It was a long and terrible conflict,--I will not say where, because
that fact has nothing to do with my story. The Revolutionists were no
match in numbers for the mercenaries of the Dictator, but they fought
with the stormy desperation of the ancient Scythians, and they won, as
they deserved to win: for this was another revolt of freedom against
oppression, of conscience against tyranny, of an exasperated people
against a foreign despot. Every eye shone with the sublimity of a great
principle, and every arm was nerved with a strength grander and more
enduring than that imparted by the fierceness of passion or the
sternness of pride. As I flew from one part of the field to another, in
execution of the orders of my superior officer, I wondered whether
blood as brave and good dyed the heather at Bannockburn, or streamed
down the mountain-gorge where Tell met the Austrians at Morgarten, or
stained with crimson glare the narrow pass held by the Spartan three
hundred.
Suddenly my horse, struck by a well-aimed ball, plunged forward in the
death-struggle, and fell with me, leaving me stunned for a little time,
though not seriously hurt. With returning consciousness came the
quickened perception which sometimes follows a slight concussion of the
brain, daguerreotyping upon my mind each individual of these fiery
ranks, in vivid, even painful clearness. As I watched with intensified
interest the hurrying panorama, the fine figure and face of my friend
Vilalba flashed before me. I noted at once the long wavy masses of
brown hair falling beneath the martial cap; the mouth, a feature seldom
beautiful in men, blending sweetness and firmness in rare degree, now
compressed and almost colorless; but the eyes! the "empty, melancholy
eyes"! what strange, glassy, introspective fixedness! what inexplicable
fascination, as if they were riveted on some object unseen by other
mortals! A glance sufficed to show to myself, at least, that he was in
a state of tense nervous excitation, similar to that of a subject of
mesmerism. A preternatural power seemed to possess him. He moved and
spoke like a somnambulist, with the same insulation from surrounding
minds and superiority to material obstacles. I had long known him as a
brave officer; but here was something more than bravery, more than the
fierce energy of the hour. His mien, always commanding, was now
imperial. In utter fearlessness of peril, he assumed the most exposed
positions, dashed through the strongest defences, accomplished with
marvellous dexterity a wellnigh impossible _coup-de-main_, and
all with the unrecognizing, changeless countenance of one who has no
choice, no volition, but is the passive slave of some resistless
inspiration.
After the conflict was over, I sought Vilalba, and congratulated him on
his brilliant achievement, jestingly adding that I knew he was leagued
with sorcery and helped on by diabolical arts. The cold evasiveness of
his reply confirmed my belief that the condition I have described was
abnormal, and that he was himself conscious of the fact.
Many years passed away, during which I met him rarely, though our
relations were always those of friendship. I heard of him as actively,
even arduously employed in public affairs, and rewarded by fortune and
position. The prestige of fame, unusual personal graces, and high
mental endowments gave him favor in social life; and women avowed that
the mingled truth and tenderness of his genial and generous nature were
all but irresistible. Nevertheless they were chagrined by his singular
indifference to their allurements; and many a fair one, even more
interested than inquisitive, vainly sought to break the unconquerable
reticence which, under apparent frankness, he relentlessly maintained.
He had, indeed, once been married, for a few years only; but his wife
was not of those who can concentrate and absorb the fulness of another
soul, wedding memory with immortal longing. Thus the problem of my
friend's life-long reserve continued to provoke curiosity until its
solution was granted to me alone, and, with it, the explanation of his
mesmeric entrancement on the occasion to which I have alluded. I repeat
the story because it is literally _true_, and because some of its
incidents may be classed among those psychological phenomena which form
the most occult, the most interesting, and the least understood of all
departments of human knowledge.
