CHAPTER XXX

_SCENE_

LUCIFRAM:--_A World of Shadows and contrariness, situate near to Hell--not meant for an indifferent caricature of another sphere_.

_PERSONS_

ST ARMAND:--_The voice of one crying in the Spirits’ Wilderness. When undisguised, Plucritus, Prince of Lucifram._

VESTNE:--_His wife_.

MARIGOLD:--_Princess of Ellel (an estate in Lucifram). Subsisting of a “reasonable soul” and flesh to correspond._

ALICE:--_A lady’s maid who, amongst other things, had learnt the art of cooking_.

TIMOTHY:--_One, not by conversion of the godhead into flesh, but by taking of Childhood into God_.

ALPHONSO:--_High Priest of the Golden Serpent_.

VESTASIAN:--_The Supreme Disposer of Gifts to those on Lucifram_.

MR BARRINGCOURT:--_One of Vestasian’s household_.

MARIGOLD

AN INTRODUCTION

THE PRINCE OF LUCIFRAM

Nature, expressionless and even, had obeyed the even rule. Never richest curtain in the hall of richest king fell so softly, in such luxuriance, as this one of dusky night--glittering with diamonds, in the dull, blue flights of space. A million times and more the mute deft slave had drawn the heavy folds, clasped to her ankle-chains, across the spinning world. Tongueless, soulless, brainless, the machine of ordered motion--possessing no heart, knowing no pulse--the world’s great mother--most infinitely small.

There over Lucifram, the night descended. The night-winds sang because the angel harps once rustled in the breeze--years since, no doubt. The sound remained, an echo, from which all joyousness had vanished--unutterably sad--and something sweet.

And each went his own way, now that the sober light of day had failed--tired or gay. For being contrary, a portion of them never really lived till the sun set, and then like moths at a candle--having some vague notion of the gloriousness of light.

There in his great palace, turreted, God-built (before the powers of Hell and Heaven had separated, to play the “Human” game on Lucifram), embowered in trees of Paradise, pearl-glistening fountains, the heaven-taught song of birds, and the deep rocks of Hell on the Planet side leading down by steepest paths to that “Silent Forest” with its gurgling streams of pain, and heavy foliage, and deadly paths, and unheard sighs, and the low quivering cry of the heart-broken--there in his dusky palace, glittering with light, subdued and softly shaded, lives the great Prince of Lucifram within easy reach of his little serfdom. You see that glistening sheen of mist, silver, and pearl? That is his web--he, the Great Spider--godlike. See how it wraps around the whole great planet!

Put your jewelled hand upon that flimsy net; how awkwardly it sticks to the gold intricacies! How awkwardly it sticks--like the blood on Bluebeard’s key--flimsy as driven snow and striking to the bone. Draw your hand away! Ah! laughing innocence, there is no terror--it has chilled and deadened--a powerful anesthetic that makes you brave, even when it sticks--and it does stick so awkwardly.

He loves the night. ’Twas he who helped to plan it--before our worlds were made--the master-mind. The “Great Unknown” for certain unbelievers. Such a proud retreat, as only ostrich brain would share with them. Why the Great Unknown? To _know_ it, must you feel it, handle it, decompose it--experiment with it? Oh, sad presumption!

There was once a little ant with a very clever brain (for its size), and one day it thought it would like to find out what a man was like--in what respect he differed from an ant. So it went out and crept on to one--quite an ordinary kind of man, with a skin. Experiment No. 1 must be with the mouthpiece, for it had no finer instrument. The man made a vigorous and violent search--his finger and thumb did the rest, for he resented vulgar intrusion.

Moral:--No, allow me, you are quite wrong--yet remain good-tempered. I was not measuring God’s superiority by man’s.

