraft and sham. There's no escape from it anywhere, not even in the wilds of Caucasus. I wonder if the man I seek is really here, or whether, after all, I have been misled. There are so many contradictory stories told about him, that one doesn't know what to believe. It seems incredible that he should be a monk. It is such an altogether foolish ending to an intellectual career. For whatever may be the form of faith professed by this particular fraternity, the absurdity of the whole system of religion remains the same. Religion's day is done. The very sense of worship is a mere coward instinct, a relic of barbarism which is being gradually eradicated from our natures by the progress of civilization. The world knows by this time that creation is an empty jest. We are all beginning to understand its bathos. And if we must grant that there is some mischievous supreme far-core who, safely shrouded in invisibility, continues to perpetrate so poor and purposeless a joke for his own amusement and our torture, we need not, for that matter, admire his wit nor flatter his ingenuity. For life is nothing but vexation and suffering. Are we dogs that we should lick the hand that crushes us? At that moment the chanting suddenly ceased. The organ went on, as though musically meditating to itself in minor chords, through which soft upper notes, like touches of light on a dark landscape, flickered ripplingly. One monk separated himself from the clustered group and, stepping slowly up on the altar, confronted the rest of his brethren. The fiery cross shone radiantly behind him, its beams seeming to gather an illustrious halo round his tall, majestic figure. His countenance, fully illumined and clearly visible, was one never to be forgotten for the striking force, sweetness and dignity expressed in its every feature. The various scoffer that ever made mock of fine beliefs and fair virtues must have been momentarily awed and silenced in the presence of such a man as this, a man upon whom the grace of a perfect life seemed to have fallen like a royal robe, investing even his outward appearance with spiritual authority and grandeur. At sight of him, the stranger's indifferent air rapidly changed to one of eager interest. Leaning forward, he regarded him intently with a look of mingled astonishment and unwilling admiration. The monk, meanwhile, extended his hands as though in blessing and spoke aloud, his Latin words echoing through the rocky temple with the measured utterance of poetical rhythm. Translated, they ran thus, Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and Eternal. And with one harmonious murmur of accord, the brethren responded, Glory forever and ever, Amen. Glory to God, the ruler of spirits and master of angels. Glory forever and ever, Amen. Glory to God, who in love never wearies of loving. Glory forever and ever, Amen. Glory to God in the name of his Christ our Redeemer. Glory forever and ever, Amen. Glory to God for the joys of the past, the present and future. Glory forever and ever, Amen. Glory to God for the power of will and the working of wisdom. Glory forever and ever, Amen. Glory to God for the briefness of life, the gladness of death, and the promised immortal hereafter. Glory forever and ever, Amen. Then came a pause during which the thunder outside added a tumultuous gloria of its own to those already recited. The organ music died away into silence and the monk now turning so that he faced the altar, sank reverently on his knees. All present followed his example with the exception of the stranger, who, as if in deliberate defiance, drew himself resolutely up to his full height and folding his arms, gazed at the scene before him with a perfectly unmoved demeanor. He expected to hear some long prayer, but none came. There was an absolute stillness, unbroken, saved by the rattle of the raindrops against the high oriel window and the whistling rush of the wind. And as he looked, the fiery cross began to grow dim and pale, little by little its scintillating luster decreased till at last it disappeared altogether, leaving no trace of its former brilliancy but a small bright flame that gradually took the shape of a seven-pointed star which sparkled through the gloom like a suspended ruby. The chapel was left almost in complete darkness. He could scarcely discern even the white figures of the kneeling worshipers. A haunting sense of the supernatural seemed to permeate that deep hush and dense shadow, and notwithstanding his habitual tendency to despise all religious ceremonies, there was something novel and strange about this one which exercised a peculiar influence upon his imagination. A sudden odd fancy possessed him that there were others present besides himself and the brethren, but who these others were he could not determine. It was an altogether uncanny, uncomfortable impression, yet it was very strong upon him, and he breathed a sigh of intense relief when he heard the soft melody of the organ once more and saw the oaken doors of the grotto swing wide open to admit a flood of cheerful light from the outer passage. The vespers were over, the monks rose and paced forth two by two, not with bent heads and downcast eyes as though affecting and abased humility, but with the free and stately bearing of kings returning from some high conquest. Drawing a little further back into his retired corner, he watched them pass and was forced to admit to himself that he had seldom or never seen finer types of splendid, healthful and vigorous manhood at its best and brightest. As noble specimens of the human race alone, they were well worth looking at. They might have been warriors, princes, emperors, he thought, anything but monks. Yet monks they were and followers of the Christian creed he so specially condemned. For each one wore on his breast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a jeweled star. Cross and star, he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and singular decoration, an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose, meaning what, salvation and immortality? Alas, they are poor, witless builders on shifting sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two empty words, signifying nothing. Do they, can they honestly believe in God, I wonder? Or are they only acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith? And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled figures went by. Ten had already left the chapel, two more past, then other two, and last of all came one alone, one who walked slowly with a dreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought. The light from the open door streamed fully upon him as he advanced. It was the monk who had recited the seven glories. The stranger no sooner beheld him than he instantly stepped forward and touched him on the arm. Pardon, he said hastily in English. I think I am not mistaken. Your name is, or used to be, Heliobus. The monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet graceful salutation and smiled. I have not changed it, he replied. I am Heliobus still. And his keen, steadfast blue eyes rested half inquiringly, half compassionately on the dark, weary, troubled face of his questioner, who, avoiding his direct gaze, continued, I should like to speak to you in private. Can I do so now, tonight, at once? By all means, assented the monk, showing no surprise at the request. Follow me to the library. We shall be quite alone there. He led the way immediately out of the chapel and through a stone-paved vestibule where they were met by the two brethren who had first received and entertained the unknown guest and who, not finding him in the refectory where they had left him, were now coming in search of him. On seeing in whose company he