A Journey in Other Worlds [123]
will be a waking nightmare,
most bitter irony of fate."
The trees swayed above his head, and the moon, in its last
quarter, looked dreamily at him.
"Ah," thought Ayrault, "could I but sleep and be happy!
Drowsiness and weariness, fatigue's grasp is on me; or may
Sylvia's nearness soothe, as her voice has brought me calm!
Quiet I may some day enjoy, but slumber again, never! I see that
souls in hades must ever have their misdeeds before them. Happy
man in this world, the repentant's sins are forgiven! You lose
your care in sleep. Somnolence and drowsiness--balm of aching
hearts, angels of mercy! Mortals, how blessed! until you die,
God sends you this rest. When I recall summer evenings with
Sylvia, while gentle zephyrs fanned our brows, I would change
Pope's famous line to 'Man never is, but always HAS BEEN
blessed.'"
A clock in a church-steeple now struck three, the sound ringing
through the still night air.
"It will soon be time for ghosts to go," thought Ayrault. "I
must not haunt her dwelling."
There was a light in Sylvia's study, and Ayrault remained
meditatively gazing at it.
"Happy lamp," he thought, "to shed your light on one so fair!
She can see you, and you shine, for her. You are better off than
I. Would that her soul might shine for me, as your light shines
for her! The light of my life has departed. O that the darkness
were complete! I am dead," his thoughts ran on, and when the
privilege-- bitter word!--that permits me to remain here has
expired, I must doubtless return to Saturn, and there in
purgatory work out my probation. But what comfort is it that a
few centuries hence I may be able to revisit my native earth?--
The flowers will bloom in the morning light,
And the lark salute the sun,
The earth will continue to roll through space,
And I may be nearer my final grace,
But Sylvia's life-thread will be spun.
"Even Sylvia's house will be a heap of ruins, or its place will
be taken by something else. If I had Sylvia, I should care for
nothing; as I have lost her, even this sight, though sweet, must
always bring regret. I wish, at all events, I might see Sylvia,
if only with these spirit-eyes, since, as a mortal, she may never
gladden my sight again."
To his surprise, he now perceived that he could see,
notwithstanding the drawn shades. Sylvia was at her
writing-desk, in a light-coloured wrapper. She sat there resting
her head on her hand, looking thoughtful but worried. Though it
was so late, she had not retired. The thrush that Ayrault had
often in life admired, and that she had for some reason brought
up-stairs, was silent and asleep.
"Happy bird!" he said, "you obtain rest and forgetfulness on
covering your head; but what wing can cover my soul? I used to
wish I might flutter towards heaven on natural wings like you,
little thrush. Now I can, indeed, outfly you. But whatever I do
I'm unhappy, and wherever I go I'm in hell. What is man in his
helpless, first spiritual state? He is but a flower, and withers
soon. Had I, like the bishop, been less blind, and obeyed my
conscience clear, I might have returned to my native earth while
Sylvia still sojourns here; and coming thus by virtue of
development, I should be able to commune with her.
"What is life?" he continued. "In the retrospect, nothing. It
seems to me already as but an infinitesimal point. Things that
engrossed me, and seemed of such moment, that overshadowed the
duty of obeying my conscience--what were they, and where? Ah,
where? They endured but a moment. Reality and evanescence--
evanescence and reality."
The light in Sylvia's room was out now, and in the east he beheld
the dawn. The ubiquitous grey which he saw at night was invaded
by streams of glorious crimson and blue that reached far up into
the sky. He gazed at the spectacle, and then once more at that
house in which his love was centred.
"Would I might be her guardian angel, to guide
most bitter irony of fate."
The trees swayed above his head, and the moon, in its last
quarter, looked dreamily at him.
"Ah," thought Ayrault, "could I but sleep and be happy!
Drowsiness and weariness, fatigue's grasp is on me; or may
Sylvia's nearness soothe, as her voice has brought me calm!
Quiet I may some day enjoy, but slumber again, never! I see that
souls in hades must ever have their misdeeds before them. Happy
man in this world, the repentant's sins are forgiven! You lose
your care in sleep. Somnolence and drowsiness--balm of aching
hearts, angels of mercy! Mortals, how blessed! until you die,
God sends you this rest. When I recall summer evenings with
Sylvia, while gentle zephyrs fanned our brows, I would change
Pope's famous line to 'Man never is, but always HAS BEEN
blessed.'"
A clock in a church-steeple now struck three, the sound ringing
through the still night air.
"It will soon be time for ghosts to go," thought Ayrault. "I
must not haunt her dwelling."
There was a light in Sylvia's study, and Ayrault remained
meditatively gazing at it.
"Happy lamp," he thought, "to shed your light on one so fair!
She can see you, and you shine, for her. You are better off than
I. Would that her soul might shine for me, as your light shines
for her! The light of my life has departed. O that the darkness
were complete! I am dead," his thoughts ran on, and when the
privilege-- bitter word!--that permits me to remain here has
expired, I must doubtless return to Saturn, and there in
purgatory work out my probation. But what comfort is it that a
few centuries hence I may be able to revisit my native earth?--
The flowers will bloom in the morning light,
And the lark salute the sun,
The earth will continue to roll through space,
And I may be nearer my final grace,
But Sylvia's life-thread will be spun.
"Even Sylvia's house will be a heap of ruins, or its place will
be taken by something else. If I had Sylvia, I should care for
nothing; as I have lost her, even this sight, though sweet, must
always bring regret. I wish, at all events, I might see Sylvia,
if only with these spirit-eyes, since, as a mortal, she may never
gladden my sight again."
To his surprise, he now perceived that he could see,
notwithstanding the drawn shades. Sylvia was at her
writing-desk, in a light-coloured wrapper. She sat there resting
her head on her hand, looking thoughtful but worried. Though it
was so late, she had not retired. The thrush that Ayrault had
often in life admired, and that she had for some reason brought
up-stairs, was silent and asleep.
"Happy bird!" he said, "you obtain rest and forgetfulness on
covering your head; but what wing can cover my soul? I used to
wish I might flutter towards heaven on natural wings like you,
little thrush. Now I can, indeed, outfly you. But whatever I do
I'm unhappy, and wherever I go I'm in hell. What is man in his
helpless, first spiritual state? He is but a flower, and withers
soon. Had I, like the bishop, been less blind, and obeyed my
conscience clear, I might have returned to my native earth while
Sylvia still sojourns here; and coming thus by virtue of
development, I should be able to commune with her.
"What is life?" he continued. "In the retrospect, nothing. It
seems to me already as but an infinitesimal point. Things that
engrossed me, and seemed of such moment, that overshadowed the
duty of obeying my conscience--what were they, and where? Ah,
where? They endured but a moment. Reality and evanescence--
evanescence and reality."
The light in Sylvia's room was out now, and in the east he beheld
the dawn. The ubiquitous grey which he saw at night was invaded
by streams of glorious crimson and blue that reached far up into
the sky. He gazed at the spectacle, and then once more at that
house in which his love was centred.
"Would I might be her guardian angel, to guide