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- Мари Корелли
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·
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·
·
·
Let
me
write
on
--
write
on
,
with
this
dead
fleshly
hand
,
...
one
moment
more
time
,
dread
God
!
...
one
moment
more
to
write
the
truth
--
the
terrible
truth
of
Death
whose
darkest
secret
,
Life
,
is
unknown
to
men
!
I
live
!
--
a
new
,
strong
,
impetuous
vitality
possesses
me
,
though
my
mortal
body
is
nearly
dead
.
Faint
gasps
and
weak
shudderings
affect
it
still
--
and
I
,
outside
it
and
no
longer
of
it
,
propel
its
perishing
hand
to
write
these
final
words
--
I
live
!
To
my
despair
and
horror
--
to
my
remorse
and
agony
,
I
live
!
--
oh
the
unspeakable
misery
of
this
new
life
!
And
worst
of
all
--
God
whom
I
doubted
,
God
whom
I
was
taught
to
deny
,
this
wronged
,
blasphemed
,
and
outraged
God
EXISTS
!
And
I
could
have
found
Him
had
I
chosen
--
this
knowledge
is
forced
upon
me
as
I
am
torn
from
hence
--
it
is
shouted
at
me
by
a
thousand
wailing
voices
!
...
too
late
!
--
too
late
!
--
the
scarlet
wings
beat
me
downward
--
these
strange
half-shapeless
forms
close
round
and
drive
me
onward
...
to
a
further
darkness
,
...
amid
wind
and
fire
!
·
·
·
·
·
Serve
me
,
dead
hand
,
once
more
ere
I
depart
,
...
my
tortured
spirit
must
seize
and
compel
you
to
write
down
this
thing
unnameable
,
that
earthly
eyes
may
read
,
and
earthly
souls
take
timely
warning
!
...
I
know
at
last
WHOM
I
have
loved
!
--
whom
I
have
chosen
,
whom
I
have
worshipped
!
...
Oh
God
,
have
mercy
!
...
I
know
WHO
claims
my
worship
now
,
and
drags
me
into
yonder
rolling
world
of
flame
!
...
his
name
is
"
Here
the
manuscript
ended
--
incomplete
and
broken
off
abruptly
--
and
there
was
a
blot
on
the
last
sentence
as
though
the
pen
had
been
violently
wrenched
from
the
dying
fingers
and
hastily
flung
down
.
The
clock
in
the
west
room
again
chimed
the
hour
.
I
rose
stiffly
from
my
chair
,
trembling
--
my
self-possession
was
giving
way
,
and
I
began
to
feel
at
last
unnerved
.
I
looked
askance
at
my
dead
wife
--
she
,
who
with
a
superhuman
dying
effort
had
declared
herself
to
be
yet
alive
--
who
,
in
some
imaginable
strange
way
had
seemingly
written
after
death
,
in
a
frantic
desire
to
make
some
appalling
declaration
which
nevertheless
remained
undeclared
.
The
rigid
figure
of
the
corpse
had
now
real
terrors
for
me
--
I
dared
not
touch
it
--
I
scarcely
dared
look
at
it
,
...
in
some
dim
inscrutable
fashion
I
felt
as
if
"
scarlet
wings
"
environed
it
,
beating
me
down
,
yet
pressing
me
on
--
me
too
,
in
my
turn
!
With
the
manuscript
gathered
close
in
my
hand
,
I
bent
nervously
forward
to
blow
out
the
wax
lights
on
the
toilet
table
,
...
I
saw
on
the
floor
the
handkerchief
odorous
with
the
French
perfume
the
dead
woman
had
written
of
--
I
picked
it
up
and
placed
it
near
her
where
she
sat
,
grinning
hideously
at
her
own
mirrored
ghastliness
.
The
flash
of
the
jewelled
serpent
round
her
waist
caught
my
eyes
anew
as
I
did
this
,
and
I
stared
for
a
moment
at
its
green
glitter
,
dumbly
fascinated
--
then
,
moving
stealthily
,
with
the
cold
sweat
pouring
down
my
back
and
every
pulse
in
me
rendered
feeble
by
sheer
horror
,
I
turned
to
leave
the
room
As
I
reached
the
portiére
and
lifted
it
,
some
instinct
made
me
look
back
at
the
dread
picture
of
the
leading
"
society
"
beauty
sitting
stark
and
livid
pale
before
her
own
stark
and
livid-pale
image
in
the
glass
--
what
a
"
fashion-plate
"
she
would
make
now
,
I
thought
,
for
a
frivolous
and
hypocritical
"
ladies
'
paper
!
"
"
You
say
you
are
not
dead
,
Sibyl
!
"
I
muttered
aloud
--
"
Not
dead
,
but
living
!
Then
,
if
you
are
alive
,
where
are
you
,
Sibyl
?
--
--
where
are
you
?
"
The
heavy
silence
seemed
fraught
with
fearful
meaning
--
the
light
of
the
electric
lamps
on
the
corpse
and
on
the
shimmering
silk
garment
wrapped
round
it
appeared
unearthly
--
and
the
perfume
in
the
room
had
a
grave-like
earthy
smell
.
A
panic
seized
me
,
and
dragging
frantically
at
the
portiére
till
all
its
velvet
folds
were
drawn
thickly
together
,
I
made
haste
to
shut
out
from
my
sight
the
horrible
figure
of
the
woman
whose
bodily
fairness
I
had
loved
in
the
customary
way
of
sensual
men
--
and
left
her
without
so
much
as
a
pardoning
or
pitying
kiss
of
farewell
on
the
cold
brow
.
For
,
...
after
all
I
had
Myself
to
think
of
,
...
and
She
was
dead
!
I
pass
over
all
the
details
of
polite
"
shock
,
"
affected
sorrow
,
and
feigned
sympathy
of
society
at
my
wife
's
sudden
death
.
No
one
was
really
grieved
about
it
--
men
raised
their
eyebrows
,
shrugged
their
shoulders
,
lit
extra
cigarettes
and
dismissed
the
subject
as
too
unpleasant
and
depressing
to
dwell
upon
--
women
were
glad
of
the
removal
of
a
too
beautiful
and
too
much
admired
rival
,
and
the
majority
of
fashionable
folk
delighted
in
having
something
"
thrilling
"
to
talk
about
in
the
tragic
circumstances
of
her
end
.
As
a
rule
,
people
are
seldom
or
never
unselfish
enough
to
be
honestly
sorry
for
the
evanishment
of
some
leading
or
brilliant
figure
from
their
midst
--
the
vacancy
leaves
room
for
the
pushing
in
of
smaller
fry
.
Be
sure
that
if
you
are
unhappily
celebrated
for
either
beauty
,
wit
,
intellect
,
or
all
three
together
,
half
society
wishes
you
dead
already
,
and
the
other
half
tries
to
make
you
as
wretched
as
possible
while
you
are
alive
.
To
be
missed
at
all
when
you
die
,
some
one
must
love
you
very
deeply
and
unselfishly
;
and
deep
unselfish
love
is
rarer
to
find
among
mortals
than
a
pearl
in
a
dust-bin
.
