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A Romance of Two Worlds
A NOVEL.
BY
MARIE CORELLI,
Author of "Thelma," "Ardath," "Vendetta," Etc.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
I. AN ARTIST'S STUDIO.
II. THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.
III. THREE VISIONS.
IV. A DANCE AND A PROMISE.
V. CELLINI'S STORY.
VI. THE HOTEL MARS AND ITS OWNER.
VII. ZARA AND PRINCE IVAN.
VIII. A SYMPHONY IN THE AIR.
IX. AN ELECTRIC SHOCK.
X. MY STRANGE DEPARTURE.
XI. A MINIATURE CREATION.
XII. SECRETS OF THE SUN AND MOON.
XIII. SOCIABLE CONVERSE.
XIV. THE ELECTRIC CREED.
XV. DEATH BY LIGHTNING.
XVI. A STRUGGLE FOR THE MASTERY.
XVII. CONCLUSION.
APPENDIX
A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.
PROLOGUE.
We live in an age of universal inquiry, ergo of universal scepticism.
The prophecies of the poet, the dreams of the philosopher and
scientist, are being daily realized--things formerly considered mere
fairy-tales have become facts--yet, in spite of the marvels of learning
and science that are hourly accomplished among us, the attitude of
mankind is one of disbelief. "There is no God!" cries one theorist; "or
if there be one, _I_ can obtain no proof of His existence!" "There is
no Creator!" exclaims another. "The Universe is simply a rushing
together of atoms." "There can be no immortality," asserts a third. "We
are but dust, and to dust we shall return." "What is called by
idealists the SOUL," argues another, "is simply the vital principle
composed of heat and air, which escapes from the body at death, and
mingles again with its native element. A candle when lit emits flame;
blow out the light, the flame vanishes--where? Would it not be madness
to assert the flame immortal? Yet the soul, or vital principle of human
existence, is no more than the flame of a candle."
If you propound to these theorists the eternal question WHY?--why is
the world in existence? why is there a universe? why do we live? why do
we think and plan? why do we perish at the last?--their grandiose reply
is, "Because of the Law of Universal Necessity." They cannot explain
this mysterious Law to themselves, nor can they probe deep enough to
find the answer to a still more tremendous WHY--namely, WHY, is there a
Law of Universal Necessity?--but they are satisfied with the result of
their reasonings, if not wholly, yet in part, and seldom try to search
beyond that great vague vast Necessity, lest their finite brains should
reel into madness worse than death. Recognizing, therefore, that in
this cultivated age a wall of scepticism and cynicism is gradually
being built up by intellectual thinkers of every nation against all
that treats of the Supernatural and Unseen, I am aware that my
narration of the events I have recently experienced will be read with
incredulity. At a time when the great empire of the Christian Religion
is being assailed, or politely ignored by governments and public
speakers and teachers, I realize to the fullest extent how daring is
any attempt to prove, even by a plain history of strange occurrences
happening to one's self, the actual existence of the Supernatural
around us; and the absolute certainty of a future state of being, after
the passage through that brief soul-torpor in which the body perishes,
known to us as Death.
In the present narration, which I have purposely called a "romance," I
do not expect to be believed, as I can only relate what I myself have
experienced. I know that men and women of to-day must have proofs, or
what they are willing to accept as proofs, before they will credit
anything that purports to be of a spiritual tendency;--something
startling--some miracle of a stupendous nature, such as according to
prophecy they are all unfit to receive. Few will admit the subtle
influence and incontestable, though mysterious, authority exercised
upon their lives by higher intelligences than their own--intelligences
unseen, unknown, but felt. Yes! felt by the most careless, the most
cynical; in the uncomfortable prescience of danger, the inner
forebodings of guilt--the moral and mental torture endured by those who
fight a protracted battle to gain the hardly-won victory in themselves
of right over wrong--in the thousand and one sudden appeals made
without warning to that compass of a man's life, Conscience--and in
those brilliant and startling impulses of generosity, bravery, and
self-sacrifice which carry us on, heedless of consequences, to the
performance of great and noble deeds, whose fame makes the whole world
one resounding echo of glory--deeds that we wonder at ourselves even in
the performance of them--acts of heroism in which mere life goes for
nothing, and the Soul for a brief space is pre-eminent, obeying blindly
the guiding influence of a something akin to itself, yet higher in the
realms of Thought.
