Delphi collected works o.., p.919
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 919
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Beware what you do! If you make the least attempt to leave the house I will have you arrested at once. I shall watch your every motion — your every look! Play your part throughout the opera as I shall play mine! We can settle our private affair afterwards!”
He lifted his eyes to hers in terrified appeal, but saw no pity in those night-black orbs, no softening touch of pardon in the expression of the beautiful face, a face such as Judith’s must have been when she went forth first to captive and then to slay the mighty Holofernes. At that moment the manager approached; he was in an excellent humour, and entirely delighted with the success of the new opera. He began to compliment the prima-donna on her triumph, and added, with a glance at the ‘understudy,’ —
“Signor Manuelos satisfied you in his part, Madame?”
“Perfectly!” replied the great ‘Miriami’ composedly. “As I have just told him, if he continues to perform his rôle as well as he has begun, we shall not quarrel!”
“Ah, well! whatever his faults are, you will soon get rid of him, as you kill him in the last act,” laughed the manager. “So, for any mistakes he makes, he will be punished! The curtain goes up in two minutes, Madame.”
And, bowing politely, he hurried on.
Miriam, or ‘Miriami,’ stood still, looking meditatively at Perez, who, despite himself, trembled in every limb.
“You had better take a glass of sherry or cognac, Signor Manuelos,” she suggested tranquilly, emphasising his stage name somewhat sarcastically, “or I fear you will be too nervous to sing your death-song. You must present a bold front when I kill you. Stage-fright is a terrible malady.”
And, moving slowly to one of the side-wings she took up a position where she could watch him wherever he went. The wretched man tried to conquer the palsy of fear that possessed him like the ague; a f super’ brought him, at his own request, some wine, which he swallowed at a gulp, while he sought to assume the jaunty manners of one perfectly at ease. But he felt the basilisk eyes of Miriam upon him, burning as it were into his very heart’s core; the flash of her jewels, the rustle of her robes, the faint perfume of the priceless lace upon her breast, all these trifling things seemed to pervade the air he breathed with a ghastly chill of terror. He could not tell what he feared, and the fear was all the greater because so vague and unspeakable. The curtain at last went up, and the opera proceeded; the grand ‘finale,’ in which there was a magnificent piece of vocalisation for the prima-donna, began. Never had the famous ‘Miriami’ sung more superbly; her voice rang out with luscious fulness, like a peal of golden bells, and in the concluding ‘cadenza’ she executed such a marvellous roulade of upward trills that the audience were fairly taken by surprise, and listened in almost breathless silence. The moment had come, when the heroine of the piece was to turn fiercely on a certain false servant who had betrayed a secret, and slay him with her own hand. This false servant was personated by Perez. Uneasy and nervous he advanced towards the footlights, and sang in a faint husky voice the brief recitative of his part, a recitative implying acknowledgment of guilt and including an appeal for pardon; but he could scarcely enunciate either words or music, so appalled was he at the terrible look of Miriam’s eyes, as with a slow, stealthy, panther-like movement, she glided towards him across the stage. For he saw his own Spanish dagger glittering in her hand, and what was far worse, he saw vengeance — stern relentless vengeance — written on every line of her features. Fear rendered him speechless; — rage made Miriam pitiless.
With one fierce bound she was upon him, and in a second had plunged the dagger deep in his heart! The thrust was so firm and well-aimed that he fell without a groan, the blood quickly welling up and soaking through the lace and tinsel of his stage costume; — the audience meanwhile, taking the whole scene as a splendid piece of realistic acting, rose en masse, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and shouting forth thunders of applause. But Miriam stood stiff and inert by the side of the fallen man, her lips rigidly set, her eyes looking blankly away into nothingness; and the manager, seeing something was wrong, hurried anxiously up to her, while the curtain was quickly dropped.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” he exclaimed. “Get up, Manuelos!” Then, seeing the blood trickling on the floor, “ Good God!” And he turned to the silent primadonna: “You have killed him!”