was, however, they drew aside with a deep and reverential obeisance to the personage called Heliobus. He, silently acknowledging it, passed on, closely attended by the stranger till he reached a spacious, well-lighted apartment, the walls of which were entirely lined with books. Here, entering and closing the door, he turned and confronted his visitor, his tall, imposing figure in its trailing white garments calling to mind the picture of some saint or evangelist, and with grave yet kindly courtesy said, Now, my friend, I am at your disposal. In what way can Heliobus, who is dead to the world, serve one for whom surely as yet the world is everything? His question was not very promptly answered. The stranger stood still, regarding him intently for two or three minutes, with a look of peculiar pensiveness and abstraction, the heavy double fringe of his long, dark lashes, giving an almost drowsy pathos to his proud and earnest eyes. Soon, however, this absorbed expression changed to one of somber scorn. The world, he said slowly and bitterly, you think I care for the world? Then you read me wrongly at the very outset of our interview, and your once reputed skill as a seer goes for naught. To me, the world is a graveyard full of dead, warm-eaten things, and its imaginary creator, whom you have so be praised in your oresons tonight, is the sexton who entombs, and the ghoul who devours his own hapless creation. I myself am one of the tortured and dying, and I have sought you, simply that you may trick me into a brief oblivion of my doom, and mock me with the mirage of a life that is not, and can never be. How can you serve me? Give me a few hours' respite from wretchedness. That is all I ask. As he spoke, his face grew blanched and haggard, as though he suffered from some painfully repressed inward agony. The monk Heliobus heard him with an air of attentive patience, but said nothing. He, therefore, after waiting for a reply and receiving none, went on in colder and more even tones. I dare say my words seem strange to you, though they should not do so if, as reported, you have studied all the varying phases of that purely intellectual despair, which, in this age of excessive overculture, crushes men who learn too much and think too deeply. But before going further, I had better introduce myself. My name is Alwyn. Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume, interposed the monk interrogatively. Why, yes, this in accents of extreme surprise. How did you know that? Your celebrity politely suggested Heliobus with a wave of the hand and an enigmatic smile that might have meant anything or nothing. Alwyn colored a little. You mistake, he said, indifferently. I have no celebrity. The celebrities of my country are few, and among them those most admired are jockeys and divorced women. I merely follow in the rear line of the art or profession of literature. I am that always unluckiest and most undesirable kind of an author, a writer of verse. I lay no claim, not now at any rate, to the title of poet. While recently staying in Paris, I chanced to hear of you. The monk bowed ever so slightly. There was a dawning gleam of satire in his brilliant eyes. You won special distinction and renown there, I believe, before you adopted this monastic life, pursued Alwyn, glancing at him curiously. Did I? And Heliobus looked cheerfully interested. Really, I was not aware of it, I assure you. Possibly my ways and doings may have occasionally furnished the Parisians with something to talk about instead of the weather. And I know I made some few friends and an astonishing number of enemies if that is what you mean by distinction and renown. Alwyn smiled. His smile was always reluctant and had in it more of sadness than sweetness. Yet it gave his features a singular softness and beauty, just as a ray of sunlight falling on a dark picture will brighten the tints into a momentary warmth of seeming life. All reputation means that, I think, he said. Unless it be mediocre, then one is safe. One has scores of friends and scares to foe. Mediocrity succeeds wonderfully well nowadays. Nobody hates it because everyone feels how easily they themselves can attain to it. Exceptional talent is aggressive. Actual genius is offensive. People are insulted to have a thing held up for their admiration, which is entirely out of their reach. They become like bears climbing a greased pole. They see a great name above them, attempting sugary morsel, which they would feign snatch and devour. And when their uncouth efforts fail, they huddle together on the ground beneath, look up with dull, peering eyes and impotently snarl. But you! And here his gaze rested doubtfully, yet questioningly on his companion's open, serene countenance. You, if rumor speaks truly, should have been able to tame your bears and turn them into dogs, humble and couchant. Your marvelous achievements as a mesmerist. Excuse me, interrupted Heliobus quietly. I never was a mesmerist. Well, as a spiritualist then, though I cannot admit the existence of any such thing as spiritualism. Neither can I, returned Heliobus, with perfect good humor. According to the generally accepted meaning of the term, pray go on, Mr. Alwyn. Alwyn looked at him, a little puzzled and uncertain how to proceed. A curious sense of irritation was growing up in his mind against this monk with a grand head and flashing eyes, eyes that seemed to strip bear his innermost thoughts as lightning strips bark from a tree. I was told, he continued, after a pause, during which he had apparently considered and prepared his words, that you were chiefly known in Paris as being the possessor of some mysterious internal force. Call it magnetic, hypnotic or spiritual, as you please, which, though perfectly inexplicable, was yet plainly manifested and evident to all who placed themselves under your influence. Moreover, that by this force you were able to deal scientifically and practically with the active principle of intelligence in man to such an extent that you could, in some miraculous way, disentangle the knots of toil and perplexity in an overtaxed brain and restore it to its pristine vitality and vigor. Is this true? If so, exert your power upon me for something I know not what has of late frozen up the once overflowing fountain of my thoughts, and I have lost all working ability. When a man can no longer work, it were best he should die. Only, unfortunately, I cannot die unless I kill myself, which it is possible I may do ere long. But in the meantime, he hesitated a moment, then went on. In the meantime, I have a strong wish to be deluded. I use the word advisedly and repeat it, deluded into an imaginary happiness, though I am aware that as an agnostic and searcher after truth, truth absolute, truth positive, such a desire on my part seems even to myself inconsistent and unreasonable. Still, I confess to having it, and therein I know I betray the weakness of my nature. It may be that I am tired. And he passed his hand across his brow with a troubled gesture, or puzzled by the infinite incurable distress of all living things. Perhaps I am growing mad, who knows? But whatever my condition, you, if report be correct, have the magic skill to ravish the mind away from its troubles and transport it to a radiant Elysium of sweet illusions and ethereal ecstasies. Do this for me, as you have done it for others, and whatever payment you demand, whether in gold or gratitude, shall be yours. He ceased. The wind howled furiously outside, flinging gusty dashes of rain against the one window of the room, a tall arched casement that clattered noisily with every blow inflicted upon it by the storm. Heliobus gave him a swift searching glance, half pitying, half disdainful. Has she sure opium should serve