A Journey in Other Worlds [120]
to have her look at him. He watched the colour come and
go in her clear, bright complexion, and was rejoiced to see in
her the personification of activity and health. Beneath his own
effusion on the photograph he saw something written in pencil, in
the hand he knew so well:
"Did you but know how I love you,
No more silly things would you ask.
With my whole heart and soul I adore you--
Idiot! goose! bombast!"
And as she glanced at it, these thoughts crossed her mind: "I
shall never call you such names again. How much I shall have to
tell you! It is provoking that you stay away so long."
He came still nearer--so near, in fact, that he could hear the
beating of her heart--but she still seemed entirely unconscious
of his presence. Losing his reserve and self-control, he
impulsively grasped at her hands, then fell on his knees, and
then, dumfounded, struggled to his feet. Her hands seemed to
slip through his; he was not able to touch her, and she was still
unaware of his presence.
Suddenly a whole flood of light and the truth burst upon him. He
had passed painlessly and unconsciously from the dreamland of
Saturn to the shadowland of eternity. The mystery was solved.
Like the dead bishop, he had become a free spirit. His prayer
was answered, and his body, struck by lightning, lay far away on
that great ringed planet. How he longed to take in his arms the
girl who had promised herself to him, and who, he now saw, loved
him with her whole heart; but he was only an immaterial spirit,
lighter even than the ether of space, and the unchangeable laws
of the universe seemed to him but the irony of fate. As a
spirit, he was intangible and invisible to those in the flesh,
and likewise they were beyond his control. The tragedy of life
then dawned upon him, and the awful results of death made
themselves felt. He glanced at Sylvia. On coming in she had
looked radiantly happy; now she seemed depressed, and even the
bird stopped singing.
"Oh," he thought, "could I but return to life for one hour, to
tell her how incessantly she has been in my thoughts, and how I
love her! Death, to the aged, is no loss--in fact, a
blessing--but now!" and he sobbed mentally in the anguish of his
soul. If he could but communicate with her, he thought; but he
remembered what the departed bishop had said, that it would take
most men centuries to do this, and that others could never learn.
By that time she, too, would be dead, perhaps having been the
wife of some one else, and he felt a sense of jealousy even
beyond the grave. Throwing himself upon a rug on the floor, in a
paroxysm of distress, he gazed at Sylvia.
"Oh, horrible mockery!" he thought, thinking of the spirit. "He
gave me worse than a stone when I asked for bread; for, in place
of freedom, he sent me death. Could I but be alive again for a
few moments!" But, with a bitter smile, he again remembered the
words of the bishop, "What would a soul in hell not give for but
one hour on earth?"
Sylvia had seated herself on a small sofa, on which, and next to
her, he had so often sat. Her gentle eyes had a thoughtful look,
while her face was the personification of intelligence and
beauty. She occasionally glanced at his photograph, which she
held in her hand.
"Sylvia, Sylvia!" he suddenly cried, rising to his knees at her
feet. "I love, I adore you! It was my longing to be with you
that brought me here. I know you can neither see nor hear me,
but cannot your soul commune with mine?"
"Is Dick here?" cried Sylvia, becoming deadly pale and getting
up, "or am I losing my reason?"
Seeing that she was distressed by the power of his mind, Ayrault
once more sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
Unable to endure this longer, and feeling as if his heart must
break, he rushed out into the street, wishing he might soothe his
anguish with a hypodermic injection of morphine, and that he had
a body with which to divert and suppress his soul.
go in her clear, bright complexion, and was rejoiced to see in
her the personification of activity and health. Beneath his own
effusion on the photograph he saw something written in pencil, in
the hand he knew so well:
"Did you but know how I love you,
No more silly things would you ask.
With my whole heart and soul I adore you--
Idiot! goose! bombast!"
And as she glanced at it, these thoughts crossed her mind: "I
shall never call you such names again. How much I shall have to
tell you! It is provoking that you stay away so long."
He came still nearer--so near, in fact, that he could hear the
beating of her heart--but she still seemed entirely unconscious
of his presence. Losing his reserve and self-control, he
impulsively grasped at her hands, then fell on his knees, and
then, dumfounded, struggled to his feet. Her hands seemed to
slip through his; he was not able to touch her, and she was still
unaware of his presence.
Suddenly a whole flood of light and the truth burst upon him. He
had passed painlessly and unconsciously from the dreamland of
Saturn to the shadowland of eternity. The mystery was solved.
Like the dead bishop, he had become a free spirit. His prayer
was answered, and his body, struck by lightning, lay far away on
that great ringed planet. How he longed to take in his arms the
girl who had promised herself to him, and who, he now saw, loved
him with her whole heart; but he was only an immaterial spirit,
lighter even than the ether of space, and the unchangeable laws
of the universe seemed to him but the irony of fate. As a
spirit, he was intangible and invisible to those in the flesh,
and likewise they were beyond his control. The tragedy of life
then dawned upon him, and the awful results of death made
themselves felt. He glanced at Sylvia. On coming in she had
looked radiantly happy; now she seemed depressed, and even the
bird stopped singing.
"Oh," he thought, "could I but return to life for one hour, to
tell her how incessantly she has been in my thoughts, and how I
love her! Death, to the aged, is no loss--in fact, a
blessing--but now!" and he sobbed mentally in the anguish of his
soul. If he could but communicate with her, he thought; but he
remembered what the departed bishop had said, that it would take
most men centuries to do this, and that others could never learn.
By that time she, too, would be dead, perhaps having been the
wife of some one else, and he felt a sense of jealousy even
beyond the grave. Throwing himself upon a rug on the floor, in a
paroxysm of distress, he gazed at Sylvia.
"Oh, horrible mockery!" he thought, thinking of the spirit. "He
gave me worse than a stone when I asked for bread; for, in place
of freedom, he sent me death. Could I but be alive again for a
few moments!" But, with a bitter smile, he again remembered the
words of the bishop, "What would a soul in hell not give for but
one hour on earth?"
Sylvia had seated herself on a small sofa, on which, and next to
her, he had so often sat. Her gentle eyes had a thoughtful look,
while her face was the personification of intelligence and
beauty. She occasionally glanced at his photograph, which she
held in her hand.
"Sylvia, Sylvia!" he suddenly cried, rising to his knees at her
feet. "I love, I adore you! It was my longing to be with you
that brought me here. I know you can neither see nor hear me,
but cannot your soul commune with mine?"
"Is Dick here?" cried Sylvia, becoming deadly pale and getting
up, "or am I losing my reason?"
Seeing that she was distressed by the power of his mind, Ayrault
once more sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
Unable to endure this longer, and feeling as if his heart must
break, he rushed out into the street, wishing he might soothe his
anguish with a hypodermic injection of morphine, and that he had
a body with which to divert and suppress his soul.