She made no answer. She seemed absorbed in solemn meditation, looking down at her slain victim.
“What a frightful thing! What a horrible accident!” gasped the disconcerted manager: “What is to be done?”
Then Miriam roused herself and spoke.
“It was not an accident,” she said calmly. “It was purposely done. I meant to kill him. He murdered the one I loved best in the world; and for that dear and honoured life I have taken his. He deserved his fate. It is a just vengeance!”
And with a sudden wild gesture, she lifted up her voice and sang in full pure notes of majestic melody, words in a language which the astonished and fear-stricken people about her knew nothing of, but which carried in their very sound a sense of awe.
“‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious, and His mercy endureth for ever.
“‘He giveth us the victory over our enemies: for His mercy endureth for ever!’”
Then all at once her voice broke in an hysterical cry — her unnatural composure gave way, and she seemed to realise more fully the horror of the deed she had done. Turning shudderingly away from the bleeding corpse of Perez, she staggered a few steps, reeled, and fell senseless.
* * * * *
All Paris soon knew the story, and Miriam David, making no attempt to escape from justice, was tried and found guilty of the wilful murder of Josef Perez, her own relative, whom she had recognised under his stage-name of Manuelos. Plenty of proofs were, however, forthcoming, as to his identity with the criminal for whom the French police had long been searching — namely, the murderer of the old Jew, Reuben David, grandfather of this very Miriam, who as ‘Miriami,’ had enchanted the whole cultured world. And after examination and consideration of all the circumstances, the French jury found for Miriam, ‘extenuating circumstances’; and, while solemnly admonishing her of the enormity of her offence in thus taking the law into her own hand, and severely reprimanding her for the same, wound up the case by a panegyric on her ‘superb talent,’ and let her go scot-free. And her beautiful face, her beautiful voice, were from henceforth lost to Europe. The ‘divine Miriami’ was seen no more; it was rumoured that she was dead, and in the hurrying world of fashion and pleasure she was soon forgotten. But there is a certain retreat in Palestine where approved Jewish teachers and professors educate the children of the neighbouring Jewish poor; and among these, there is a mistress of music and singing, a grave, dark, beautiful woman, whose grand voice is the wonder of the place, and whose steadfast gentle ways have a great and lasting influence on the minds of her pupils. She is known as Madame David, and only one or two of her fellow-workers remember that she was once an artistic ‘queen of song’ and ‘star’ of opera. She is very patient with idle and refractory scholars, but also very firm and unyielding in her demands for excellence in music as in all things, and from the other teachers with whom she associates she has won both respect and admiration, not altogether unmingled with fear. Her sombre black eyes, her dark, meditative brows, have a certain imperious grandeur that impresses an observer with a sense of awe; and the few persons who know her history wonder at times whether she ever feels remorse for the murder of Perez. No one can tell; her creed is not Christian. Her sympathies are in tune with the Psalmist who thus appeals against his enemies: “Let them fall from one wickedness to another, and let them not come into Thy righteousness.
“Let them be wiped out of the book of the living, and not be written among the righteous!” And on great days of Jewish festival, when the whole school is assembled at solemn prayer, teachers with them, every heart is moved and every soul stirred by the pure sound of a perfect voice that floats through the stillness, singing with the triumph and sweetness of some victorious prophetess of old:
“‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious, and His mercy endureth for ever!
“‘O give thanks unto the God of all gods, for His mercy endureth for ever.
“‘Who alone doeth great wonders, for His mercy endureth for ever.
“‘Yea, and slew mighty kings, for His mercy endureth for ever.
“‘Who remembered us when we were in trouble, for His mercy endureth for ever.
“‘And hath delivered us from our enemies, for His mercy endureth for ever!
“‘O give thanks unto the God of Heaven, for His mercy endureth for ever!’”
And it is much to be doubted whether there is any touch of penitence in this exulting song of Miriam. For those who follow the Mosaic Law are not bound to love or to forgive their enemies, and the God of the Old Testament is not the God of the New!