During a period of summer recreation I induced Vilalba to renew our
interrupted acquaintance by passing a month with me in my country
home. The moonlight of many years had blended its silver with his
still abundant locks, and the lines of thought were deepened in his
face, but I found him in other respects unchanged. He had the same
deep, metallic voice, so musical that to hear him say the slightest
things was a pleasure, the same graceful courtesy and happy elasticity
of temperament; and was full as ever of noble purposes, and the Roman
self-conviction of power to live them out. One of those nights that
"are not made for slumber" found us lingering beneath the odorous vines
which interlocked their gay blossoms around the slight columns of the
veranda, until even the gray surprise of dawn,--the "soft, guileless
consolations" of our cigars, as Aeschylus says of certain other
incense, the cool, fragrant breezes, gentle as remembered kisses upon
the brow, the tremulous tenderness of the star-beams, the listening
hush of midnight, having swayed us to a mood of pensiveness which found
a reflex in our conversation. From the warning glare of sunlight the
heart shuts close its secrets; but hours like these beguile from its
inmost depths those subtile emotions, and vague, dreamy, delicious
thoughts, which, like plants, waken to life only beneath the protecting
shadows of darkness. "Why is it," says Richter, "that the night puts
warmer love in our hearts? Is it the nightly pressure of helplessness,
or is it the exalting separation from the turmoils of life,--that
veiling of the world in which for the soul nothing then remains but
souls,--that causes the letters in which loved names are written to
appear like phosphorus-writing by night, on _fire_, while day, in
their cloudy traces, they but _smoke_?"
Insensibly we wandered into one of those weird passages of
psychological speculation, the border territory where reason and
illusion hold contested sway,--where the relations between spirit and
matter seem so incomprehensibly involved and complicated that we can
only feel, without being able to analyze them, and even the old words
created for our coarse material needs seem no more suitable than would
a sparrow's wings for the flight of an eagle.
"It is emphatically true of these themes," I remarked, after a long
rambling talk, half reverie, half reason, "that language conceals the
ideas, or, rather, the imaginations they evolve; for the word idea
implies something more tangible than vagaries which the Greek poet
would have called 'the dream of the shadow of smoke.' But yet more
unsatisfactory than the impotence of the type is the obscurity of the
thing typified. We can lay down no premises, because no basis can be
found for them,--and establish no axioms, because we have no
mathematical certainties. Objects which present the assurance of
palpable facts to-day may vanish as meteors to-morrow. The effort to
crystallize into a creed one's articles of faith in these mental
phantasmagoria is like carving a cathedral from sunset clouds, or
creating salient and retreating lines of armed hosts in the northern
lights. Though willing dupes to the pretty fancy, we know that before
the light of science the architecture is resolved into mist, and the
battalions into a stream of electricity."
"Not so," replied Vilalba. "Your sky-visions are a deceit, and you know
it while you enjoy them. But the torch of science is by no means
incendiary to the system of psychology. Arago himself admits that it
may one day obtain a place among the exact sciences, and speaks of the
actual power which one human being may exert over another without the
intervention of any known physical agent; while Cuvier and other noted
scientists concede even more than this."
"Do you, then, believe," I asked, "that there is between the silent
grave and the silent stars an answer to this problem we have discussed
to-night, of the inter-relation between spirit and matter, between
soul and soul? To me it seems hopelessly inscrutable, and all effort
to elucidate it, like the language of the Son of Maia, 'by night
bringeth darkness before the eyes, and in the daytime nought clearer.'
I shall as soon expect to wrest her buried secrets from the Sphinx, or
to revive the lost mysteries of the Egyptian priesthood."
"And yet, most of those marvels," answered my friend, "as well as the
later oracles of Greece, and the clairvoyance, mesmerism, etc., of
modern times, were probably the result of a certain power of the mind
to shake off for a time its fetters in defiance of physical
impediments, and even to exert its control over the senses and will and
perception of another. I do not doubt that in certain conditions of
the mind there arise potentialities wonderful as any ever conceived by
fiction, and that these are guided by laws unannounced as yet, but
which will be found in some future archives, inducted in symmetrical
clearness through the proper process of phenomena, classification, and
generalized statement. My own experience suffices to myself for both
assurance and prophecy. Although the loftiest, sweetest music of the
soul is yet unwritten, its faint articulations interblend with the
jangling discords of life, as the chimes of distant bells float through
the roar of winds and waves, and chant to imperilled hearts the songs
of hope and gladness."