your turn? he said curtly. I know of no other means whereby to temporarily still the clamorings of conscience, all when flushed darkly. Conscience, he began in rather a resentful tone. A conscience, repeated Heliobus firmly. There is such a thing. Do you profess to be holy without it? All when deigned, no reply. The ironical bluntness of the question annoyed him. You have formed a very unjust opinion of me, Mr. Allwin, continued Heliobus, an opinion which neither honors your courtesy nor your intellect. Pardon me for saying so. You asked me to mock and delude you, as if it were my custom and delight, to make dupes of my suffering fellow creatures. You come to me as though I were a mesmerist or magnetizer, such as you can hire for a few guineas in any civilized city in Europe. Nay, I doubt not but that you consider me that kind of so-called spiritualist, whose enlightened intelligence and heaven-espiring aims are demonstrated in the turning of tables and general furniture gyration. I am, however, hopelessly deficient in such knowledge. I should make a most unsatisfactory conjurer. Moreover, whatever you may have heard concerning me in Paris, you must remember I am in Paris no longer. I am a monk, as you see, devoted to my vocation. I am completely severed from the world, and my duties and occupations in the present are widely different to those which employed me in the past. Then I gave what aid I could to those who honestly needed it and sought it without prejudice or personal distrust. But now my work among men is finished, and I practice my science, such as it is, on others no more, except in very rare and special cases. All when heard, and the lines of his face hardened into an expression of frigid haute. I suppose I am to understand by this that you will do nothing for me, he said stiffly. Why, what can I do? Returned Heliobus, smiling a little. All you want, so you say, is a brief forgetfulness of your troubles. Well, that is easily obtainable through certain narcotics if you choose to employ them and take the risk of their injurious action on your bodily system. You can drug your brain and thereby fill it with drowsy suggestions of ideas. Of course, they would only be suggestions and very vague and indefinite ones, too. Still, they might be pleasant enough to absorb and repress bitter memories for a time. As for me, my poor skill would scarcely avail you as I could promise you neither self-oblivion nor visionary joy. I have a certain internal force it is true. A spiritual force which, when strongly exercised, overpowers and subdues the material. And by exerting this I could, if I thought it well to do so, release your soul. That is the inner intelligent spirit, which is the actual you, from its house of clay, and allow it an interval of freedom. But what its experience might be in that unfettered condition, whether glad or sorrowful, I am totally unable to predict, all when looked at him steadfastly. You believe in the soul, he asked, most certainly. As a separate personality that continues to live on when the body perishes, assuredly. And you profess to be able to liberate it for a time from its mortal habitation? I do not profess, interposed Heliobus quietly. I can do so. But with the success of the experiment your power ceases, you cannot foretell whether the unimprisoned creature will take its course to an inferno of suffering, or a heaven of delight. Is this what you mean? Heliobus bent his head and grave assent. All when broken to a harsh laugh. Come then, he exclaimed, with a reckless air. Begin your incantations at once. Send me hence, no matter where. I am for a while escaped from this den of a world, this dungeon with one small window through which, with the death-rattle in our throats, west are vacantly at the blank, unmeaning horror of the universe. Prove to me that the soul exists. Ye gods, prove it. And if mine can find its way straight to the mainspring of this revolving creation, it shall cling to the accursed wheels and stop them, that they may grind out the tortures of life no more. He flung up his hand with a wild gesture. His countenance, darkly threatening and defiant, was yet beautiful with the evil beauty of a rebellious and fallen angel. His breath came and went quickly. He seemed to challenge some invisible opponent. Heliobus, meanwhile, watched him, much as a physician might watch in his patient the workings of a new disease. Then he said in purposely cold and tranquil tones, a bold idea, singularly blasphemous, arrogant, and, fortunately for us all, impracticable. Allow me to remark that you are over-excited, Mr. Alwyn. You talk as madmen may, but as reasonable men should not. Come. And he smiled, a smile that was both grave and sweet. Come and sit down. You are worn out with the force of your own desperate emotions. Rest a few minutes and recover yourself. His voice, though gentle, was distinctly authoritative. And Alwyn, meeting the full gaze of his calm eyes, felt bound to obey the implied command. He therefore sank listlessly into an easy chair near the table, pushing back the short, thick curls from his brow with a wearied movement. He was very pale. An uneasy sense of shame was upon him. And he sighed, a quick sigh of exhausted passion. Heliobus seated himself opposite and looked at him earnestly. He studied with sympathetic attention the lines of dejection and fatigue which marred the attractiveness of features otherwise frank, poetic, and noble. He had seen many such men. Men in their prime, who had begun life full of high faith, hope, and lofty aspiration. Yet whose fair ideals, once bruised in the mortar of modern, atheistical opinion, had perished forever, while they themselves, like golden eagles, suddenly and cruelly shot while flying in mid-air, had fallen helplessly, broken-winged among the dust heaps of the world, never to rise and soar sunward again. Thinking this, his accents were touched with a certain compassion when after a pause he said softly, Poor boy, poor, puzzled, tired brain that would feign, judge, infinity by merely finite perception. You were a far truer poet, Theos Alwyn, when, as a world foolish, heaven-inspired lad, you believed in God and therefore in god-like gladness found all things good. Alwyn looked up, his lips quivered. Poet, poet! he murmured. Why taunt me with the name? He started upright in his chair. Let me tell you all, he said suddenly. You may as well know what has made me the useless wreck I am, though perhaps I shall only weary you. Far from it, answered Heliobus gently, speak freely, but remember, I do not compel your confidence. On the contrary, I think you do. And again, that faint, half-mournful smile shown for an instant in his deep, dark eyes, though you may not be conscious of it. Anyhow, I feel impelled to unburden my heart to you. I have kept silence so long. You know what it is in the world. One must always keep silence, always shut in one's grief and force a smile in company with the rest of the tormented, forced smiling crowd. We can never be ourselves, our veritable selves, for if we were, the air would resound with our ceaseless lamentations. It is horrible to think of all the pent-up sufferings of humanity, all the inconceivably hideous agonies that remain forever dumb and unrevealed. When I was young, how long ago that seems? Yes, though my actual years are but thirty, I feel an alder-eld of accumulated centuries upon me. When I was young, the dream of my life was posy. Perhaps I inherited the fatal love of it from my mother. She was a Greek, and she had a subtle music in her that nothing could quell, not even my father's English coldness. She named me Theos, little guessing what a dreary sarcasm that name would prove. It was well, I think, that she died early. Well for her, but perhaps not so well for you, said Helioboth, with a keen kindly glance at him. All when sighed, Nay, well 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 businessman, 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 like 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 scepter that commanded both earth and heaven. A kingdom was mine, a kingdom of golden ether, peopled with shining shapes protein. Alas, its gates are shut upon me now, and I shall enter it no more. No more is a long time, my friend, interposed Heliobus 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 inept 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 Helioboth, who, leaning a little forward in his chair, was regarding him with friendly and 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-praised 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 birds and devouring them for daily fair. One rough pressure of finger and thumb on the little melodious throats, and they are mute for ever. 