“Ardath” is divided into three parts. In the first is introduced a sceptic poet, Theos Alwyn. In the Second Book, Theos is transplanted into the city of Al-Kyris, in a bygone world, where he is supposed to have led a previous existence five thousand years before Christ’s advent. In the Third Book, Alwyn is back in London, amongst old associates, with the knowledge of all these strange experiences within him. The book has a sub-title, “The Story of a Dead Self,” and it is in the city of Al-Kyris that the peculiar “Dead Self” experience comes to Theos Alwyn, through whom Miss Corelli expounds lessons to all men—and women.
The story opens in the heart of the Caucasus Mountains, where a wild storm is gathering, and there is an early example of the descriptive delights with which the book is adorned. Miss Corelli is unique, not alone in her imaginings and in her treatment of them, but, too, in her powerful pictures of scenery. Here,
“in the lonely Caucasus heights, 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 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 broad 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 vantage ground; 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.”
It was such fine writing as this, doubtless, which caught Tennyson’s fancy on casually opening the book to inspect and arrive at conclusions concerning its contents for himself, regardless of anything reviewers might have said previously in its disfavor. It was a sympathetic perusal of its many pages that drew from him a letter of commendation which he duly dispatched to its writer. It was the poetic conception of the city of Al-Kyris which appealed to the lonely Man of Wight, pondering, in his long island walks, on the strange romance of pre-Babylonian times set down by a woman who had won the whole-hearted approval of his great contemporary, William Gladstone.
Not unlike this majestic opening of “Ardath” are many of the poet’s own sublime pen-pictures. A master of verse, standing high above all others of his time as well as above most who had preceded him, the warm encomiums that he deliberately awarded to Marie Corelli should surely silence the snarls of envious Grub Street.
But to our story. Within the Monastery of Lars, “far up among the crags crowning the ravine,” are seen a group of monks whose intonations strangely stir a listener,—an Englishman,—Alwyn, whose musings on the reverential exercises of the monks indicate the religious purpose that underlies the story which follows. For Alwyn at the time is not only a poet, but an egoist and an agnostic. What sort of fellows are these monks, he muses,—fools or knaves? They must be one or the other, thinks he, else they would not thus chant praises “to a Deity of whose existence there is, and can be, no proof.” He is none the less conscious that the ending of faith and the prevalence of what he regards as Truth, would be a dreary result, destroying the beauty of the Universe. With cold and almost contemptuous feelings he watches the proceedings of these monks, and listens to the recital of their seven Glorias:
“Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and Eternal!” And with one harmonious murmur of accord the brethren respond:
“Glory forever and ever! Amen!”
Vespers over, the monks leave their chapel, and immediately the agnostic poet is face to face with one who is presumably chief of the Order—the monk who had recited the Glorias. And who, indeed, is he? None other than the mystic scientist, the Heliobas of “A Romance of Two Worlds,” who has now adopted this secluded monastic life. To him Theos Alwyn explains that he is miserable, and that, though an agnostic and searcher after absolute and positive proof, he desires for a time to be deluded into a state of happiness. So, the Parisian fame of Heliobas having reached him, this modern poet does not hesitate to seek from him a peace and happiness which neither his world of success nor his agnostic opinions can give him. From Heliobas he learns that this strange monk possesses a certain spiritual force which can overpower and subdue material force—that he can release the poet’s soul—“that is, the Inner Intelligent Spirit which is the actual You”—from its house of clay and allow it an interval of freedom. Alwyn pleads—even demands—that Heliobas will exercise this power at once; but the monk, amazed and reproachful, declines.
“To-night!—without faith, preparation, or prayer,—you are willing to be tossed through the realms of space like a grain of dust in a whirling tempest? Beyond the glittering gyration of unnumbered stars—through the sword-like flash of streaming comets—through darkness—through light—through depths of profoundest silence—over heights of vibrating sound—you—you will dare to wander in these God-invested regions—you, a blasphemer and a doubter of God!”