His voice fell to the low, earnest tone of one who has found in life a
pearl of truth unseen by others; and as his eye gleamed in the
starlight, I saw that it wore the same speculative expression as on the
battle-field twenty years before. A slight tremor fled through his
frame, as though he had been touched by an invisible hand, and a faint
smile of recognition brightened his features.
"How can we explain," continued he, after a brief pause, "this mystery
of PRESENCE? Are you not often conscious of being actually nearer to a
mind a thousand miles distant than to one whose outer vestments you can
touch? We certainly feel, on the approach of a person repulsive, not
necessarily to our senses, but to our instincts,--which in this case
are notes of warning from the remote depths of the soul,--as if our
entire being intrenched itself behind a vitally repellent barrier, in
absolute security that no power in the universe can break through it,
in opposition to our will. For the will does not seem to create the
barrier, but to guard it; and, thus defended, material contact with the
individual affects us no more than the touch of a plaster statue. We
are each, and must remain, mutually unknowing and unknown. On the other
hand, does not fixed and earnest thought upon one we love seem to bring
the companion-spirit within the sacred temple of our own being,
infolded as a welcome guest in our warm charities and gentle joys, and
imparting in return the lustre of a serene and living beauty? If, then,
those whom we do not recognize as kindred are repelled, even though
they approach us through the aid and interpretation of the senses, why
may not the loved be brought near without that aid, through the more
subtile and more potent attraction of sympathy? I do not mean nearness
in the sense of memory or imagination, but that actual propinquity of
spirit which I suppose implied in the recognition of Presence. Nor do I
refer to any volition which is dependent on the known action of the
brain, but to a hidden faculty, the germ perhaps of some higher
faculty, now folded within the present life like the wings of a
chrysalis, which looks through or beyond the material existence, and
obtains a truer and finer perception of the spiritual than can be
filtered through the coarser organs of sight and hearing."
"Vilalba, you are evidently a disciple of Des Cartes. Your theory is
based on the idealistic principle, 'I think, therefore I am.' I confess
that I could never be satisfied with mere subjective consciousness on a
point which involves the cooperation of another mind. Nothing less than
the most positive and luminous testimony of the senses could ever
persuade me that two minds could meet and commune, apart from material
intervention."
"I know," answered Vilalba, "that it is easier to feel than to reason
about things which lie without the pale of mathematical demonstration.
But some day, my friend, you will learn that beyond the arid
abstractions of the schoolmen, beyond the golden dreams of the poets,
there is a truth in this matter, faintly discerned now as the most dim
of yonder stars, but as surely a link in the chain which suspends the
Universe to the throne of God. However, your incredulity is
commendable, for doubt is the avenue to knowledge. I admit that no
testimony is conclusive save that of the senses, and such witness I
have received.
"You speak perpetual enigmas, and I suspect you--for the second
time--of tampering with the black arts. Do you mean to say that you are
a believer in the doctrine of palpable spiritual manifestation?"
"I might say in its favor," was the reply, "that apart from the
pretences and the plausibilities of to-day, many of which result from
the independent action of the mind through clairvoyance, and others
from mere excitation of the nervous sensibilities, the truth of that
theory is possibly implied in the wants of the soul; for a want proves
the existence of an antidote as effectually as a positive and negative
interchangeably bear witness to each other's existence. But if you will
have patience to listen to a story of my own life, I can better explain
how my convictions have been beguiled into the credence which appears
to you unphilosophical, if not absurd."
"I will listen with pleasure,--first lighting another cigar to dispel
the weird shapes which will probably respond to your incantation."
Vilalba smiled slightly.
