_Love and Power_.
When the morning came, I began to doubt whether my wakefulness had not
been part of my dream, and I had not dreamed the whole of my supposed
adventures. There was no sign of a lady’s presence left in the
room.--How could there have been?--But throwing the plaid which covered
me aside, my hand was caught by a single thread of something so fine
that I could not see it till the light grew strong. I wound it round and
round my finger, and doubted no longer.
At breakfast there was no Lady Alice--nor at dinner. I grew uneasy, but
what could I do? I soon learned that she was ill; and a weary fortnight
passed before I saw her again. Mrs. Wilson told me that she had caught
cold, and was confined to her room. So I was ill at ease, not from love
alone, but from anxiety as well. Every night I crept up through the
deserted house to the stair where she had vanished, and there sat in the
darkness or groped and peered about for some sign. But I saw no light
even, and did not know where her room was. It might be far beyond this
extremity of my knowledge; for I discovered no indication of the
proximity of the inhabited portion of the house. Mrs. Wilson said there
was nothing serious the matter; but this did not satisfy me, for I
imagined something mysterious in the way in which she spoke.
As the days went on, and she did not appear, my soul began to droop
within me; my intellect seemed about to desert me altogether. In vain I
tried to read. Nothing could fix my attention. I read and re-read the
same page; but although I understood every word as I read, I found when
I came to a pause, that there lingered in my mind no palest notion of
the idea. It was just what one experiences in attempting to read when
half-asleep.
I tried Euclid, and fared a little better with that. But having now to
initiate my boys into the mysteries of equations, I soon found that
although I could manage a very simple one, yet when I attempted one more
complex--one in which something bordering upon imagination was necessary
to find out the object for which to appoint the symbol to handle it
by--the necessary power of concentration was itself a missing factor.
But although my thoughts were thus beyond my control, my duties were not
altogether irksome to me. I remembered that they kept me near her; and
although I could not learn, I found that I could teach a little.
Perhaps it is foolish to dwell upon an individual variety of an almost
universal stage in the fever of life; but one exception to these
indications of mental paralysis I think worth mentioning.
I continued my work in the library, although it did not advance with the
same steadiness as before. One day, in listless mood, I took up a
volume, without knowing what it was, or what I sought. It opened at the
_Amoretti_ of Edmund Spenser. I was on the point of closing it again,
when a line caught my eye. I read the sonnet; read another; found I
could understand them perfectly; and that hour the poetry of the
sixteenth century, hitherto a sealed fountain, became an open well of
refreshment, and the strength that comes from sympathy. What if its
second-rate writers were full of conceits and vagaries, the feelings are
very indifferent to the mere intellectual forms around which the same
feelings in others have gathered, if only by their means they hint at,
and sometimes express themselves. Now I understood this old fantastic
verse, and knew that the foam-bells on the torrent of passionate feeling
are iris-hued. And what was more--it proved an intellectual nexus
between my love and my studies, or at least a bridge by which I could
pass from the one to the other.
That same day, I remember well, Mrs. Wilson told me that Lady Alice was
much better. But as days passed, and still she did not make her
appearance, my anxiety only changed its object, and I feared that it was
from aversion to me that she did not join the family. But her name was
never mentioned in my hearing by any of the other members of it; and her
absence appeared to be to them a matter of no moment or interest.
One night, as I sat in my room, I found, as usual, that it was
impossible to read; and throwing the book aside, relapsed into that
sphere of thought which now filled my soul, and had for its centre the
Lady Alice. I recalled her form as she lay on the couch, and brooded
over the remembrance till a longing to see her, almost unbearable, arose
within me.
“Would to heaven,” I said to myself, “that will were power!”
In this concurrence of idleness, distraction, and vehement desire, I
found all at once, without any foregone resolution, that I was
concentrating and intensifying within me, until it rose almost to a
command, the operative volition that Lady Alice should come to me. In a
moment more I trembled at the sense of a new power which sprang into
conscious being within me. I had had no prevision of its existence, when
I gave way to such extravagant and apparently helpless wishes. I now
actually awaited the fulfilment of my desire; but in a condition
ill-fitted to receive it, for the effort had already exhausted me to
such a degree, that every nerve was in a conscious tremor. Nor had I
long to wait.
I heard no sound of approach: the closet-door folded back, and in
glided, open-eyed, but sightless pale as death, and clad in white,
ghostly-pure and saint-like, the Lady Alice. I shuddered from head to
foot at what I had done. She was more terrible to me in that moment than
any pale-eyed ghost could have been. For had I not exercised a kind of
necromantic art, and roused without awaking the slumbering dead? She
passed me, walking round the table at which I was seated, went to the
couch, laid herself down with a maidenly care, turned a little on one
side, with her face towards me, and gradually closed her eyes. In
something deeper than sleep she lay, and yet not in death. I rose, and
once more knelt beside her, but dared not touch her. In what far realms
of life might the lovely soul be straying! What mysterious modes of
being might now be the homely surroundings of her second life! Thoughts
unutterable rose in me, culminated, and sank, like the stars of heaven,
as I gazed on the present symbol of an absent life--a life that I loved
by means of the symbol; a symbol that I loved because of the life. How
long she lay thus, how long I gazed upon her thus, I do not know.