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 airy 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 dragonfly. 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 works 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 keynote 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 silkworm or caterpillar on a slightly higher platform of ability. Beyond this, nothing. Nothing murmured Heliobus 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 of 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, healthy, 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 center of divine disquietude in my brain and had there cut down the growth of fair imaginations forever. I thrust aside the bright illusions that had once been my gladness. I forced myself to look with unflinching eyes at the wide waist 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, where 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 fire called fame. A look of baffled longing and ungratified 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 Heliobus 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 Shelleys or Byrons, were on pale flowers like sweet suggestions of ever-silenced 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 Heliobus, 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 hair-breath 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 breaking heart. Yet there can be no question as to which is the more intense and 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 passing 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 dreadful truth, truth that, like the flaming sword placed east of the fabled garden of Eden, turns ruthlessly every way, keeping us out of the fortified 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 the ages, the soul of man should forever override disaster. But now that we know ourselves to be of no more importance, relatively speaking, than the animal cule in a drop of stagnant water, what great works can be done, what noble deeds accomplished in the face of the declared improved futility of everything. Still, if you can, as you say, liberate me from this fleshly prison and give me new sensations 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 begin your spells? And shall I say the Nunk Dimitus? End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Ardath by Marie Corelli This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Departure Heliobus 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 clue to some difficult problem. What do you know of the Nunk Dimitus? He asked at last with a half-smile. You might as well say the Patternoster. Both canticle and prayer would be equally unmeaning to you. For poet as you are, or let me say as you were, and as much as no atheist was ever a poet at the same time. You are wrong, interrupted Alwyn quickly. Shelly was an atheist. Shelly, my good friend, was not an atheist. Footnote See the last two verses of Adonis. End of footnote. He strove to be one. Nay, he made pretence to be one. But throughout his poems we hear the voice of his inner and better self, appealing to that divinity and eternity which, in spite of the material part of him, he instinctively felt his own being. I repeat, poet as you were and poet as you will be again when the clouds on your mind are cleared. You present the strange but not uncommon spectacle of an immortal spirit fighting to disprove its own immortality. In a word, you will not believe in the soul. I cannot, said Alwyn, with a hopeless gesture. Why? There is no positive proof of this existence. It cannot be defined. What do you mean by science? Demanded Heliobus. The foot of the mountain at which men now stand, groveling and uncertain how to climb, or the glittering summit itself which touches God's throne. Alwyn made no answer. Tell me, pursued Heliobus. How do you define the vital principle what mysterious agency is leading and the blood flowing by the small porters lantern of today's so-called science? Will you fling a light on the dark riddle of an apparently purposeless universe and explain to me why we live at all? Evolution, responded Alwyn shortly, and necessity. Evolution from what? Persisted Heliobus. From one atom? What atom? And from whence came the atom? And why of any atom? The human brain reels at such questions, said Alwyn vexedly and with impatience. I cannot answer them. No one can. No one? Heliobus smiled very tranquilly. Do not be too sure of that. And why should the human brain reel the sagacious, calculating clear human brain that never gets tired or puzzled or perplexed, that settles everything in the most practical and common sense manner and disposes of God altogether as an extraneous sort of bargain not wanted in the general economy of our little solar system? I, the human brain, is a wonderful thing. And yet, by a sharp, well-directed knock with this. And he took up from the table a paper knife with a massive silver-mounted, weighty horn handle. I could detonate in such wise that the soul could no more hold any communication with it. And it would lie an inert mass in the cranium of no more use to its owner than a paralyzed limb. You mean to infer that the brain cannot act without the influence of the soul? Precisely. If the hands on the telegraph dial will not respond to the electric battery, the telegram cannot be deciphered. But it would be foolish to deny the existence of the electric battery because the dial is unsatisfactory. In like manner, when by physical incapacity or inherited disease, the brain can no longer receive the impressions or electric messages of the spirit. It is practically useless. Yet the spirit is there all the same, dumbly waiting for release and another chance of expansion. Is this the way you account for idiocy and mania? Asked Alwyn incredulously. Most certainly. Idiocy and mania always come from man's interference with the laws of health and of nature, never otherwise. The soul placed within us by the creator is meant to be fostered by man's unfettered will. If man chooses to employ that unfettered will in wrong directions, he has only himself to blame for the disastrous results that follow. You may perhaps ask why God has thus left our wills unfettered. The answer is simple. That we may serve him by choice and not by compulsion. Among the myriad million worlds that acknowledge his goodness gladly and undoubtedly, why should he seek to force unwilling obedience from us castaways? As we are on this subject, said Alwyn, with a tinge of satire in his tone. If you grant a God and make him out to be supreme love, why in the name of his supposed inexhaustible beneficence should we be castaways at all? Because in our overweening pride and egotism, we have elected to be such, replied