A Romance of Two Worlds by Marie Corelli (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📕

“Half these people do not know in the least what they mean by ‘breadth and colour’ or ‘virtuosity,’” said Heliobas, with a smile. “They think emotion, passion, all true sentiment combined with extraordinary TECHNIQUE, must be ‘clap-trap.’ Now the Continent of Europe acknowledges Pablo de Sarasate as the first violinist living, and London would not be London unless it could thrust an obtuse opposing opinion in the face of the Continent. England is the last country in the world to accept anything new. Its people are tired and blase; like highly trained circus-horses, they want to trot or gallop always in the old grooves. It will always be so. Sarasate is like a brilliant meteor streaming across their narrow bit of the heaven of music; they stare, gape, and think it is an unnatural phenomenon—a ‘virtuosity’ in the way of meteors, which they are afraid to accept lest it set them on fire. What would you? The meteor shines and burns; it is always a meteor!”

So, talking lightly, and gliding from subject to subject, the hours wore away, and we at last separated for the night.

I shall always be glad to remember how tenderly Zara kissed me and wished me good repose; and I recall now, with mingled pain, wonder, and gratitude, how perfectly calm and contented I felt as, after my prayers, I sank to sleep, unwarned, and therefore happily unconscious, of what awaited me on the morrow.

CHAPTER XV.

DEATH BY LIGHTNING.

The morning of the next day dawned rather gloomily. A yellowish fog obscured the air, and there was a closeness and sultriness in the atmosphere that was strange for that wintry season. I had slept well, and rose with the general sense of ease and refreshment that I always experienced since I had been under the treatment of Heliobas. Those whose unhappy physical condition causes them to awake from uneasy slumber feeling almost more fatigued than when they retired to rest, can scarcely have any idea of the happiness it engenders to open untired, glad eyes with the morning light; to feel the very air a nourishment; to stand with lithe, rested limbs in the bath of cool, pure water, rinding that limpid element obediently adding its quota to the vigour of perfect health; to tingle from head to foot with the warm current of life running briskly through the veins, making the heart merry, the brain clear, and all the powers of body and mind in active working condition. This is indeed most absolute enjoyment. Add to it the knowledge of the existence of one’s own inner Immortal Spirit—the beautiful germ of Light in the fostering of which no labour is ever taken in vain—the living, wondrous thing that is destined to watch an eternity of worlds bloom and fade to bloom again, like flowers, while itself, superior to them all, shall become ever more strong and radiant—with these surroundings and prospects, who shall say life is not worth living?

Dear Life! sweet Moment! gracious Opportunity! brief Journey so well worth the taking! gentle Exile so well worth enduring!—thy bitterest sorrows are but blessings in disguise; thy sharpest pains are brought upon us by ourselves, and even then are turned to warnings for our guidance; while above us, through us, and around us radiates the Supreme Love, unalterably tender!

These thoughts, and others like them, all more or less conducive to cheerfulness, occupied me till I had finished dressing. Melancholy was now no part of my nature, otherwise I might have been depressed by the appearance of the weather and the murkiness of the air. But since I learned the simple secrets of physical electricity, atmospheric influences have had no effect upon the equable poise of my temperament—a fact for which I cannot be too grateful, seeing how many of my fellow-creatures permit themselves to be affected by changes in the wind, intense heat, intense cold, or other things of the like character.

I went down to breakfast, singing softly on my way, and I found Zara already seated at the head of her table, while Heliobas was occupied in reading and sorting a pile of letters that lay beside his plate. Both greeted me with their usual warmth and heartiness.

During the repast, however, the brother and sister were strangely silent, and once or twice I fancied that Zara’s eyes filled with tears, though she smiled again so quickly and radiantly that I felt I was mistaken.

A piece of behaviour on the part of Leo, too, filled me with dismay. He had been lying quietly at his master’s feet for some time, when he suddenly arose, sat upright, and lifting his nose in air, uttered a most prolonged and desolate howl. Anything more thoroughly heartbroken and despairing than that cry I have never heard. After he had concluded it, the poor animal seemed ashamed of what he had done, and creeping meekly along, with drooping head and tail, he kissed his master’s hand, then mine, and lastly Zara’s. Finally, he went into a distant corner and lay down again, as if his feelings were altogether too much for him.

“Is he ill?” I asked pityingly.

“I think not,” replied Heliobas. “The weather is peculiar to-day— close, and almost thunderous; dogs are very susceptible to such changes.”

At that moment the page entered bearing a silver salver, on which lay a letter, which he handed to his master and immediately retired.

Heliobas opened and read it.

