THE SOUL OF LILITH BY MARIE CORELLI “NOT A DROP OF HER BLOOD WAS HUMAN, BUT SHE WAS MADE LIKE A SOFT SWEET WOMAN” DANTE G. ROSSETTI TWELFTH EDITION METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON 1903 _Colonial Library_ CONTENTS. Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII Chapter XXXIX Chapter XL Chapter XLI Chapter XLII Chapter XLIII Chapter XLIV Footnotes INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The following story does not assume to be what is generally understood by a “novel.” It is simply the account of a strange and daring experiment once actually attempted, and is offered to those who are interested in the unseen “possibilities” of the Hereafter, merely for what it is,--a single episode in the life of a man who voluntarily sacrificed his whole worldly career in a supreme effort to prove the apparently Unprovable. THE SOUL OF LILITH. I. The theatre was full,--crowded from floor to ceiling; the lights were turned low to give the stage full prominence,--and a large audience packed close in pit and gallery as well as in balcony and stalls, listened with or without interest, whichever way best suited their different temperaments and manner of breeding, to the well-worn famous soliloquy in _Hamlet_--“To be or not to be.” It was the first night of a new rendering of Shakespeare’s ever puzzling play,--the chief actor was a great actor, albeit not admitted as such by the petty cliques,--he had thought out the strange and complex character of the psychological Dane for himself, with the result that even the listless, languid, generally impassive occupants of the stalls, many of whom had no doubt heard a hundred Hamlets, were roused for once out of their chronic state of boredom into something like attention, as the familiar lines fell on their ears with a slow and meditative richness of accent not commonly heard on the modern stage. This new Hamlet chose his attitudes well; instead of walking, or rather strutting about, as he uttered the soliloquy, he seated himself and for a moment seemed lost in silent thought;--then, without changing his position he began, his voice gathering deeper earnestness as the beauty and solemnity of the immortal lines became more pronounced and concentrated. “To die--to sleep;-- To sleep!--perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. ...”