There are no proofs as to why such things should be; but that they are,
is indubitable. The miracles enacted now are silent ones, and are
worked in the heart and mind of man alone. Unbelief is nearly supreme
in the world to-day. Were an angel to descend from heaven in the middle
of a great square, the crowd would think he had got himself up on
pulleys and wires, and would try to discover his apparatus. Were he, in
wrath, to cast destruction upon them, and with fire blazing from his
wings, slay a thousand of them with the mere shaking of a pinion, those
who were left alive would either say that a tremendous dynamite
explosion had occurred, or that the square was built on an extinct
volcano which had suddenly broken out into frightful activity. Anything
rather than believe in angels--the nineteenth century protests against
the possibility of their existence. It sees no miracle--it pooh-poohs
the very enthusiasm that might work them.
"Give a positive sign," it says; "prove clearly that what you say is
true, and I, in spite of my Progress and Atom Theory, will believe."
The answer to such a request was spoken eighteen hundred years and more
ago. "A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no
sign shall be given unto them."
Were I now to assert that a sign had been given to ME--to me, as one
out of the thousands who demand it--such daring assurance on my part
would meet with the most strenuous opposition from all who peruse the
following pages; each person who reads having his own ideas on all
subjects, and naturally considering them to be the best if not the only
ideas worth anything. Therefore I wish it to be plainly understood that
in this book I personally advocate no new theory of either religion or
philosophy; nor do I hold myself answerable for the opinions expressed
by any of my characters. My aim throughout is to let facts speak for
themselves. If they seem strange, unreal, even impossible, I can only
say that the things of the invisible world must always appear so to
those whose thoughts and desires are centred on this life only.
CHAPTER I.
AN ARTIST'S STUDIO.
In the winter of 188-, I was afflicted by a series of nervous ailments,
brought on by overwork and overworry. Chief among these was a
protracted and terrible insomnia, accompanied by the utmost depression
of spirits and anxiety of mind. I became filled with the gloomiest
anticipations of evil; and my system was strung up by slow degrees to
such a high tension of physical and mental excitement, that the
quietest and most soothing of friendly voices had no other effect upon
me than to jar and irritate. Work was impossible; music, my one
passion, intolerable; books became wearisome to my sight; and even a
short walk in the open air brought with it such lassitude and
exhaustion, that I soon grew to dislike the very thought of moving out
of doors. In such a condition of health, medical aid became necessary;
and a skilful and amiable physician, Dr. R----, of great repute in
nervous ailments, attended me for many weeks, with but slight success.
He was not to blame, poor man, for his failure to effect a cure. He had
only one way of treatment, and he applied it to all his patients with
more or less happy results. Some died, some recovered; it was a lottery
on which my medical friend staked his reputation, and won. The patients
who died were never heard of more--those who recovered sang the praises
of their physician everywhere, and sent him gifts of silver plate and
hampers of wine, to testify their gratitude. His popularity was very
great; his skill considered marvellous; and his inability to do ME any
good arose, I must perforce imagine, out of some defect or hidden
obstinacy in my constitution, which was to him a new experience, and
for which he was unprepared. Poor Dr. R----! How many bottles of your
tastily prepared and expensive medicines have I not swallowed, in blind
confidence and blinder ignorance of the offences I thus committed
against all the principles of that Nature within me, which, if left to
itself, always heroically struggles to recover its own proper balance
and effect its own cure; but which, if subjected to the experimental
tests of various poisons or drugs, often loses strength in the
unnatural contest and sinks exhausted, perhaps never to rise with
actual vigour again. Baffled in his attempts to remedy my ailments, Dr.
R---- at last resorted to the usual plan adopted by all physicians when
their medicines have no power. He recommended change of air and scene,
and urged my leaving London, then dark with the fogs of a dreary
winter, for the gaiety and sunshine and roses of the Riviera. The idea
was not unpleasant to me, and I determined to take the advice
proffered. Hearing of my intention, some American friends of mine,
Colonel Everard and his charming young wife, decided to accompany me,
sharing with me the expenses of the journey and hotel accommodation. We
left London all together on a damp foggy evening, when the cold was so
intense that it seemed to bite the flesh like the sharp teeth of an
animal, and after two days' rapid journey, during which I felt my
spirits gradually rising, and my gloomy forebodings vanishing slowly
one by one, we arrived at Cannes, and put up at the Hotel de L----. It
was a lovely place, and most beautifully situated; the garden was a
perfect wilderness of roses in full bloom, and an avenue of
orange-trees beginning to flower cast a delicate fragrance on the warm
delicious air.
Mrs. Everard was delighted.
"If you do not recover your health here," she said half laughingly to
me on the second morning after our arrival, "I am afraid your case is
hopeless. What sunshine! What a balmy wind! It is enough to make a
cripple cast away his crutches and forget he was ever lame. Don't you
think so?"
