CHAPTER I
[The want of the author’s revising hand is here evident. There is no literary link between this part of the story and “Earth.” The reader will, however, perceive that it is Genius who is now telling his experiences to Deborah. Where Deborah is does not seem quite clear. The concluding passages of the last chapter in “Earth” suggest her death. Genius presently alludes to her “lost soul in the wilderness,” so that apparently she is in a kind of Purgatory, in close communication with Genius. The connection between Genius and Deborah is exceedingly intimate throughout, and as we have the author’s own word that Deborah goes to Heaven, it may be presumed that she is there entirely merged in Genius. At any rate she does not reappear in person after “Earth.”
We have the author’s own word that Deborah represents herself. Deborah probably symbolises the human, Genius the mental and spiritual element in the personality of the author; some confirmation of which may be found in the clearly-expressed assertion of the dual personality of the Saviour (in “Heaven”)—namely, as Jesus in His human aspect, as Christ in His spiritual. With regard to Plucritus and Virginius, the conjecture may be hazarded that the former embodies Deborah’s lower tendencies, the latter her higher soul.—Ed. Note.]
You, Deborah, remember the summer evening when I left you. It was no more pleasure to me than you, though I cannot say that then the pain which I experienced equalled yours. The force which parted us, the first time for so many years, was stronger than my own. For I had made a bet upon the book, and by the bet I sacrificed my ring, the only safeguard I possessed.
Between two forces, Good and Evil, I had stood alone, leaning to one who ever faced me cold and silently. Time and again I tried to break the weary barrier down, and in you that generated feeble efforts unto prayer. I had followed your lost soul about the wilderness, sprinkling flowers upon the barren ground, and unripe fruit, which withered. But ever like the thirsty wanderer I looked in search of fruitful soil. Good and Evil stalked with me all the time side by side, the one laughing, jesting all the way, the other silent, almost wordless.
Mirage followed mirage, till at last the Angel said, “Dig for the well.”
Then, as in the olden times, like our first fathers, I set to work laboriously. Hindrance followed hindrance, and the task was slow and painful, more so to you because you could not understand the cause of pain.
But to return to the present and my going. The journey was long, yet short, and I took it alone. It led through a mighty forest dark as night, chilly and damp, with here and there the shining coils of a sleeping serpent lying prone across the path. This was the mighty vestibule to hell, that spread through space by regions infinite. Here the traveller may often lose himself and fall down starved and dead. Here the sinuous snake will coil its writhing body round him and drag him o’er the unresisting slimy soil right to the prison gates which he in life so feared—or, maybe, laughed at.
By the side of blackened pools and hideous precipice I passed far out into the wild. The darkness was as clear as light before me, for I saw with darkened sight. Crags, rocks and gurgling torrents, flowing through dreary chasms, met my eyes, and the further I went the lonelier I ever grew, for the pressure of intensity had fallen on to Silence and the power of Goodness no longer walked beside.
I saw the glorious bubbles floating round me—red, purple, golden-yellow, green—I heard the magic music as it tinkled, I saw the victim quiver when it stilled. I heard the helpless cry, and then the laugh of devils as it died; I heard the feeble, far-off echo of the world, and darker, drearier grew the scene.
One by one the bubbles burst and fainter grew, note by note the music died upon the ear, the mortal cry of pain was left behind, and Silence, born of all, closed round me as I trod.
Then before me in the distance gleamed the danger-lights of hell, bloody-red against the darkness, clear and piercing as they shone. As I drew nearer they shone still clearer, lighting up the shining bulwarks, polished and cut like myriads of gem-strewn columns in the night.
The heavy gates were open, no sound disturbed my thought, yet I stood still upon the threshold and looked behind. Far off in the distance through the darkness gleamed a gloomy, lurid light upon a leaden ball, and on the farther side, almost like giant shadows on a giant curtain, two giant forms were struggling for the ball.
But that to me had little interest. Why should it have? Who ever yet upon Hell’s threshold glanced back except to breathe the air that is not? For Misery had come, and Desolation, and Mistrust, that fiend of fiends which eats the hearts of kings and poisons homesteads, bringing one general curse to all.
Thus far I had come alone and unattended, but as I passed beneath the overwhelming shadow I became conscious of this other world.
And the thing that struck me most on entering was the deathly silence hanging over all. And the next thing that struck me was the weird, unnatural beauty of the scene. And the next that I was now no longer quite alone.
To a broad avenue, banked by sculptured terraces and crowned with towering mansions, I had come, yet in this city of the night no living form appeared, till, looking up above to some alabaster steps carved by some magic hand, I beheld a spirit woman watching me.