Heliobus. As angels have fallen, so have we. But we are not altogether castaways now since this signal. And he touched the cross on his breast, shown in heaven. Alwyn shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. Pardon me, he murmured coldly. With every desire to respect your religious scruples, I really cannot personally speaking accept the tenets of a worn out faith which all the most intellectual minds of the day reject as mere ignorant superstition. The carpenter's son of Judea was no doubt a very estimable person, a socialist teacher, whose doctrines were very excellent in theory, but impossible of practice. That there was anything divine about him I utterly deny. And I confess I am surprised that you, a man of evident culture, do not seem to see the hollow absurdity of Christianity as a system of morals and civilization. It is an ever sprouting seed of discord and hatred between nations. It has served as a casus belly of the most fanatical and merciless character. It is answerable for a whole seas of cruel and unnecessary bloodshed. Have you nothing new to say on the subject? Interposed Heliobus with a slight smile. I have heard all this so often before from diverse kinds of men, both educated and ignorant who have a willful habit of forgetting all that Christ himself prophesied concerning his creed of self renunciation so difficult to selfish humanity. Think not that I come to send peace on the earth. I come not to send peace but a sword. Again, you shall be hated of all men for my name's sake. And you shall be offended because of me. Such plain words as these seem utterly thrown away upon this present generation. And do you know? I find a curious lack of originality among so-called free thinkers. In fact, their thoughts can hardly be designated as free when they all run in such extremely narrow grooves of similitude. A flock of sheep, mildly trotting under the guidance of the butcher to the slaughterhouse, could not be more tamely alike in their bleeding ignorance as to where they are going. Your opinions, for instance, differ scarce a whit from those of the common boar who, reading his penny radical paper, thinks he can dispense with God and talk of the carpenter's son of Judea with the same easy flippancy and scant reverence as yourself. The intellectual minds of the day to which you allude are extraordinarily limited of comprehension and none of them literary or otherwise have such a grasp of knowledge as any of these dead and gone authors. And he waved his hand toward the surrounding loaded bookshelves, who lived centuries ago and are now, as far as the general public is concerned, forgotten. All the volumes you see here are vellum manuscripts copied from the original slabs of baked clay, stone tablets, and engraved sheets of ivory, and among them is an ingenious treatise by one Ramini Adranos, chief astronomer to the then king of Babylonia, setting forth the atom and evolution theory with far more clearness and precision than any of your modern professors. All such propositions are old, old as the hills I assure you. And these days in which you live are more suggestive of the second childhood of the world than its progressive prime. Especially in your own country, the general dotage seems to have reached a sort of climax. For there you have the people actually forgetting, deriding or denying their greatest men who form the only lasting glories of their history. They have ever done their futile best to tarnish the unsoilable fame of Shakespeare. In that land you, who according to your own showing started for the race of life, full of high hopes and inspiration to still hire and ever, you have been poisoned by the tainted atmosphere of atheism which is slowly and insidiously spreading itself through all ranks. Particularly among the upper classes, who while becoming every day more lax in their morals and more disillute of behavior, consider themselves far too wise and highly cultured to believe in anything. It is most unwholesome atmosphere charged with the morbidities and microbes of national disease and downfall. It is difficult to breathe it without becoming fever smitten and in your denial of the divinity of Christ, I do not blame you any more than I would blame a poor creature struck down by a plague. You have caught the negative agnostic and atheistical infection from others. It is not the natural condition of your temperament. On the contrary, it is so far as that point goes, said Alwyn, with sudden heat. I tell you I am amazed, utterly amazed that you, with your intelligence, should uphold such a barbaric idea as the divinity of Christ. Human reason revolts at it, and after all, make as light of it as you will, reason is the only thing that exalts us a little above the level of the beasts. Nay, the beasts share the gift of reason in common with us, replied Heliobus, and man only proves his ignorance if he denies the fact. Often indeed the very insects show superior reasoning ability to ourselves. Any thoroughly capable naturalist would bear me out in this assertion. Well, well, and Alwyn grew impatient. Reason or no reason, I again repeat that the legend on which Christianity is founded is absurd and preposterous. Why, if there were a grain of truth in it, Judas Iscariot, instead of being universally condemned, ought to be honored and canonized as the first of the saints. Must I remind you of your early lesson days? Asked Heliobus mildly. You will find it written in a book you appear to have forgotten that Christ expressly prophesied woe to that man by whom he was betrayed. I tell you, little as you credit it, there is not a word that the sinless one uttered while on this earth that has not been or shall not be in time fulfilled. But I do not wish to enter into any controversies with you. You have told me your story. I have heard it with interest and I may add with sympathy. You are a poet struck dumb by materialism because you lacked strength to resist the shock. You would feign recover your singing speech and this is, in truth, the reason why you have come to me. You think that if you could gain some of the strange experiences which others have had while under my influence, you might win back your lost inspiration. Though you do not know why you think this, neither do I. I can only guess. And your guess is demanded, Alwyn, with an air of affected indifference that some higher influence is working for your rescue and safety, replied Heliobus. What influence I dare not presume to imagine, but there are always angels near. Angels? Alwyn laughed aloud. How many more fairy tales are you going to weave for me out of your fertile Oriental imagination? Angels? See here, my good Heliobus. I am perfectly willing to grant that you may be a very clever man with an odd prejudice in favor of Christianity. But I must request that you will not talk to me of angels and spirits or any such nonsense as if I were a child waiting to be amused instead of a full-grown man with... with so full-grown an intellect that it has outgrown God? Finished Heliobus serenely. Quite so. Yet angels after all are only immortal souls such as yours or mine when set free of their earthly tenements. For instance, when I look at you thus and he raised his eyes with a lustrous piercing glance I see the proud, strong and rebellious angel in you far more distinctly than your outward shape of man and you when you look at me. He broke off for all when at that moment sprang from his chair and staring fixedly at him uttered a quick fierce exclamation. Ah, I know you now. He cried in sudden and extraordinary excitement. I know you well. We have met before. Why after all that has passed do we meet again? This singular speech was accompanied by a still more singular transfiguration of countenance. A