“Ivan regrets he cannot dine with us to-day,” he said, glancing at his sister; “he is otherwise engaged. He says, however, that he hopes to have the pleasure of looking in during the latter part of the evening.”

Zara inclined her head gently, and made no other reply.

A few seconds afterwards we rose from table, and Zara, linking her arm through mine, said:

“I want to have a talk with you while we can be alone. Come to my room.”

We went upstairs together, followed by the wise yet doleful Leo, who seemed determined not to let his mistress out of his sight. When we arrived at our destination, Zara pushed me gently into an easy-chair, and seated herself in another one opposite.

“I am going to ask a favour of you,” she began; “because I know you will do anything to please me or Casimir. Is it not so?”

I assured her she might rely upon my observing; with the truest fidelity any request of hers, small or great.

She thanked me and resumed:

“You know I have been working secretly in my studio for some time past. I have been occupied in the execution of two designs—one is finished, and is intended as a gift to Casimir. The other”—she hesitated—“is incomplete. It is the colossal figure which was veiled when you first came in to see my little statue of ‘Evening’. I made an attempt beyond my powers—in short, I cannot carry out the idea to my satisfaction. Now, dear, pay great attention to what I say. I have reason to believe that I shall be compelled to take a sudden journey—promise me that when I am gone you will see that unfinished statue completely destroyed—utterly demolished.”

I could not answer her for a minute or two, I was so surprised by her words.

“Going on a journey, Zara?” I said. “Well, if you are, I suppose you will soon return home again; and why should your statue be destroyed in the meantime? You may yet be able to bring it to final perfection.”

Zara shook her head and smiled half sadly.

“I told you it was a favour I had to ask of you,” she said; “and now you are unwilling to grant it.”

“I am not unwilling—believe me, dearest, I would do anything to please you,” I assured her; “but it seems so strange to me that you should wish the result of your labour destroyed, simply because you are going on a journey.”

“Strange as it seems, I desire it most earnestly,” said Zara; “otherwise—but if you will not see it done for me, I must preside at the work of demolition myself, though I frankly confess it would be most painful to me.”

I interrupted her.

“Say no more, Zara!” I exclaimed; “I will do as you wish. When you are gone, you say—”

“When I am gone,” repeated Zara firmly, “and before you yourself leave this house, you will see that particular statue destroyed. You will thus do me a very great service.”

“Well,” I said, “and when are you coming back again? Before I leave Paris?”

“I hope so—I think so,” she replied evasively; “at any rate, we shall meet again soon.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She smiled. Such a lovely, glad, and triumphant smile!

“You will know my destination before to-night has passed away,” she answered. “In the meanwhile I have your promise?”

“Most certainly.”

She kissed me, and as she did so, a lurid flash caught my eyes and almost dazzled them. It was a gleam of fiery lustre from the electric jewel she wore.

The day went on its usual course, and the weather seemed to grow murkier every hour. The air was almost sultry, and when during the afternoon I went into the conservatory to gather some of the glorious Marechal Niel roses that grew there in such perfection, the intense heat of the place was nearly insupportable. I saw nothing of Heliobas all day, and, after the morning, very little of Zara. She disappeared soon after luncheon, and I could not find her in her rooms nor in her studio, though I knocked at the door several times. Leo, too, was missing. After being alone for an hour or more, I thought I would pay a visit to the chapel. But on attempting to carry out this intention I found its doors locked—an unusual circumstance which rather surprised me. Fancying that I heard the sound of voices within, I paused to listen. But all was profoundly silent. Strolling into the hall, I took up at random from a side-table a little volume of poems, unknown to me, called “Pygmalion in Cyprus;” and seating myself in one of the luxurious Oriental easy-chairs near the silvery sparkling fountain, I began to read. I opened the book I held at “A Ballad of Kisses,” which ran as follows:

“There are three kisses that I call to mind, And I will sing their secrets as I go,— The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind, Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know, As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.

“The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet,— And evermore my soul will loathe the same,— The toys and joys of fate I may forget, But not the touch of that divided shame; It clove my lips—it burnt me like a flame.

“The third, the final kiss, is one I use Morning and noon and night, and not amiss. Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse! And when I die, be Love enrapt in bliss Re-sanctified in heaven by such a kiss!”

This little gem, which I read and re-read with pleasure, was only one of many in the same collection, The author was assuredly a man of genius. I studied his word-melodies with intense interest, and noted with some surprise how original and beautiful were many of his fancies and similes. I say I noted them with surprise, because he was evidently a modern Englishman, and yet unlike any other of his writing species. His name was not Alfred Tennyson, nor Edwin Arnold, nor