"Do not be disturbed. The phantoms will not visit you, not, I fear,
myself either. But you must promise faith in my veracity; for I am
about to tell you a tale of fact, and not of fancy.
"It happened to me many years ago,--how flatteringly that little
phrase seems to extend the scale of one's being!--when I had just
entered on the active duties of manhood, that some affairs called me to
New Orleans, and detained me there several months. Letters of
friendship gave me admission into some of the most agreeable French
families of that _quasi_ Parisian city, and in the reception of
their hospitality I soon lost the feeling of isolation which attends a
stranger in a crowded mart. My life at that time was without shadows. I
had health, friends, education, position,--youth, as well, which then
seemed a blessing, though I would not now exchange for it my crown of
years and experience. Fortune only I then had not; and because I had it
not, I am telling you, to-night, this story.
"It chanced, one day, that I was invited to dine at the house of an
aristocratic subject of the old French _régime_. I did not know
the family, and a previous engagement tempted me to decline the
invitation; but one of those mysterious impulses which are in fact the
messengers of Destiny compelled me to go, and I went. Thus slight may
be the thread which changes the entire web of the future! After
greeting my host, and the party assembled in the drawing-room, my
attention was arrested by a portrait suspended in a recess, and partly
veiled by purple curtains, like Isis within her shrine. The lovely,
living eyes beamed upon me out of the shrine, radiant with an internal
light I had never before seen on canvas. The features were harmonious,
the complexion pure and clear, and the whole picture wore an air of
graceful, gentle girlhood, glowing, like Undine, with the flush of 'the
coming soul.' I hardly knew whether the face was strictly beautiful
according to the canons of Art; for only a Shakspeare can be at the
same time critical and sympathetic, and my criticism was baffled and
blinded by the fascination of those wondrous eyes. They reminded me of
what a materialist said of the portraits of Prudhon,--that they were
enough to make one believe in the immortality of the soul. Life
multiplied by feeling into a limitless dream of past and future was
mirrored in their clear depths; the questful gaze seemed reading the
significance of the one through the symbols of the other, and pondering
the lesson with sweetness of assent and ever-earnest longing for fuller
revelation.
"As I lingered before this fair shadow, I heard my name pronounced,
and, turning, beheld the not less fair original, the daughter of my
host. Now do not fear a catalogue of feminine graces, or a lengthened
romance of the heart, tedious with such platitudes as have been Elysium
to the actors, and weariness to the audience, ever since the world
began. The Enchanted Isles wear no enchantment to unanointed vision;
their skies of Paradise are fog, their angels Harpies, perchance, or
harsh-throated Sirens. Besides, we can never describe correctly those
whom we love, because we see them through the heart; and the heart's
optics have no technology. It is enough to say, that, from almost the
first time I looked upon Blanche, I felt that I had at last found the
gift rarely accorded to us here,--the fulfilment of a promise hidden
in every heart, but often waited for in vain. Hitherto my all-sufficing
self-hood had never been stirred by the mighty touch of Love. I had
been amused by trivial and superficial affections, like the gay
triflers of whom Rasselas says, 'They fancied they were in love, when
in truth they were only idle.' But that sentiment which is never twice
inspired, that new birth of
'A soul within the soul, evolving it sublimely,'
had never until now wakened my pulses and opened my eyes to the higher
and holier heritage. Perhaps you doubt that Psychal fetters may be
forged in a moment's heat; but I believe that the love which is deepest
and most sacred, and which Plato calls the memory of divine beings whom
we knew in some anterior life, that recognition of kindred natures
which precedes reason and asks no leave of the understanding, is not a
gradual and cautious attraction, like the growth of a coral reef, but
sudden and magnetic as the coalescence of two drops of mercury.