dark, fiery glory burned in his eyes and in the stern, frowning wonder and defiance of his expression and attitude there was something grand yet terrible menacing yet supernaturally sublime. He stood so for an instance space majestically somber like some haughty, discrowned emperor confronting his conqueror. A rumbling, long continued roll of thunder outside seemed to recall him to himself and he pressed his hands tightly over his eyelids as though to shut out some overwhelming vision. After a pause he looked up again wildly, confusedly, almost beseechingly and heliobus observing this rose and advanced toward him. Peace, he said in low impressive tones. We have recognized each other, but on earth such recognitions are brief and soon forgotten. He waited for a few seconds then resumed lightly. Come, look at me now, what do you see? Alwin scanned his features eagerly and with some bewilderment. Nothing but yourself, he replied sighing deeply as he spoke. Yet oddly enough a moment ago I fancied you had altogether a different appearance and I thought I saw. No matter what I cannot describe it. His brows were contracted in a puzzled line. It was a curious phenomenon very curious and it affected me strangely. He stopped abruptly then added with a slight flush of annoyance on his face. I perceive you are an adept in the art of optical illusion. Heliobus laughed softly of course. What else can you expect of a charlatan a trickster and a monk to boot? Deception, deception throughout my dear sir and have you not asked to be deceived? There was a fine scarcely perceptible satire in his manner. He glanced at the tall oaken clock that stood in one corner of the room. Its hands pointed to 11. Now, Mr. Alwin, he went on I think we have talked quite enough for this evening and my advice is that you retire to rest and think over what I have said to you. I am willing to help you if I can. But with your beliefs or rather your non beliefs, I do not hesitate to tell you frankly that the exertion of my internal force upon yours in your present condition might be fraught with extreme danger and suffering. You have spoken of truth the dreadful truth this being however nothing but truth according to the world's opinion which changes with every passing generation and therefore is not truth at all. There is another truth the everlasting truth the pivot of all life which never changes and it is with this alone that my science deals. Were I to set you at liberty as you desire? Were your intelligence too suddenly awakened to the blinding awfulness of your mistaken notions of life, death and futurity? The result might be more overpowering than either you or I can imagine. I have told you what I can do your incredulity does not alter the fact of my capacity I can sever you that is your soul which you cannot define but which nevertheless exists from your body like a moth from its chrysalis but I dare not even picture to myself what scorching flame the moth might not heedlessly fly into. You might in your temporary state of release find that new impetus to your thoughts you so ardently desire or you might not. In short it is impossible to form a guess as to whether your experience might be one of supernal ecstasy or inconceivable horror. He paused a moment. Alwyn was watching him with a close intentness that bordered on fascination and presently he continued it is best from all points of view that you should consider the matter more thoroughly than you have yet done. Think it over well and carefully until this time tomorrow then if you are quite resolved I am resolved now said Alwyn slowly and determinedly if you are so certain of your influence come unbar my chains open the prison door let me go hence tonight there is no time like the present tonight and Heliobus turned his keen bright eyes full upon him with a look of amazement and reproach tonight without faith preparation or prayer you are willing to be tossed through the realms of space like a grain of dust in a whirling tempest beyond the glittering gyration of unnumbered stars through the sword like flash of streaming comets through darkness through light through depths of profoundest silence over heights of vibrating sound you you will dare to wander in these god invested regions you a blasphemer and a doubter of god his voice thrilled with passion his aspect was so solemn and earnest and imposing that Alwyn awed and startled remained for a moment mute then lifting his head proudly answered yes I dare if I am immortal I will test my immortality I will face god and find these angels you talk about which shall prevent me find the angels Heliobus surveyed him sadly as he spoke nay pray rather that they may find thee he looked long and steadfastly at Alwyn's countenance on which there was just then the faint glimmer of a rather mucking smile and as he looked his own face darkened suddenly into an expression of vague trouble and uneasiness and a strange quiver passed visibly through him from head to foot you are bold Mr. Alwyn he said at last moving a little away from his guest and speaking with some apparent effort bold to a fault but at the same time you are ignorant of all that lies behind the veil of the unseen I should be much to blame if I sent you hence tonight utterly unguided utterly uninstructed I myself must think and pray before I venture to incur so terrible a responsibility tomorrow perhaps tonight no I cannot moreover I will not Alwyn flushed hotly with anger trickster he thought he feels he has no power over me to run the risk of failure did I hear you a right he said aloud in cold determined accents you cannot you will not by heaven and his voice rose I say you shall as he uttered these words a rush of indescribable sensations overcame him he seemed all at once invested with some mysterious invincible supreme authority he felt twice a man half a god and moved by an irresistible impulse which he could neither explain nor control he made two or three hasty steps forward when Heliobus swiftly retreating waved him off with an eloquent gesture of mingled appeal and menace back back he cried warningly if you come one inch nearer to me I cannot answer for your safety back I say and you do not know your own power all when scarcely heated him some fatal attraction drew him on and he still advanced when all suddenly he paused trembling violently his nerves began to throb acutely the blood in his veins was like fire there was a curious strangling tightness in his throat that interrupted and depressed his breathing he stared straight before him with large luminous fashioned eyes what was that dazzling something in the air that flashed and whirled and shone like glittering wheels of golden flame his lips parted he stretched out his hands in the uncertain manner of a blind man feeling his way oh god god he muttered as though stricken by some sudden amazement then with a smothered gasping cry he staggered and fell heavily forward on the floor insensible at the self same instant the window blew open with a loud crash it swung backward and forward on its hinges and a torrent of rain poured through it slant wise into the room a remarkable change had taken place in the aspect and bearing of heliobus he stood as though rooted to the spot trembling from head to foot he had lost all his usual composure he was deathly pale with difficulty presently recovering himself a little he strove to shut the swinging casement but the wind was so boisterous that he had to pause a moment to gain strength for the effort and instinctively he glanced out at the tempestuous night the clouds were scurrying over the sky like great black vessels on a foaming sea the lightning flashed incessantly and the thunder reverberated over the mountains the tremendous volleys as