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- Мари Корелли
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- Стр. 247/279
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it
will
bring
down
upon
me
an
eternal
darkness
,
and
close
up
for
ever
the
marvellous
scenes
of
the
universe
!
So
little
!
--
to
do
so
much
!
I
have
fastened
Lucio
's
wedding-gift
round
my
waist
--
the
beautiful
snake
of
jewels
that
clings
to
me
as
though
it
were
charged
with
an
embrace
from
him
--
ah
!
would
I
could
cheat
myself
into
so
pleasing
a
fancy
!
...
I
am
trembling
,
but
not
with
cold
or
fear
--
it
is
simply
an
excitation
of
the
nerves
--
--
an
instinctive
recoil
of
flesh
and
blood
at
the
near
prospect
of
death
...
How
brilliantly
the
sun
shines
through
my
window
!
--
its
callous
golden
stare
has
watched
so
many
tortured
creatures
die
without
so
much
as
a
cloud
to
dim
its
radiance
by
way
of
the
suggestion
of
pity
!
If
there
were
a
God
I
fancy
He
would
be
like
the
sun
--
glorious
,
changeless
,
unapproachable
,
beautiful
,
but
pitiless
!
·
·
·
·
·
Out
of
all
the
various
types
of
human
beings
I
think
I
hate
the
class
called
poets
most
.
I
used
to
love
them
and
believe
in
them
;
but
I
know
them
now
to
be
mere
weavers
of
lies
--
builders
of
cloud
castles
in
which
no
throbbing
life
can
breathe
,
no
weary
heart
find
rest
.
Love
is
their
chief
motive
--
they
either
idealize
or
degrade
it
--
and
of
the
love
we
women
long
for
most
,
they
have
no
conception
.
They
can
only
sing
of
brute
passion
or
ethical
impossibilities
--
of
the
mutual
great
sympathy
,
the
ungrudging
patient
tenderness
that
should
make
love
lovely
,
they
have
no
sweet
things
to
say
.
Between
their
strained
æstheticism
and
unbridled
sensualism
,
my
spirit
has
been
stretched
on
the
rack
and
broken
on
the
wheel
,
...
I
should
think
many
a
wretched
woman
wrecked
among
love
's
disillusions
must
curse
them
as
I
do
!
·
·
·
·
·
I
am
ready
now
,
I
think
.
There
is
nothing
more
to
say
.
I
offer
no
excuses
for
myself
.
I
am
as
I
was
made
--
a
proud
and
rebellious
woman
,
self-willed
and
sensual
,
seeing
no
fault
in
free
love
,
and
no
crime
in
conjugal
infidelity
--
and
if
I
am
vicious
,
I
can
honestly
declare
that
my
vices
have
been
encouraged
and
fostered
in
me
by
most
of
the
literary
teachers
of
my
time
.
I
married
,
as
most
women
of
my
set
marry
,
merely
for
money
--
I
loved
,
as
most
women
of
my
set
love
,
for
mere
bodily
attraction
--
I
die
,
as
most
women
of
my
set
will
die
,
either
naturally
or
self-slain
,
in
utter
atheism
,
rejoicing
that
there
is
no
God
and
no
Hereafter
!
·
·
·
·
·
I
had
the
poison
in
my
hand
a
moment
ago
,
ready
to
take
,
when
I
suddenly
felt
someone
approaching
me
stealthily
from
behind
,
and
glancing
up
quickly
at
the
mirror
I
saw
...
my
mother
!
Her
face
,
hideous
and
ghastly
as
it
had
been
in
her
last
illness
,
was
reflected
in
the
glass
,
peering
over
my
shoulder
!
I
sprang
up
and
confronted
her
--
--
she
was
gone
!
And
now
I
am
shivering
with
cold
,
and
I
feel
a
chill
dampness
on
my
forehead
--
mechanically
I
have
soaked
a
handkerchief
with
perfume
from
one
of
the
silver
bottles
on
the
dressing
table
,
and
have
passed
it
across
my
temples
to
help
me
recover
from
this
sick
swooning
sensation
.