"During several following weeks we met many times, and yet, in looking
back to that dream of heaven, I cannot tell how often, nor for how
long. Time is merely the measure given to past emotions, and those
emotions flowed over me in a tidal sweep which merged all details in
one continuous memory. The lone hemisphere of my life was rounded into
completeness, and its feverish unrest changed to deep tranquillity, as
if a faint, tremulous star were transmuted into a calm, full-orbed
planet. Do you remember that story of Plato's--I recall the air-woven
subtilties of the delightful idealist, to illustrate, not to
prove--that story of the banquet where the ripe wines of the Aegean
Isles unchained the tongues of such talkers as Pausanias and Socrates
and others as witty and wise, until they fell into a discourse on the
origin of Love, and, whirling away on the sparkling eddies of fancy,
were borne to that preëxistent sphere which, in Plato's opinion,
furnished the key to all the enigmas of this? There they beheld the
complete and original souls, the compound of male and female, dual and
yet one, so happy and so haughty in their perfection of beauty and of
power that Jupiter could not tolerate his godlike rivals, and therefore
cut them asunder, sending the dissevered halves tumbling down to earth,
bewildered and melancholy enough, until some good fortune might restore
to each the _alter ego_ which constituted the divine unity. 'And
thus,' says Plato, 'whenever it happens that a man meets with his other
half, the very counterpart of himself, they are both smitten with
strong love; they recognize their ancient union; they are powerfully
attracted by the consciousness that they belong to each other; and they
are unwilling to be again parted, even for a short time. And if Vulcan
were to stand over them with his fire and forge, and offer to melt them
down and run them together, and of two to make them one again, they
would both say that this was just what they desired!'
"I dare say you have read--unless your partiality for the soft Southern
tongues has chased away your Teutonic taste--that exquisite poem of
Schiller's, 'Das Geheimnitz der Reminiscenz,' the happiest possible
crystallization of the same theory. I recall a few lines from Bulwer's
fine translation:--
"'Why from its lord doth thus my soul depart?
Is it because its native home thou art?
Or were they brothers in the days of yore,
Twin-bound both souls, and in the links they bore
Sigh to be bound once more?
"'Were once our beings blent and intertwining,
And therefore still my heart for thine is pining?
Knew we the light of some extinguished sun,--
The joys remote of some bright realm undone,
Where once our souls were ONE?
"'Yes, it is so! And thou wert bound to me
In the long-vanished eld eternally!
In the dark troubled tablets which enroll
The past my Muse beheld this blessed scroll,--
'One with thy love, my soul'!"
"Now the Athenian dreamer builded better than he knew. That phantom
which perpetually attends and perpetually evades us,--the inevitable
guest whose silence maddens and whose sweetness consoles,--whose filmy
radiance eclipses all beauty,--whose voiceless eloquence subdues all
sound,--ever beckoning, ever inspiring, patient, pleading, and
unchanging,--this is the Ideal which Plato called the dearer self,
because, when its craving sympathies find reflex and response in a
living form, its rapturous welcome ignores the old imperfect being, and
the union only is recognized as Self indeed, complete and undivided.
And that fulness of human love becomes a faint type and interpreter of
the Infinite, as through it we glide into grander harmonies and
enlarged relations with the Universe, urged on forever by insatiable
desires and far-reaching aspirations which testify our celestial
origin and intimate our immortal destiny.
"'Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade,
From the rude Mongol to the starry Greek,
everywhere we seek
Union and bond, till in one sea sublime
Of love be merged all measure and all time!"
"I never disclosed in words my love to Blanche. Through the lucid
transparency of Presence, I believed that she knew all and
comprehended all, without the aid of those blundering symbols. We never
even spoke of the future; for all time, past and to come, seemed to
converge and centre and repose in that radiant present. In the
enchantment of my new life, I feared lest a breath should disturb the
spell, and send me back to darkness and solitude.