Gradually, but without my being able to distinguish the gradations, her
countenance altered to that of one who sleeps. But the change did not
end there. A colour, faint as the blush in the centre of a white rose,
tinged her lips, and deepened; then her cheek began to share in the hue,
then her brow and her neck. The colour was that of the cloud which, the
farthest from the sunset, yet acknowledges the rosy atmosphere. I
watched, as it were, the dawn of a soul on the horizon of the visible.
The first approaches of its far-off flight were manifest; and as I
watched, I saw it come nearer and nearer, till its great, silent,
speeding pinions were folded, and it looked forth, a calm, beautiful,
infinite woman, from the face and form sleeping before me.
I knew that she was awake, some moments before she opened her eyes. When
at last those depths of darkness disclosed themselves, slowly uplifting
their white cloudy portals, the same consternation she had formerly
manifested, accompanied by yet greater anger, followed.
“Yet again! Am I your slave, because I am weak?” She rose in the majesty
of wrath, and moved towards the door.
“Lady Alice, I have not touched you. I am to blame, but not as you
think. Could I help longing to see you? And if the longing passed, ere I
was aware, into a will that you should come, and you obeyed it, forgive
me.”
I hid my face in my hands, overcome by conflicting emotions. A kind of
stupor came over me. When I lifted my head, she was standing by the
closet-door.
“I have waited,” she said, “to make a request of you.”
“Do not utter it, Lady Alice. I know what it is. I give you my word--my
solemn promise, if you like--that I will never do it again.” She thanked
me, with a smile, and vanished.
Much to my surprise, she appeared at dinner next day. No notice was
taken of her, except by the younger of my pupils, who called out,--
“Hallo, Alice! Are you down?”
She smiled and nodded, but did not speak. Everything went on as usual.
There was no change in her behaviour, except in one point. I ventured
the experiment of paying her some ordinary enough attention. She thanked
me, without a trace of the scornful expression I all but expected to see
upon her beautiful face. But when I addressed her about the weather, or
something equally interesting, she made no reply; and Lady Hilton gave
me a stare, as much as to say, “Don’t you know it’s of no use to talk to
her?” Alice saw the look, and colouring to the eyes, rose, and left the
room. When she had gone, Lady Hilton said to me,--
“Don’t speak to her, Mr. Campbell--it distresses her. She is very
peculiar, you know.”
She could not hide the scorn and dislike with which she spoke; and I
could not help saying to myself, “What a different thing scorn looks on
_your_ face, Lady Hilton!” for it made her positively and hatefully ugly
for the moment--to my eyes, at least.
After this, Alice sat down with us at all our meals, and seemed
tolerably well. But, in some indescribable way, she was quite a
different person from the Lady Alice who had twice awaked in my
presence. To use a phrase common in describing one of weak
intellect--she never seemed to be all there. There was something
automatical in her movements; and a sort of frozen indifference was the
prevailing expression of her countenance. When she smiled, a sweet light
shone in her eyes, and she looked for the moment like the Lady Alice of
my nightly dreams. But, altogether, the Lady Alice of the night, and the
Lady Alice of the day, were two distinct persons. I believed that the
former was the real one.
What nights I had now, watching and striving lest unawares I should fall
into the exercise of my new power! I allowed myself to think of her as
much as I pleased in the daytime, or at least as much as I dared; for
when occupied with my pupils, I dreaded lest any abstraction should even
hint that I had a thought to conceal. I knew that I could not hurt her
then; for that only in the night did she enter that state of existence
in which my will could exercise authority over her. But at night--at
night--when I knew she lay there, and might be lying here; when but a
thought would bring her, and that thought was fluttering its wings,
ready to spring awake out of the dreams of my heart--then the struggle
was fearful. And what added force to the temptation was, that to call
her to me in the night, seemed like calling the real immortal Alice
forth from the tomb in which she wandered about all day. It was as
painful to me to see her such in the day, as it was entracing to
remember her such as I had seen her in the night. What matter if her
true self came forth in anger against me? What was I? It was enough for
my life, I said, to look on her, such as she really was. “Bring her yet
once, and tell her all--tell her how madly, hopelessly you love her. She
will forgive you at least,” said a voice within me. But I heard it as
the voice of the tempter, and kept down the thought which might have
grown to the will.