I smiled in answer, but inwardly I sighed. Beautiful as the scenery,
the air, and the general surroundings were, I could not disguise from
myself that the temporary exhilaration of my feelings, caused by the
novelty and excitement of my journey to Cannes, was slowly but surely
passing away. The terrible apathy, against which I had fought for so
many months, was again creeping over me with its cruel and resistless
force. I did my best to struggle against it; I walked, I rode, I
laughed and chatted with Mrs. Everard and her husband, and forced
myself into sociability with some of the visitors at the hotel, who
were disposed to show us friendly attention. I summoned all my stock of
will-power to beat back the insidious physical and mental misery that
threatened to sap the very spring of my life; and in some of these
efforts I partially succeeded. But it was at night that the terrors of
my condition manifested themselves. Then sleep forsook my eyes; a dull
throbbing weight of pain encircled my head like a crown of thorns;
nervous terrors shook me from head to foot; fragments of my own musical
compositions hummed in my ears with wearying persistence--fragments
that always left me in a state of distressed conjecture; for I never
could remember how they ended, and I puzzled myself vainly over
crotchets and quavers that never would consent to arrange themselves in
any sort of finale. So the days went on; for Colonel Everard and his
wife, those days were full of merriment, sight-seeing, and enjoyment.
For me, though outwardly I appeared to share in the universal gaiety,
they were laden with increasing despair and wretchedness; for I began
to lose hope of ever recovering my once buoyant health and strength,
and, what was even worse, I seemed to have utterly parted with all
working ability. I was young, and up to within a few months life had
stretched brightly before me, with the prospect of a brilliant career.
And now what was I? A wretched invalid--a burden to myself and to
others--a broken spar flung with other fragments of ship wrecked lives
on the great ocean of Time, there to be whirled away and forgotten. But
a rescue was approaching; a rescue sudden and marvellous, of which, in
my wildest fancies, I had never dreamed.
Staying in the same hotel with us was a young Italian artist, Raffaello
Cellini by name. His pictures were beginning to attract a great deal of
notice, both in Paris and Rome: not only for their faultless drawing,
but for their wonderfully exquisite colouring. So deep and warm and
rich were the hues he transferred to his canvases, that others of his
art, less fortunate in the management of the palette, declared he must
have invented some foreign compound whereby he was enabled to deepen
and brighten his colours for the time being; but that the effect was
only temporary, and that his pictures, exposed to the air for some
eight or ten years, would fade away rapidly, leaving only the traces of
an indistinct blur. Others, more generous, congratulated him on having
discovered the secrets of the old masters. In short, he was admired,
condemned, envied, and flattered, all in a breath; while he himself,
being of a singularly serene and unruffled disposition, worked away
incessantly, caring little or nothing for the world's praise or blame.
Cellini had a pretty suite of rooms in the Hotel de L----, and my
friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly. He
was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship, and
so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us, where we
would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures, or to discuss
our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to Cellini's studio,
strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and calming effect upon my
suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room, furnished with that
"admired disorder" and mixed luxuriousness peculiar to artists, with
its heavily drooping velvet curtains, its glimpses of white marble
busts and broken columns, its flash and fragrance of flowers that
bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out from the studio and leading
to the garden, where a fountain bubbled melodiously--all this pleased
me and gave me a curious, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest.
Cellini himself had a fascination for me, for exactly the same reason.
As an example of this, I remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one
occasion, and hurrying to the most secluded part of the garden, in
order to walk up and down alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of
nervous agitation which had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about
in feverish restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as
if in thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near
me, he raised his eyes--they were clear and darkly brilliant--he
regarded me steadfastly with a kindly smile. Then lifting his hat with
the graceful reverence peculiar to an Italian, he passed on, saying no
word. But the effect of his momentary presence upon me was
remarkable--it was ELECTRIC. I was no longer agitated. Calmed, soothed
and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered into her
plans for the day with so much alacrity that she was surprised and
delighted.
"If you go on like this," she said, "you will be perfectly well in a
month."
I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence Raffaello
Cellini's presence had upon me; but such as it was I could not but be
grateful for the respite it gave me from nervous suffering, and my now
daily visits to the artist's studio were a pleasure and a privilege not
to be foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking at his pictures.
His subjects were all original, and some of them were very weird and
fantastic. One large picture particularly attracted me. It was entitled
"Lords of our Life and Death." Surrounded by rolling masses of cloud,
some silver-crested, some shot through with red flame, was depicted the
World, as a globe half in light, half in shade. Poised above it was a
great Angel, upon whose calm and noble face rested a mingled expression
of deep sorrow, yearning pity, and infinite regret. Tears seemed to
glitter on the drooping lashes of this sweet yet stern Spirit; and in
his strong right hand he held a drawn sword--the sword of
destruction--pointed forever downwards to the fated globe at his feet.
