Marigold

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.