THE SOUL OF THE NEWLY BORN
A BLACK starless night; hard with frost and bitter cold. Long after sunset a chill silence had brooded over the dreary stretch of Yorkshire moorland that rolled away to the coast in an unbroken line as far as eye could see, the stillness at times being so intense that it seemed as if the very air were frozen. But as the hours moved on towards midnight a sudden wind arose, and, rushing out of the stormiest quarter of the heavens, gathered strength and fury as it flew. Tearing over the sea, it lashed the waves into mountainous billows; — leaping over forests it bent tall pines like reeds and snapped sturdy oak-boughs asunder; — sweeping across the open plains it scattered in its wake showers of stinging hail and whirling snow. Round one old red-brick manor-house that stood on a slightly rising ground, fully exposed to every gale from the sea, it roared and screamed and whistled with the noise of a thousand demons let loose; — it shook the iron gates on their rusty hinges; it tore long sprays of ivy from the wall; and in the impassive faces of two weather-beaten stone lions on either side of the doorway it cast great snowflakes which clung where they fell, congealed on the projecting eyes and foreheads of these emblematic guardians of the habitation, giving them a more quaint and grimly fabulous aspect than they were wont to wear. The house was amply provided with windows, but nearly all were shuttered closed as though some one were lying dead within, and the angry wind shrieked and battered at them in vain. Only one on the ground-floor showed a pale light for a little while, and even this disappeared at last. The big square building, looming darkly out of the darker night, might have been a prison or a madhouse for aught it looked to the contrary, yet it was known as the frequent abode of one of the wealthiest men in the county, who had purchased it for the singular reason that there was not another human habitation within six miles of it. The people of the nearest town called it ‘Elverton’s Folly,’ for it was generally understood among them that Richard Elverton, the owner, had other objects in view besides that of mere solitude when he chose to reside there for eight months out of every twelve. One was, that there could not well be found a more retired and convenient place to get dead drunk in without too many tell-tale witnesses; — another, that it was a first-class dungeon in which to shut up a handsome wife, who, during a certain ‘season’ in London had revenged herself for two long years of wedded wretchedness by numerous and somewhat reckless flirtations with various well-known men.
Three miles off, the sea broke in through straggling rocks upon a rough shingly beach where not even the smallest boat could find safe mooring; and when a storm was raging, as now, its angry voice could be heard thundering above the loudest wind. To-night the thud and rumble of the waves were appallingly distinct, and, mingling with the furious howling of the blast, made a terrific, uproar, which crept gradually and with fierce persistence into the ears of a helpless human creature whose senses were only at that moment awaking to the consciousness of earthly things. Up in one of the largest and dreariest rooms of the ‘Folly’ a child had been born that afternoon, — and it now lay, not in its mother’s arms, but in a small wooden crib, near a fire which, allowed to smoulder by the carelessness of the dozing nurse, emitted more smoke than flame. The infant lay inert, but open-eyed, quiet, and apparently thoughtful. Not itself, but the SOUL within its tiny frame was awake and wondering. Curiously wistful and vaguely aware of some great loss and mysterious doom, that SOUL looked out of the new-born child’s innocent blue eyes and silently asked itself the meaning of the strange things it heard and saw. Darkness and storm! — a fulminating wrath somewhere in the unseen heavens! — and, most marvellous transformation of all, as well as most sorrowful, a complete evanishment of those broad spaces of illimitable light and ever-unfolding beauty in which It had so lately dwelt, safe and serene.
“How has this chanced to me?” mused the imprisoned SOUL, in pain; “Where and how did I lose my consciousness of joy?”