To return to the Prince Plucritus. He stood by that same window that commands the whole compass of Lucifram--no disfiguring telescope--nothing but beauty round about. And now that the mists of night have settled, and the web is floating like a veil in the light of the moon, steal up an inch or two with me and look. Will you, or won’t you, Monsieur Scientist? Come along with Art, because at South Kensington they’ve linked you both together, like a household word. Hush! The forest is still! Never shudder at its depths! Hush! Hush! Break no twig, but come inside the magic circle, whoever will. See! the ring wheels round like that at Earl’s Court, but with no sound of motion, nor lumbersome effect. Mists and miles are between you and that solitary figure, so there is no sacrilege in that you stare. Mists and miles and the moon! Well, and what is the great Prince like? “No different from a man,” you say. No, no different--and you know why, because a man can’t conceive anything with an intellect more beautiful than himself. It is one of his limitations--and there is wisdom and beauty in it; and Nature hasn’t had a finger in it--only God. So draw a little closer--keep your feet well on the rim, and look through the mists and miles and moonbeams. You see indistinctly? Here is my hand--_now_ is the vision clearer?

Look on that perfect head and graceful figure. You perceive he stands full-length by the full-length window, looking on Lucifram with the expression that Lucifram itself has taught him--Serfdom containing possibilities. For those eyes--do you feel their fascination?--full of intellect, full of soul, full of power, and, far away back under the coldness that looks like softness to the inexperienced eye, full of cruelty, and deep-laid plots and plans--by which the master-game is played. Will you take more, or is thus much of the vision quite enough? A little more? Quick! Did you catch that little smile, the delicate contemptuous curve of that fine nostril--the straight commanding line of a strong nose? But is it _kind_? Still for the mouth. One forgives undoubtedly the man who has a sense of humour--the corners of whose mouth can twist a little humorously, just now and then. Look at this Prince of immortality. Do you not see the thin lips, formed like a fine-strung bow on arrow, twisted into a most interested smile? One shapely corner turning up--one, alas! turning down--a little awry, like the mouths of great men often are who copy him--unconsciously, of course. For the pride of that downward droop loves not imitation, though the upward corner winks (if the mouth can wink) at the humour of it. There then, the Prince. And you turn away shivering, and blame the cold moon mists and the night-wafted winds. Blame nothing but that face. Look at it long enough, and you will harden into ice, frozen blood and stony flesh--a death-like monument.

The Prince stands full-length, and, though taller and slimmer than men are, he has shoulders that athletes might envy, and artists search in vain. Your women looking at them, however chaste and sober, however work-a-day, would suddenly grow weak, in admiration of so much strength, moulded in God-like beauty. True, he has walked on Lucifram stunted and dwarfed--a joke, a laughable affair--yet, when they saw him, woman-like they loved him all the more--they being contrary, and having the biggest share, the silent share, in the making of the world.

For his dress. To-night he wears the long black cloak--the robe invisible which spirits wear--fastened at either shoulder by three great glowing clasps of ruby-red that shine out danger-signals in the darkness, below the olive face and sculptured neck. And those strong hands, white as marble, firm as death--instinct with the beauty of a great perfection; and then the ruby ring! The powerful talisman that kings and queens have cried for, statesmen too; and he, indulgent master, has given them a little sham affair, to stop their tears and make a seeming happy world, just for appearance’ sake.

There is the picture of the great Prince Plucritus, standing at one of Hell’s majestic windows--looking across the Silent Forest--looking on Lucifram. Sheer down below the awful rocks, grey and purple, with the Spirit paths--none other--by which they come and go.

Behind him home. Now, Mr Scientist, what shall it be? You wouldn’t feel at home on a golden floor, would you?--A throne’s a trivial, irksome thing. Harps?--Your ears were never exactly cultivated to appreciate a tune. Hallelujah?--Such conversation deadens the finer intellect, and reminds one rather of the braying of an ass--omitting fine distinctions, certainly.