of besieging cannon stinging drops of icy sleet dashed his face and the front of his white garb as he inhaled the stormy freshness of the strong upward sweeping blast for a few seconds and then with the air of one gathering together all his scattered forces he shut to the window firmly and barred it across turning now to the unconscious all when he lifted him from the floor to a low couch near at hand and there laid him gently down this done he stood looking at him with an expression of the deepest anxiety but made no attempt to rouse him from his death-like swoon his own habitual serenity was completely broken through he had all the appearance of having received some unexpected and overwhelming shock his very lips were blanched and quivered nervously he waited for several minutes attentively watching the recumbent figure before him till gradually, very gradually that figure took upon itself the pale, stern beauty of a corpse from which life has but recently and painlessly departed the limbs grew stiff and rigid the features smoothed into that mysteriously wise placidity which is so often seen in the faces of the dead the closed eyelids looked purple and livid as though bruised there was not a breath not a tremor to offer any outward suggestion of returning animation and when, after some little time Heliobus spent down and listened there was no pulsation of the heart it had ceased to beat to all appearances all when was dead any physician would have certified the fact though how he had come by his death there was no evidence to show and in that condition stirrless, breathless white as marble cold and inanimate as stone Heliobus left him not in indifference but in sure knowledge knowledge far beyond all mere medical science that the senseless clay would in due time again arise to life and motion the basket was but temporarily bereft of its jewel and that the jewel itself the soul of the poet had by a superhuman access of will managed to break its bonds and escape elsewhere but wither into what vast realms of translucent light or drear shadow this was a question to which the mystic monk gifted as he was with a powerful spiritual insight things unseen and eternal could find no satisfactory answer and in his anxious perplexity he betook himself to the chapel and there by the red glimmer of the crimson star that shone dimly above the altar he knelt alone and prayed in silence till the heavy night had passed and the storm had slain itself with the sword of its own fury on the dark slopes of Dariel End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Ardath by Marie Corelli This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Angelus Domini The next morning dawned paledly over a sea of gray mist not a glimpse of the landscape was visible nothing but a shadowy vastness of floating vapor slowly fold upon fold wave upon wave as though bent on blotting out the world a very faint chill light peered through the narrow arched window of the room where Alwyn lay still wrapped in that profound repose so like that last long sleep from which some of our modern scientists tell us there can be no awakening his condition was unchanged the wan beams of the early day falling across his features intensified their waxen stillness and pallor the awful majesty of death was on him the pathetic helplessness and perishableness of body without spirit presently the monastery bell began to ring for matins and as its clear chime struck through the deep silence the door opened and Heliobus accompanied by another monk whose gentle countenance and fine soft eyes betokened the serenity of his disposition entered the apartment together they approached the couch and gazed long and earnestly at the supernaturally slumbering man he is still far away said Heliobus at last sighing as he spoke so far away that my mind misgives me alas hilarious how limited our knowledge even with all the spiritual aids of spiritual life how little can be accomplished we learn one thing and another presents itself we conquer one difficulty and another instantly brings up to obstruct our path now if I had only had the innate perception required to foresee the possible flight of this released immortal creature might I not have saved it from some incalculable misery and suffering I think not answered in rather musing accents the monk called Hilarion I think not such protection can never be exercised by mere human intelligence if this soul is to be saved or shielded in its invisible journeyings it will be by some means that not all the marvels of our science can calculate you say he was without faith entirely what was his leading principle a desire for what he called truth replied Heliobus he like many others of his class never took the trouble to consider very deeply the intermeeting of pilot's famous question what is truth we know what it is as generally accepted a few so called facts which in a thousand years will all be contradicted mixed up with finite opinions propounded by unstable minded men in brief truth according to the world is simply whatever the world is pleased to consider as truth for the time being to the somewhat slight thing to stake ones immortal destinies upon Hilarion raised one of all winds cold pulseless hands it was stiff and white as marble I suppose he said there is no doubt of his pain hither none whatever answered Heliobus decisively his life on earth is assured for many years yet and as much as his penance is not finished his recompense not won thus far my knowledge of his fate is certain then you will bring him back today pursued Hilarion bring him back I I cannot said Heliobus with a touch of sad humility in his tone and for this very reason I feared to send him hence and would not have done so not without preparation at any rate could I have had my way his departure was more strange than I have ever known moreover it was his own doing not mine I had positively refused to exert my influence upon him because I felt he was not in my sphere and that therefore neither I nor any of those higher intelligences with which I am in communication could control or guide his wanderings he however was as positively determined that I should exert it and to this end he suddenly concentrated all the pent up fire of his nature in one rapid effort of will and advanced upon me I warned him but in vain quick as lightning flash meets lightning flash the two invisible immortal forces within us sprang into instant opposition with this difference that while he was ignorant and unconscious of his power I was cognizant and fully conscious of mine mine was focused as it were upon him his was untrained and scattered the result was that mine won the victory yet understand me well hilarious if I could have held myself in I would have done so it was he who drew my force out of me as one would draw a sword out of its scabbard the sword may be ever so stiffly fixed in its sheath but the strong hand will wrench it forth somehow and use it for battle when needed then said hilarious wonderingly you admit this man possesses a power greater than your own I if he knew it returned Heliobus quietly not know only an angel could teach him and in angels he does not believe he may believe now he may he will he must if he has gone where I would have him go a poet is he not queried hilarious softly bending down to look more attentively at the beautiful and tinnis like face colorless and cold as sculptured alabaster an uncrowned monarch of a world of song responded Heliobus with a tender inflection in his rich voice a genius such as the earth sees but once in a century but he has been smitten with the disease of unbelief and deprived of hope and where there is no hope there is no lasting accomplishment he paused and with a touch as gentle as