Ardath
Marie Corelli
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ARDATH
THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF
BY MARIE CORELLI
AUTHOR OF "THELMA," ETC.
PART I.--SAINT AND SCEPTIC
"What merest whim
Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame
To one who keeps within his steadfast aim
A love immortal, an Immortal too!
Look not so 'wildered, for these things are true
And never can be borne 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, espy
A HOPE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM!"
KEATS.
CHAPTER I.
THE MONASTERY.
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 frost-bound 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
road 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 vantageground; and mingling with
its wailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse 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 wreathing vapors the steep,
bare sides of the near mountains were pallidly 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 shuddering anxiety,--the red slit in the sky closed,
and a gleam of forked lightning leaped athwart the driving
darkness. An appalling crash of thunder followed almost
instantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in sullenly grand echoes
on all sides of the Pass, 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
Dariel. As the night darkened and the clamor 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 castellated building, battering 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 snaky
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 Magnificat, and the uplifted steady
harmony of the grand old anthem rose triumphantly above the noise
of the storm. The monks who inhabited this mountain eyrie, 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
a Cross of 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
especial 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
intoned the Magnificat 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, an expression such as
the unknown sculptor of Hadrian's era caught and fixed in the
marble of his ivy-crowned Bacchus-Antinous, 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 travelling
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, seem suited
only to the picturesque prophet-like forms of the white-gowned
brethren whom he now 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 illusive 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 Pass 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 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 doggerel? 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 Farceur 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 or 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 cords, 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 to the altar, confronted
the rest of his brethren. The fiery Cross shone radiantly behind
him, its beams seeming to gather in a lustrous 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
veriest 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 FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"
"Glory to God, the Ruler of Spirits and Master of Angels!"
"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"
"Glory to God who in love never wearies of loving!"
"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"
"Glory to God in the Name of His Christ our Redeemer!"
"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"
"Glory to God for the joys of the Past, the Present and Future!"
"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"
"Glory to God for the Power of Will and the working of Wisdom!"
"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"
"Glory to God for the briefness of life, the gladness of death,
and the promised Immortal Hereafter!"
"GLORY FOR EVER 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
save by the rattle of the rain-drops 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 lustre 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 worshippers,--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 an 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 that 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 jewelled 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 passed,
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
Glorias. 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 Heliobas?"
The monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet graceful
salutation, and smiled.
"I have not changed it," he replied, "I am Heliobas 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--to-
night--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 Heliobas--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 Heliobas,
who is dead to the world, serve one for whom surely as yet the
world is everything?"
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