Even as I looked she moved toward me, with all the grace and lightness which spirits may possess.
“You are dull of seeing, dull of hearing, dull at recognising,” she said, and I heard the siren’s voice and remembered my lost ring. I had no voice to answer, till with an effort I had roused myself.
“And you, it seems, are duller at receiving.”
“How so?” she asked, and laughed and drew much nearer, so that I recognised the more this spirit beauty.
“I come like an unwelcome guest, finding no preparation at the end of travel.”
“Indeed,” she answered, “all has been prepared, but it was done in silence. We knew your hatred of display. And is it true that you are here without one bite, one ugly serpent twist to mar your strength or beauty? Then indeed you are welcome. Come this way.”
She led me by the steps of alabaster under the shade of heavy drooping trees. We passed along the margin of a river, by many statues of exceeding beauty, whose images were reflected in its bed. But to me, foreign to this nature, the gloom and heavy grandeur were oppressive. Even to my feet the hard, unbending marble brought weariness and pain.
“Lady,” I said at last, “this kingdom is in need of something. It lacks a joyful element of sound.”
At this she laughed, and there was beauty in it, maybe some merriment.
“You are dull of hearing,” she repeated, and looked back at me and stayed, then laughed again. She pointed toward the river.
“Come nearer,” she went on. “Now listen, listen.” And she raised a finger. “Does it not run so? Gurgle, gurgle! Is there no rhythm in that?” And as I listened I could hear the sound.
“There is no joyousness in it,” I said.
“You are dull of understanding,” she repeated, and laughed again and moved along.
Her dress, now that I came to see it more distinctly and follow it more closely in the unnoticeable haze, was of the clearest shade of twilight inlaid with many a shining gem.
And still we passed along, till on a sudden we lit on a great and glorious building among the trees and jewel-spraying fountains. From every window sparkled brilliant light.
“That is my home,” she said, and pointed to it.
At length, when I had looked some time and viewed its every pinnacle and spire, buttress and gable, tower and minaret, I turned to her.
“Is this a church or palace, pleasure house or prison?” I questioned.
“Oh, stranger, you are dull at seeing,” she replied, and shook her head.
And then, for the first time since coming there, I smiled; this creature’s fascination told on me, the only seeming-living thing about the place.
“You will come home with me,” she urged. “I am alone, but what of that? Poor company will suffice one night. And to-morrow who knows? I may expect my husband home.”
“Your husband?” I queried.
She placed her hand on my arm and drew her lips close to my ear. Her eyes were laughing, and her voice.
She whispered lightly, “I think you are mistaking this for heaven.”
“That would be the greatest compliment,” I rejoined.
Her manner altered to one of sarcasm and scorn.
“If you esteem it so, why do you linger here?”
“That is an answer quite beyond me,” I made answer. “I think I linger here because I must.”
“Yes—as a prisoner,” she said slowly. “A much-prized prisoner, almost like a guest.”
We had reached the broad flight of steps that led toward the entrance. Here she stood still and took my left hand in her right, and with her other placed upon my finger a narrow circlet of blood-red stones. I looked at it with vain regret; to me there was no beauty in these gems. I remembered my own fair jewels and remorse more keen that I had felt before cut to my heart.
“Stranger, how little courtesy you show! Silent and thankless even for a gift.”
“I remember another ring more beautiful than this,” I answered.
Her eyes lit up with that intensity which in its lesser forms mortals call greed.
“Be content with what you get,” she remarked. “Those stones are priceless—millions could scarcely buy them; your stones are the dross of that little planet, Earth—bought, perhaps, with trumpery silver.”
I was then silent, and together we went up the steps.
The entrance was barred with gates of gold. They were like the iron ones that protect churches. Inside these gates was a high arched door. It was like the door of some cathedral—covered with knobs. But they were not of rusted iron; they glowed like carbuncles in a carved setting, which was itself in substance like black oak.
At her touch the heavy gates drew back, the gloomy door flew open.
Beyond was an arched space like the central aisle of some large temple.
And as we stood upon the threshold I looked in upon the dim, dark grandeur. Blood-red lighted censers swung from the golden fluted roof. They lit up the fluted pillars that branched out into the most delicate arches eye could wish.
Here was the sound of organ music beautiful to hear, yet to my ears it came like a paining memory of long ago.
“Do you not like our music?” she asked.
“It is short of but one thing,” I answered as we went in, “and that is joyousness.”
The door closed behind us and the music ceased. Presently it began again. I listened enraptured and entranced.