"Of course, this could not last forever. There came a time when I found
that my affairs would compel me to leave New Orleans for a year, or
perhaps a little longer. With the discovery my dream was broken. The
golden web which had been woven around me shrank beneath the iron hand
of necessity, and fell in fragments at my feet. I knew that it was
useless to speak to Blanch of marriage, for her father, a stern and
exacting man in his domestic relations, had often declared that he
would never give his daughter to a husband who had no fortune. If I
sought his permission to address her now, my fate was fixed. There was
no alternative, therefore, but to wait until my return, when I hoped to
have secured, in sufficient measure, the material passport to his
favor. Our parting was necessarily sudden, and, strange as it may seem,
some fatal repression sealed my lips, and withheld me from uttering the
few words which would have made the future wholly ours, and sculptured
my dream of love in monumental permanance. Ah! with what narrow and
trembling planks do we bridge the abyss of misery and despair! But be
patient while I linger for a moment here. The evening before my
departure, I went to take leave of her. There were other guests in the
drawing-room, the atmosphere was heated and oppressive, and after a
little time I proposed to her to retreat with me, for a few moments, to
the fragrant coolness of the garden. We walked slowly along through
clustering flowers and under arching orange-trees, which infolded us
tenderly within their shining arms, as in tremulous silence we waited
for words that should say enough and yet not too much. The glories of
all summer evenings seemed concentred in this one. The moon now
silvered leaf and blossom, and then suddenly fled behind a shadowing
cloud, while the stars shone out with gladness brief and bright as the
promises of my heart. Skilful artists in the music-room thrilled the
air with some of those exquisite compositions of Mendelssohn which
dissolve the soul in sweetness or ravish it with delight, until it
seems as if all past emotions of joy were melted in one rapid and
comprehensive reëxperience, and all future inheritance gleamed in
promise before our enraptured vision, and we are hurried on with
electric speed to hitherto unsealed heights of feeling, whence we catch
faint glimpses of the unutterable mysteries of our being, and
foreshadowings of a far-off, glorified existence. The eloquence of
earth and sky and air breathed more than language could have uttered,
and, as my eyes met the eyes of Blanche, the question of my heart was
asked and answered, once for all. I recognized the treasured ideal of
my restless, vagrant heart, and I seemed to hear it murmuring gently,
as if to a long-lost mate, _'Where hast thou stayed so long?'_ I
felt that henceforth there was for us no real parting. Our material
forms might be severed, but our spirits were one and inseparate.
"'On the fountains of our life a seal was set
To keep their waters clear and bright
Forever.'
"And thus, with scarce a word beside, I said the 'God be with you!' and
went out into the world alone, yet henceforth not alone.
"Two years passed away. They had been years of success in my worldly
affairs, and were blessed by memories and hopes which grew brighter
with each day. I had not heard of Blanche, save indirectly through a
friend in New Orleans, but I never doubted that the past was as sacred,
the future as secure, in her eyes as in my own. I was now ready to
return, and to repeat in words the vows which my heart had sworn long
before. I fixed the time, and wrote to my friend to herald my coming.
Before that letter reached him, there came tidings which, like a storm
of desolation, swept me to the dust. Blanche was in France, and
married,--how or when or to whom, I knew not, cared not. The
relentless fact was sufficient. The very foundations of the earth
seemed to tremble and slide from beneath me. The sounds of day
tortured, the silence of night maddened me. I sought forgetfulness in
travel, in wild adventure, in reckless dissipation. With that strange
fatality which often leads us to seek happiness or repose where we have
least chance of finding it, I, too, married. But I committed no
perjury. I offered friendship, and it sufficed. Love I never professed
to give, and the wife whom I merely esteemed had not the mental or the
magnetic ascendancy which might have triumphed for a time over the
image shrined in my inmost heart. I sought every avenue through which
I might fly from that and from myself. I tried mental occupation, and
explored literature and science, with feverish ardor and some reward. I
think it is Coleridge who recommends to those who are suffering from
extreme sorrow the study of a new language. But to a mind of deep
feeling diversion is not relief. If we fly from memory, we are pursued
and overtaken like fugitive slaves, and punished with redoubled
tortures. The only sure remedy for grief is self-evolved. We must
accept sorrow as a guest, not shun it as a foe, and, receiving it into
close companionship, let the mournful face haunt our daily paths, even
though it shut out all friends and dim the light of earth and heaven.
