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Ardath
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?"