Beneath this Angel and the world he dominated was darkness--utter
illimitable darkness. But above him the clouds were torn asunder, and
through a transparent veil of light golden mist, a face of surpassing
beauty was seen--a face on which youth, health, hope, love, and
ecstatic joy all shone with ineffable radiance. It was the
personification of Life--not life as we know it, brief and full of
care--but Life Immortal and Love Triumphant. Often and often I found
myself standing before this masterpiece of Cellini's genius, gazing at
it, not only with admiration, but with a sense of actual comfort. One
afternoon, while resting in my favourite low chair opposite the
picture, I roused myself from a reverie, and turning to the artist, who
was showing some water-colour sketches to Mrs. Everard, I said abruptly:
"Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signor Cellini, or had
you a model to copy from?"
He looked at me and smiled.
"It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original," he said.
"A woman's face then, I suppose? How very beautiful she must be!"
"Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent. The expression
of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the
sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be
far away from his occupation.
"And the Death Angel?" I went on. "Had you a model for that also?"
This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his
features.
"No indeed," he answered with ready frankness; "that is entirely my own
creation."
I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his poetical
fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.
"If you really admire the picture," he said, "pray do not say so. If it
is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare
the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of having
to confess that it is not above human praise. The only true criticism
of high art is silence--silence as grand as heaven itself."
He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard)
looked at him curiously.
"Say now!" she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, "aren't you a little
bit eccentric, signor? You talk like a long-haired prophet! I never met
an artist before who couldn't stand praise; it is generally a matter of
wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating sweet they can
swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, I must admit. I
congratulate you!"
Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking
curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said:
"I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for
your portrait?"
"I!" I exclaimed, with astonishment. "Signor Cellini, I cannot imagine
why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is nothing in
my poor physiognomy worthy of your briefest attention."
"You must pardon me, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, "if I presume
to differ from you. I am exceedingly anxious to transfer your features
to my canvas. I am aware that you are not in strong health, and that
your face has not that roundness and colour formerly habitual to it.
But I am not an admirer of the milkmaid type of beauty. Everywhere I
seek for intelligence, for thought, for inward refinement--in short,
mademoiselle, you have the face of one whom the inner soul consumes,
and, as such, may I plead again with you to give me a little of your
spare time? YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT, I ASSURE YOU."
These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular
impressiveness. I rose from my seat and looked at him steadily; he
returned me glance for glance, A strange thrill ran through me,
followed by that inexplicable sensation of absolute calm that I had
before experienced. I smiled--I could, not help smiling.
"I will come to-morrow," I said.
"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle! Can you be here at noon?"
I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted
enthusiasm.
"Of course! Any time you like, signor. We will arrange our excursions
so that they shall not interfere with the sittings. It will be most
interesting to watch the picture growing day by day. What will you call
it, signor? By some fancy title?"
"It will depend on its appearance when completed," he replied, as he
threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual
ceremonious politeness.
"Au revoir, madame! A demain, mademoiselle!" and the violet velvet
curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.
"Is there not something strange about that young man?" said Mrs.
Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L----
back to our own rooms. "Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of
both qualities mixed up?"
"I think he is what people term PECULIAR, when they fail to understand
the poetical vagaries of genius," I replied. "He is certainly very
uncommon."
"Well!" continued my friend meditatively, as she contemplated her
pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed
attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing;
"all I can say is that I wouldn't let him paint MY portrait if he were
to ask ever so! I should be scared to death. I wonder you, being so
nervous, were not afraid of him."
"I thought you liked him," I said.
"So I do. So does my husband. He's awfully handsome and clever, and all
that--but his conversation! There now, my dear, you must own he is
slightly QUEER. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only
criticism of art is silence? Isn't that utter rubbish?"
"The only TRUE criticism," I corrected her gently.
"Well, it's all the same. How can there be any criticism at all in
silence? According to his idea when we admire anything very much we
ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would be
entirely ridiculous! And what was that dreadful thing he said to you?"
"I don't quite understand you," I answered; "I cannot remember his
saying anything dreadful."
"Oh, I have it now," continued Amy with rapidity; "it was awful! He
said you had the FACE OF ONE WHOM THE SOUL CONSUMES. You know that was
most horribly mystical! And when he said it he looked--ghastly! What
did he mean by it, I wonder?"
I made no answer; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation as
soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon absorbed in
a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a blessed one for
me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child,
while in my dreams the face of Cellini's "Angel of life" smiled at me,
and seemed to suggest peace.