And when we have learned the lesson which it came to teach, the fearful
phantom brightens into beauty, and reveals an 'angel unawares,' who
gently leads us to heights of purer atmosphere and more extended
vision, and strengthens us for the battle which demands unfaltering
heart and hope.
"Do you remember the remark of the child Goethe, when his young reason
was perplexed by attempting to reconcile the terrible earthquake at
Lisbon with the idea of infinite goodness? 'God knows very well that an
immortal soul cannot suffer from mortal accident.' With similar faith
there came to me tranquil restoration. The deluge of passion rolled
back, and from the wreck of my Eden arose a new and more spiritual
creation. But forgetfulness was never possible. In the maddening
turbulence of my grief and the ghastly stillness of its reaction, the
lovely spirit which had become a part of my life seemed to have fled to
the inner temple of my soul, breaking the solitude with glimmering
ray and faint melodious murmur. And when I could bear to look and
listen, it grew brighter and more palpable, until at last it attended
me omnipresently, consoling, cheering, and stimulating to nobler
thought and action.
"Nor was it a ghost summoned by memory, or the airy creation of fancy.
One evening an incident occurred which will test your credulity, or
make you doubt my sanity. I sat alone, and reading,--nothing more
exciting, however, than a daily newspaper. My health was perfect, my
mind unperturbed. Suddenly my eye was arrested by a cloud passing
slowly back and forth several times before me, not projected upon the
wall, but floating in the atmosphere. I looked around for the cause,
but the doors and windows were closed, and nothing stirred in the
apartment. Then I saw a point of light, small as a star at first, but
gradually enlarging into a luminous cloud which filled the centre of
the room. I shivered with strange coldness, and every nerve tingled as
if touched by a galvanic battery. From the tremulous waves of the cloud
arose, like figures in a dissolving view, the form and features of my
lost love,--not radiant as when I last looked upon them, but pale and
anguish-stricken, with clasped hands and tearful eyes; and upon my ears
fell, like arrows of fire, the words, _You have been the cause of all
this; oh, why did you not'_--The question was unfinished, and from
my riveted gaze, half terror, half delight, the vision faded, and I was
alone.
"Of course you will pronounce this mere nervous excitement, but, I pray
you, await the sequel. Those burning words told the story of that
mistake which had draped in despair our earthly lives. They were no
reflection from my own mind. In the self-concentration of my
disappointment, I had never dreamed that I alone was in fault,--that I
should have anchored my hope on somewhat more defined than the
voiceless intelligence of sympathy. But the very reproach of the
mysterious visitor brought with it a conviction, positive and
indubitable, that the spiritual portion of our being possesses the
power to act upon the material perception of another, without aid from
material elements. From time to time I have known, beyond the
possibility of deception, that the kindred spirit was still my
companion, my own inalienable possession, in spite of all factitious
ties, of all physical intervention.
"Have you heard that among certain tribes of the North-American Indians
are men who possess an art which enables them to endure torture and
actual death without apparent suffering or even consciousness? I once
chanced to fall in with one of these tribes, then living in Louisiana,
now removed to the far West, and was permitted to witness some
fantastic rites, half warlike, half religious, in which, however,
there was nothing noticeable except this trance-like condition, which
some of the warriors seemed to command at pleasure, manifested by a
tense rigidity of the features and muscles, and a mental exaltation
which proved to be both clairvoyant and clairoyant: a state analogous
to that of hypnotism, or the artificial sleep produced by gazing
fixedly on a near, bright object, and differing only in degree from
the nervous or imaginative control which has been known to arrest and
cure disease, which chained St. Simeon Stylites to his pillar, and
sustains the Hindoo fakirs in their apparently superhuman vigils. These
children of Nature had probed with direct simplicity some of the deep
secrets which men of science often fail to discern through tortuous
devices. I was assured that this trance was merely the result of a
concentrative energy of the will, which riveted the faculties upon a
single purpose or idea, and held every nerve and sense in absolute
abeyance. We are so little accustomed to test the potency of the will
out of the ordinary plane of its operation, that we have little
conception how mighty a lever it may be made, or to what new exercise
it may be directed; and yet we are all conscious of periods in our
lives when, like a vast rock in ocean, it has suddenly loomed up firm
and defiant amid our petty purposes and fretful indecisions, waxing
grander and stronger under opposition, a something apart from, yet a
conscious portion of ourselves,--a master, though a slave,--another
revelation of the divinity within.