No--at home the Prince Plucritus is a simple gentleman, with simple tastes and unchanged fashion. This suite of rooms he dedicates to Lucifram--not neglecting his estates. Here is his study--his own simple, homely room. That chair--he’s sat in it over three thousand years--not bad for household furniture. And that writing-desk was ready there to record in simple language the first effects of conscious sin. “How often used it must have been since then!” think you. Ah yes! and how well it’s stood the test of time!

Out there is his experimenting chamber, for you must know he dabbles now and then in science, and he has friends who more than dabble in it. Out there his picture-galleries. All Lucifram’s great works--toned to the understanding of the gods. The pictures bought with souls and heart-blood--no trivial affairs--each in itself a silent history--bearing alike the one inscription “Failure” or “Success”--judged from the understanding of the gods.

Through there his library--Lucifram’s library, not his own. These being business quarters. So Publishers, beware! As you send out books, so they go up to Heaven--down to Hell, mean I--silently, without comment or criticism.

Over there his music-room--with every tune and song and great composer immortalised therein--and curious little histories attached to each, that Lucifram has never heard, and perhaps will never hear. And so all down the corridor and suite of rooms, with other chambers for every branch of work worthy being called such, and everything in godlike order.

AN INTERLUDE

When God made man, we are next given to understand he paused and, seemingly, he thought. Up to then he somewhat rushed it--the Bible tells us so--and in the rapid race one thing had been forgotten--Woman. But the loving God never yet forgot a thing--even German thinkers tell us that--except the little blue-eyed flower, that gained thereby the loveliest name that coarser sentiment ignores for something showier.

No, last of all came woman--in orthodox religion, the Afterthought. And Adam most thoughtfully had chanced upon an extra rib--in the haste, no doubt, they hadn’t counted them. So Adam slept, and woke to find the whole world altered. Thus gracefully, unwittingly, the world’s great sage paid the unconscious compliment--erring too much on the other side. Man came from dust--woman from flesh and blood and actual bone, so says the Bible--high in the scale of general development. And for the privilege, the right of “entry,” how dearly she has paid! Man never knows--man perhaps will never know. For Eve was made whilst Adam slept. He should have been awake. Eve was born whilst Adam slept--then as now. And Eve brought Trouble--the rickety ladder before which Jacob’s was a child’s toy, and the ladder led to Heaven, and many and many a time it fell and led to Hell.

Eve, wide-eyed and untutored, except for certain instincts inherited from man. Eve knowing very little of herself except what man told her; and he--why, he slept whilst she was born--how should he know? And all the time has Eve looked up to man, and God has stood aside--the Afterthought.

And saddest thing of all perhaps--that now the men and women quarrel on equality--equality of sexes--showing how ineffectual is that common chord they miscall love. Think of that little vexing word that rankles in the minds of modern women--the word “Obey.” Think of it. That the Church itself should be so blind as to set a man where God should be! The obedience of the Free Spirit is given to God and God alone--who dares say otherwise? And God’s laws are so simple, kind, and full of love--a wiping-out of self, the training of a woman’s heart, a mother’s gentleness and strength. What more would man have? Some courtesan--polished or otherwise--to trick him when she fawns? To cow him when her tongue is loose in ribald fury?

Let no woman speak then of the word “obey” insulting her. What if it does? The word “obey” goes deeper. It strikes at the authority of God, and has done all the ages down. And now “woman” rises and says, with a womanly desire to squabble with the man, “I’ll obey man no longer--I’ll obey myself.” And God stands by--the Afterthought.

So much for Genesis and the Matrimonial Service.

Suppose you and I go our own way and “believe” to please ourselves.

Suppose we think Adam and Eve were two little monkeys--not big gorillas, they are so very, very plain.

Suppose--no; you are locked in, you _cannot_ get away--suppose, suppose one day Eve felt weak and not at all well, and, instead of getting better, she went on day after day. Then Eve would learn what sadness was--a dull, unintelligible feeling to her, poor little animal--but still a real one. And Adam, being a good little husband as monkey husbands go, would feel in his little monkey heart that Eve was--well, he’d have to scratch his little monkey head because he hadn’t learnt to talk--not even to say that little tiny word called “sad.”