To
recover
!
--
how
foolish
of
me
,
seeing
I
am
about
to
die
.
I
do
not
believe
in
ghosts
--
yet
I
could
have
sworn
my
mother
was
actually
present
just
now
--
of
course
it
was
an
optical
delusion
of
my
own
feverish
brain
.
The
strong
scent
on
my
handkerchief
reminds
me
of
Paris
--
I
can
see
the
shop
where
I
bought
this
particular
perfume
,
and
the
well-dressed
doll
of
a
man
who
served
me
,
with
his
little
waxed
moustache
,
and
his
indefinable
French
manner
of
conveying
a
speechless
personal
compliment
while
making
out
a
bill
...
Laughing
at
this
recollection
,
I
see
my
face
radiate
in
the
glass
--
my
eyes
flash
into
vivid
lustre
,
and
the
dimples
near
my
lips
come
and
go
,
giving
my
expression
an
enchanting
sweetness
.
Yet
in
a
few
hours
this
loveliness
will
be
destroyed
--
and
in
a
few
days
,
the
worms
will
twine
where
the
smile
is
now
!
·
·
·
·
·
An
idea
has
come
upon
me
that
perhaps
I
ought
to
say
a
prayer
.
It
would
be
hypocritical
--
but
conventional
.
To
die
fashionably
,
one
ought
to
concede
a
few
words
to
the
church
.
And
yet
...
to
kneel
down
with
clasped
hands
and
tell
an
inactive
,
unsympathetic
,
selfish
,
paid
community
called
the
church
,
that
I
am
going
to
kill
myself
for
the
sake
of
love
and
love
's
despair
,
and
that
therefore
I
humbly
implore
its
forgiveness
for
the
act
seems
absurd
--
as
absurd
as
to
tell
the
same
thing
to
a
non-existent
Deity
.
I
suppose
the
scientists
do
not
think
what
a
strange
predicament
their
advanced
theories
put
the
human
mind
in
at
the
hour
of
death
.
They
forget
that
on
the
brink
of
the
grave
,
thoughts
come
that
will
not
be
gainsaid
,
and
that
can
not
be
appeased
by
a
learned
thesis
...
However
I
will
not
pray
--
it
would
seem
to
myself
cowardly
that
I
who
have
never
said
my
prayers
since
I
was
a
child
,
should
run
over
them
now
in
a
foolish
babbling
attempt
to
satisfy
the
powers
invisible
--
I
could
not
,
out
of
sheer
association
,
appeal
to
Mr
Swinburne
's
'
crucified
carrion
'
!
Besides
I
do
not
believe
in
the
powers
invisible
at
all
--
I
feel
that
once
outside
this
life
,
'
the
rest
'
as
Hamlet
said
'
is
silence
.
'
·
·
·
·
·
I
have
been
staring
dreamily
and
in
a
sort
of
stupefaction
at
the
little
poison-flask
in
my
hand
.
It
is
quite
empty
now
.
I
have
swallowed
every
drop
of
the
liquid
it
contained
--
I
took
it
quickly
and
determinately
as
one
takes
nauseous
medicine
,
without
allowing
myself
another
moment
of
time
for
thought
or
hesitation
.
It
tasted
acrid
and
burning
on
my
tongue
--
but
at
present
I
am
not
conscious
of
any
strange
or
painful
result
.
I
shall
watch
my
face
in
the
mirror
and
trace
the
oncoming
of
death
--
this
will
be
at
any
rate
a
new
sensation
not
without
interest
!
·
·
·
·
·
My
mother
is
here
--
here
with
me
in
this
room
!
She
is
moving
about
restlessly
,
making
wild
gestures
with
her
hands
and
trying
to
speak
.
She
looks
as
she
did
when
she
was
dying
--
only
more
alive
,
more
sentient
.
I
have
followed
her
up
and
down
,
but
am
unable
to
touch
her
--
she
eludes
my
grasp
.