No answer was vouchsafed; no heavenly whisper solved the mystery: the wind shrieked and the rain fell; and, mournfully impressed by an increasing sense of dreariness and desolation, the strayed Immortal peered through its frail mortal casement with a keen’ anxiety that almost touched despair. At a little distance off, on a bed heaped with soft wrappings and pillows, lay a woman sleeping. Her face was beautiful, worn as it was by illness and exhaustion; her hand, thin and delicate, rested outside the coverlet, and the rings upon her fingers sparkled like so many small stars. Her hair, loosely knotted up, shone above her brows like finely spun gold, and as she slept, she looked gentle and pitiful; a creature made to be loved and caressed and sheltered in strong arms, safe from the sorrow and shame of life in a censorious world. Many women look so, and many men are thereby deceived. And the SOUL of the child, gazing yearningly at her, felt a sudden thrill of knowledge mixed with uncertain hope and fear.
“There,” It said within Itself, “is one who will love me. She will be called my Mother!”
And it trembled through all its delicate and heavenly fibres, — and the tiny human frame in which it was imprisoned instinctively stretched out appealing arms and wailed softly for the comfort of embraces, the tenderness of kisses, the blessedness of welcome. But the sleeping mother did not stir; and another woman sitting in the further corner of the room rose slowly and came forward at the sound of the infant’s crying. Her coarse ungainly figure loomed like a black mass out of the shadows; — with ungentle hands she snatched the child up and shook it violently, muttering under her breath, “Be quiet, you wretched little puling brat, do! Can’t you let a body sleep!” And, rolling it up afresh in its flannel wrappings, she angrily replaced it in its crib, after having rendered it nearly breathless. While she was thus occupied a voice called from the bed, —
“Nurse!”
“Ma’am?”
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing, Ma’am.”
“Did the child cry?”
“Yes, Ma’am. It’s a bit fretful, — will you have it with you for a little?”
The mother gave a shuddering movement of repulsion, and hid her face in her pillow.
“No, no!” she moaned—” I cannot!”
The nurse shrugged her shoulders in apparent contempt. Poking the dull fire into a brief blaze, she poured something out from a bottle that stood on the mantelpiece, and drank it off; then setting her arms akimbo she looked round at her patient.
“Don’t take on so, Missis Elverton,” she said fawningly—” These things can’t be helped sometimes. It ain’t the baby’s fault you know! Maybe it would comfort you to have it a while; poor little thing, I daresay it feels lonesome?”
Mrs. Elverton raised her head, — her cheeks were flushed, and a cruel line hardened her mouth.
“I wish it were dead!” she exclaimed passionately.
The nurse smiled a wicked smile, but said nothing. She poked the fire again, and again bent over the newly-born child. To all appearances it slept. Satisfied, the nurse resumed her position in an armchair placed well out of all possibility of draughts, and, drawing a thick shawl about her shoulders, settled herself for a doze, unconscious, or pretending to be unconscious, of the fact that the patient had buried her face again in her pillows and was sobbing bitterly.
The storm howled on incessantly outside, and the clamour of the sea on the beach grew louder as the night wore on. And presently the eyes of the child opened again in the semi-gloom, and once more through their translucent windows the fluttering and perplexed SOUL peered forth into the unknown realm into which it had so strangely and involuntarily wandered. It turned its ethereal regard towards the figure on the bed, — it listened to the dreary and smothered sound of weeping, — it palpitated with pity, wonder and fear. But the words “I wish it were dead!” had pierced to the very centres of its being, and though they were to it, in a manner, inexplicable, because Death was a thing unknown, it felt a sense of banishment and loss that was colder than the night and fiercer than the storm. Nay, the very wrath of the warring elements was more familiar and friendly to its immortal nature than the unalluring proximity of its two human companions. With a quivering desire for escape thrilling through its fine essence the SOUL trembled violently within the little frame in which it was pent up; — such a tiny, feeble, yet beautiful and perfect organism, moved by light breathings and delicate nerve-throbbings, though as yet scarcely aware of life. Half compassionate, half pained, and wholly perplexed, the imprisoned Immortal, finding its struggles of no avail, presently became touched by a vague anxiety for the safety of its weak habitation, and ceased for the moment to rebel or complain. Withdrawing its gaze from outer things, it rested passive. And, rendered suddenly tranquil, the new-born infant slept.