Eve’s suffering was the first tiny ray of light on the Dark Path--very tiny, no doubt, but with a tiny influence of refinement. Man’s thumbs developed later.

Now listen! Hark! That is thunder cracking over the Silent Forest. See that forked lightning, like a sword flashed into the dense black night. What if a tree falls? Listen the poor cramped souls what they pray for--air--God’s air and light.

Adam and Eve--or, ages long before them, great Darwin’s monkey species--who dares presume to laugh? Adam and Eve hidden among the other animals like needles in a haystack--Adam and Eve meaning _man_.

Who made them? The God of beauty and love? Oh! tear away that veil and see things as they are. Watch animals--their jealousy, their greed--the way they prey on one another, the monotonous and soulless day. Many are beautiful, some most repulsive. Think seriously about them, and they make you sad--unutterably sad, like their own weird voices in that strange and universal minor key. You say it is because a curse has come upon them--that in the first place they were innocent and gentle too. If it be so, what a disgraceful mull that God omnipotent has made of His creation--within so short a time everything tainted that once was good. Could God so err with more than _human_ foolishness? Could God so err, and pander to the Devil, as, the good books say, unconsciously He has done? Oh, sacrilegious thought! Who made the world? The world of Living Things? Who made it? God, I will grant you--but _which_ God? The God--Gods if you will--of Hell.

And Man--the Animal as other animals, lost like a needle in a haystack--ugly and soulless. The Animal with possibilities. Now look on Adam and on Eve, the first gleam of light gained by continuous suffering, not wounds in a free fight. And though Adam gained thus much from Eve, he never saw it, but treated her contemptuously--as through that very suffering and weakness his inferior. And that picture. Think of it, if you have any time for thought. The long, long ages back--the wild, illimitable forests, the jungles that obscured the pure blue sky, the savage, lustful sighs of the great lion, the whining growl of the sinuous tiger, the gliding, silent serpent, the animals innumerable, see how they come in phantom form before your eye. The wicked, impish monkey--most hideous perhaps of all--the subtle master-jest of Hell. And by the side of it--hidden, almost heartrendingly hidden--its savage, impish cousin Man--at present unknown--one among many animals. And look! One day, like Satan into Paradise, came Light--the Spirit of Light and Purity, with the magnet Heaven’s greatest scientists had taken years to mould, made to attract the weak spot--in the Hell-entangled maze. And the weak spot was Eve, and, through Eve, Adam. And so Eve brought suffering in the world, the real suffering, and thereby incurred Hell’s displeasure, and was thereby made the slave of man.

Read Genesis, that little chapter Topsy Turvy, it explains it all.

And what was Hell about to let the other spirits in? It had none of Heaven’s “man-theorised” omnipotence. It stood to fight the even fight, by skill and skill alone.

So now you know a little about Eve. Has it tired you? Do you like her less because she once went about like a little monkey, instead of _à la_ Milton--I mean a monkey moderate-sized, of course--but they’re so ugly.

And the spirit has done the rest. The spirit that Professor Drummond, one of God’s latter-day disciples, has learned plays such a great part in the world’s sad history.

THE AFTERTHOUGHT

That was of Eve; now follow with your best apologies and look across the mists and moonbeams and behold a lady fair. For the Prince stood alone, looking on Lucifram with an expression hardly kind upon his face, when last you stood within the magic circle. And now you see behind him a lesser form though tall--a slightly different beauty. It is the Princess Vestné--bend your head--his wife. Not like him in sombre black, with the bright blood-stones as an only ornament--she stands there the personification of light. A diamond crescent of purest light, as far removed from earth gems as they are from glass, shines in her silken hair, that dusky rich shade, one of Heaven’s own hues--Hell’s too, for both in beauty are alike. Then for her face--you saw that of the Prince quite plainly--would you look on hers? See, that contemptuous smile of pride has deepened--you may not see so plain--for Heaven seems quite made up of the male persuasion, but that’s because the lovelier half--I mean the gentler, tenderer half--is hidden away from our coarse sight--rarest of rarest visions. Tender and gentle were the words, and yet, look through this gathering, deepening mist that blurs the picture. Your impression of that face? Oh, very cold and proud and cruel, a winsome grace, a silent fascination, that draws every chord of your spirit towards that princely watching-place.