a woman's rearranged the cushions under his heavy head and laid his hand in grave benediction on the broad white brow shaded by its clustering waves of dark hair may the infinite love bring him out of danger into peace and safety he said solemnly then turning away he took his companion by the arm and they both left the room closing the door quietly behind them the chapel bell went on tolling slowly sending muffled echoes through the fog for some minutes then it ceased and a profound stillness reigned the monastery was always a very silent habitation situated as it was on so lofty and barren a crag it was far beyond the singing reach of the smaller sweet throated birds now and then an eagle clove the mist with a whir of wings and a discordant scream lay towards some distant mountain eerie but no other sound of awakening life broke the hush of the slowly widening dawn an hour passed and all ones still remained in the same position as palently quiescent as a corpse stretched out for burial by and by a change began to thrill mysteriously through the atmosphere like the flowing of amber wine through crystal the heavy vapors shuttered together as though suddenly lashed by a whip of flame they rose swayed to and fro and parted asunder then dissolving into thin milk-white veils of fleecy film they floated away disclosing as they vanished the giant summits of the encircling mountains that lifted themselves to the light one above another in the form of frozen billows over these a delicate pink flush flitted in tremulous wavy lines long arrows of gold began to pierce the tender shimmering blue of the sky soft puffs of cloud tinged with vivid crimson and pale green were strewn along the eastern horizon like flowers in the path of an advancing hero and then all at once there was a slight cessation of movement in the heavens an attentive pause as though the whole universe waited for some great splendor as yet unrevealed that splendor came in a red blaze of triumph the sun rose pouring a shower of beamy brilliancy over the white vastness of the heights covered with perpetual snow jagged peaks sharp as scimitars and sparkling with ice seemed to melt away in an absorbing sea of radiance the waiting clouds moved on re-decked in deeper hues of royal purple and the full morning glory was declared as the dazzling effulgence streamed through the window and flooded the couch where all went lay a faint tinge of color returned to his face his lips moved his broad chest heaved with struggling sighs his eyelids quivered his before rigid hands relaxed and folded themselves together in an attitude of peace and prayer like a statue becoming slowly and magically flushed with life the warm hues of the naturally flowing blood deepened through the whiteness of his skin his breathing grew more and more easy and regular his features gradually assumed their wanted appearance and presently without any violent start or exclamation he awoke but was it a real awakening or rather a continuation of some strange impression received in slumber he rose to his feet pushing back the hair from his brow with an entranced look of listening wonderment his eyes were humid yet brilliant his whole aspect was that of one inspired he paced once or twice up and down the room but he was evidently unconscious of his surroundings he seemed possessed by thoughts which absorbed his whole being presently he seated himself at the table and absently fingering the writing materials that were upon it he appeared meditatively to question their use and meaning then drawing several sheets of paper toward him he began to write with extraordinary rapidity and eagerness his pen traveled on smoothly uninterrupted by blot or erasure sometimes he paused but when he did it was always with an upraised attentively listening expression once he murmured aloud Ardath, nay, I shall not forget we will meet at Ardath and again he resumed his occupation page after page he covered with close writing no weak uncertain scrawl bold, neat calligraphy his own peculiar characteristic hand the sun mounted higher and higher in the heavens hour after hour passed and still he wrote on apparently unaware of the flitting time at midday the bell which had not rung since early dawn began to swing quickly to and fro in the chapel turret the deep base of the organ breathed on the silence eagerness monotone and a be-like murmur of distant voices proclaimed the words Angellus domini Nuntyavit Maria at the first sound of this chant the spell that enchained Alwin's mind was broken drawing a quick dashing line under what he had written he sprang up erect and dropped his pen Heliobus, he cried loudly Heliobus, where is the field of Ardath his voice seemed strange and unfamiliar to his own ears he waited, listening and the chanting went on et verbum carofactum est et habitavit in nobis suddenly as if he could endure his solitude no longer he rushed to the door and threw it open, thereby nearly flinging himself against Heliobus who was entering the room at the same moment he stared wildly and passing his hand across his forehead confusedly, forced to laugh I have been dreaming, he said then, with a passionate gesture he added, God if the dream were true he was strongly excited and Heliobus, slipping one arm round him in a friendly manner led him back to the chair he had vacated observing him closely as he did so you call this dreaming he inquired, with a slight smile pointing to the table strewn with manuscript on which the ink was not yet dry then dreams are more productive than active exertion here is goodly matter for printers a fair result it seems of one morning's labour Alwynne started up seized the written sheets and scanned them eagerly it is my handwriting, he muttered in a tone of stupefied amazement whose handwriting should it be returned Heliobus watching him with scientifically keen yet kindly interest then it is true he exclaimed true by the sweetness of her eyes true by the loveless radiance of her smile true, oh thou God whom I dared to doubt, true by the marvels of thy matchless wisdom and with this strange outburst he began to read in feverish haste what he had written his breath came and went quickly his cheeks flushed, his eyes dilated, line after line he perused with apparent wonder and rapture when suddenly interrupting himself he raised his head and recited in a half whisper with thundering notes of song sublime I cast my sins away from me on stairs of sound I mount I climb the angels wait and pray for me I heard that stanza somewhere when I was a boy why do I think of it now she has waited so she said these many thousand days he paused meditatively and then resumed his reading Heliobus touched his arm it will take you some time to read that Mr. Alwyn he gently observed you have written more than you know Alwyn roused himself and looked straight at the speaker he laid down his manuscript and resting one hand upon it he gazed with an air of solemn inquiry into the noble face turned steadfastly toward his own tell me he said wistfully how has it happened this composition is mine and yet not mine for it is a grand and perfect poem of which I dare not call myself the author I might as well snatch her crown of starry flowers and call myself an angel he spoke with mingled fervor and humility to any ordinary observer he would have seemed to be laboring under some strange hallucination but Heliobus was more deeply instructed come come your thoughts are wide of this world he said kindly try to recall them I can tell you nothing for I know nothing you have been absent many hours absent? yes with an infinite regret absent from earth would de god I might have stayed with her in heaven my love my love where shall I find her if not on the field of Ardaf end of chapter 4