“What do you think of that?” she queried.
“That is not joyous, it is madness—an elation which does not last.”
“You are very bad to please. Or rather, let me use my old argument, I will say that you are dull.”
At the farther end, above a high-standing altar, rose a mighty crucifix. It was so beautiful, so real, so truthful in its silent agony, that, looking through the dusk, it startled me.
I grasped the yielding arm beside me.
“What is that?” I questioned sharply.
“You a Christian and so dull?” she exclaimed. “That is Christ, the carpenter, the king, the God, the Tool, the Fool, anything, everything. Whatever you will. Is it not like him?”
The airy mockery in her tone jarred on me.
“Go nearer,” she continued, “look at it closer. It is worth studying, and is of excellent workmanship. Everything in these places should be and is of the best.”
I went nearer as she bade me. It was indeed of exquisite workmanship.
“I had not thought to meet with that in Hell,” I said at length.
“I do not think you could get it better done in Heaven,” she observed, and laughed and turned away.
I too turned from it, with a horrible repugnance growing in me mixed with extreme pain. I saw this figure for the first time in an unexpected place, and something within me struggled for expression, yet found none. Beneath the Crucifix, which was exceeding highly placed, broad flights of steps led up to a crimson altar, and above the altar was a handsome doorway of gold, which reached just so high as the Saviour’s feet.
I noticed with some curiosity and surprise that she was ascending the steps before us. I followed with cold yet burning interest, for in this place white heat is only quenched with ice, and ice melted with white heat alone.
But when we reached the upper step the altar was invisible. It had vanished, and the door alone remained before us. It opened, as all things opened here, silent and swiftly.
She had been watching, and espied my look of evident astonishment, which amused her.
“The lights are thrown on in such a manner that when you are below you imagine you see an arrangement something like a table,” she said. “But that would be a very inconvenient, and at the same time undignified, way of approaching the doorway, and I should have thought your own common sense would tell you it was nothing but a sham—a myth rather, I might say.”
We stood upon the threshold and looked down the dim, grand aisle.
No painter ever yet imagined in his fondest, highest dream a scene of richer grandeur. In place of the straight-backed pews of churches, jewelled thrones ranged tier behind tier, meeting the eye with ever-gleaming, changing light. Over the font there hung by finest cords of diamond and ruby intermingled, a royal crown, its golden background hidden by gems. A great golden bird spread out its giant wings below us, every feather tipped with curious light, and on its back rested the mighty Bible opened at the Gospel according to St John. The twelve Apostles stood out in bold relief around the pulpit, and from the tasseled cushion on the desk a simple cross was hanging in needlework of gold.
Yet all this glittering, gleaming brilliancy was subdued by the dimness of the light, and the organ-loft shone out almost as from a mist of unreal glamour.
She paused beside the open door and looked behind. I stood and looked upon it too.
“What wealth! what countless millions have been spent on this,” I murmured.
She laughed; and when she laughed it seemed as if the jewels gleamed more magically.
“Yes,” she affirmed, “countless millions have been spent. It is the work of ages, and has been built to the glory and praise of God Eternal.”
Then she turned away, and I turned too and gazed within the doorway.
A large hall of great expanse met our eyes. From its sides many doors led off, and passages, and here and there on the right side high windows opened on the gardens we had left.
I had hoped on leaving the dim church to throw off the deep depression that hung round me, but it was hopeless.
From without there came the sound of singing birds, the splash of fountains, a gentle music, but I recognised they might as well be silent for all the joyousness they brought to me.
The beauties of the hall were lost except to my intellect. I regarded them calmly and with an interest that had dulled.
Exquisite workmanship in furniture met my eye at every turn. The painted ceilings, the polished floor of rich mosaic, the easeful chairs that were in themselves like flattering apologies for graceful broad-armed thrones, the squares of rich-coloured carpet, the inlaid tables with their fine carved legs, the couches piled with softest cushions, the massive fireplaces filled with living coal, met my eye and left merely the impression of a dream.
Yet I strove to find some pleasure, but could find none.
From this she led the way into an apartment which was smaller and more adaptable for private life.
Its beauty was like all the rest, on the richest, finest scale.
She beckoned me toward a sofa by the fireplace, in which the flames leapt lightly, and with a sudden feeling of weariness I threw myself down on it.
“You are tired, stranger,” she said softly. “Sleep, sleep, and wake refreshed. The journey has been long, longer than mortal thought can reckon.”
And then, overcome with weariness and exhaustion, I slept, and for the time remembered nothing more.