What music fell upon the forest’s silence! A laugh that the crawling spirits never heard--hidden under the thick-roofed foliage.

The Princess laughed, and went close up to him, slipping her hand in his, as loving as a child might be, as simple.

But oh! no, no, she _didn’t_ talk like Milton, because she wasn’t dressed in stiff brocade, nor in the naked beauty of long curls.

No; the Princess talked (she was admirably well-bred) just as they talked on Lucifram, because she looked that way, and, as she spoke, she raised her hands and clasped them lazily behind her head.

“The net wants repairing,” she said. “I stood here yesterday and looked at it--a beastly, little fly has struggled through.”

He laughed, as one just married yesterday instead of years past counting, and the humour in his eyes dimmed for a little time their hardness.

“A butterfly, you mean. I watched the turn-out. It was a radiant one--worthy our--our nephew.”

But she shook her head, and answered, with a touch of chilling hauteur:

“He’s no relation. On Lucifram he would be called a natural son--or what’s that other word?--a rather ugly one. They have so many ugly words, one really loses count of them.”

He let the light question pass unanswered, but the smile died from his eyes and lips, and, in response to his changing humour, she changed too.

“I can’t understand,” she said, with a faint intonation of passion that reached you echoing on the trembling air,--“I cannot understand the fairness or the justness of it. He should be obliged to play upon our side or on the other.”

“But he is neutral; equal for both sides upon occasion. It’s fair enough. We have him to thank for the gentleness and amiability of the great High Priest, you know.”

His tone was hard and mocking; her laugh, a subtler note, not less intense.

“Yes, he has been very docile.” She leant out on the balcony, her white arms pressed against the blackness, her face bent towards Lucifram. “He has been very docile, and he must mend the net. I cannot stand to see flies escaping. You must give him injunctions to tear off their legs and wings first. Why weren’t they made like worms?”

“They are worms, dearest--with great capabilities of wriggling upwards now and then. Who but a worm would worship the Serpent?”

“Who indeed? Many a time I sicken of them--the uninteresting swarm! Oh, why did my brother--why did Vestasian play this trick on us, of all gods--he the most trusted in, the best beloved?”

“Precisely why the heavenly Councils hit on him. Now, had it been I----”

“You? But tell me of this net--how must it be mended?”

“Exactly as every other microscopic hole has been, with a damned soul--I mean a well-seasoned one. The worst of it is they take some time preparing.”

“Are there none ready?”

“None for that particular hole. It was a rather big one, and will take something pretty strong, I find. A High Priest is the very least I could put to it--it befits his office. In time he shall guard the road to Heaven from all intruders.”

“Just in the same way as a High Priest guards the other.”

“No, Vestné. There are two put on to guard the other. It was admirably arranged there should be two.”

“And they’ve done their business disgracefully.”

“The clergy, with few exceptions, always do. I mean those we are obliged to put on to our business. They soap so, and insolently refuse to be too hard worked.”

“Alphonso has not erred in that respect.”

“No; he shall be honoured. He shall guard the gate.”

“It is no gate. It is a paltry hole.”

“Large enough for Vestasian’s son to drive through--we must remember that.”

“He is no son. Vestasian has no son. I doubt in harder moments if he has a wife.”

But he laughed and drew her to him.

“My wife talks for the sake of talking, and I listen because her voice is sweet even in these harder moments. We will guard the hole--we cannot mend it. It is one of the rules of the game.”