"I will confess that curiosity led me long ago to slight experiments in
the direction in which you say the diabolic lies, but my mind was
never concentrated on any one idea of sufficient interest to command
success, until, in some periods of mingled peril and excitement, the
memory of Blanche, and the conscious, even startling nearness of that
sweet presence, have lent to my will unwonted energy and inspiration.
"Twenty years passed slowly away. It is common to speak of the
_flight_ of time. For me, time has no wings. The days and years
are faltering and tardy-footed, laden with the experiences of the
outer and the problems of the inner world, which seem perpetually
multiplied by reflection, like figures in a room mirrored on all
sides. Meanwhile, my wife had died. I have never since sought women
beyond the formal pale of the drawing-room: not from insensibility to
loveliness, but because the memory, 'dearer far than bliss,' of one
irretrievable affection shut out all inferior approach,--like a
solitary planet, admitting no dance of satellites within its orbit.
"At last the long silence was broken. I heard that Blanche was free,
and, with mingled haste and hesitation, I prepared to seek her. The
ideal should be tested, I said to myself, by the actual, and if proved
a deceit, then was all faith a mockery, all promise and premonition a
glittering lie. As soon as winds and waves could carry me, I was in
Louisiana, and in the very dwelling and at the same hour which had
witnessed our parting. Again was it a soft summer evening. The same
faint golden rays painted the sun's farewell, and the same silver moon
looked eloquent response, as on the evening breeze floated sweet
remembered odors of jessamine and orange. Again the ideal beauty of the
lovely portrait met my gaze and seemed to melt into my heart; and
once more, softly, lightly, fell a footstep, and the Presence by which
I had never been forsaken, which I could never forsake, stood before me
in 'palpable array of sense.' It was indeed the living Blanche, calm
and stately as of old,--no longer radiant with the flush of youth, but
serene in tenderest grace and sweet reserve, and beautiful through the
lustre of the inner light of soul. She uttered a faint cry of joy, and
placing her trembling hand in mine, we stood transfixed and silent,
with riveted gaze, reading in each other's eyes feelings too sacred for
speech, too deep for smiles or tears. In that long, burning look, it
seemed as if the emotions of each were imparted to the other, not in
slow succession as through words and sentences, but daguerreotyped or
electrotyped in perfected form upon the conscious understanding. No
language could have made so clear and comprehensible the revelation of
that all-centring, unconquerable love which thrilled our inmost being,
and pervaded the atmosphere around us with subtile and tremulous
vibrations. In that moment all time was fused and forgotten. There was
for us no Past, no Future; there was only the long-waited,
all-embracing Now. I could willingly have died then and there, for I
knew that all life could bring but one such moment. My heart spoke
truly. A change passed over the countenance of Blanche,--an expression
of unutterable grief, like Eve's retrospective look at Eden. Quivering
with strange tremor, again she stood before me, with clasped hands and
tearful eyes, in the very attitude of that memorable apparition, and
again fell upon my ears the mysterious plaint and the uncompleted
question,--_'You have been the cause of all this; oh, why did you
not'_--
"Now, my friend, can your philosophy explain this startling
verification, this reflex action of the vision, or the fantasy, or
whatever else you may please to term it, whose prophetic shadow fell
upon my astonished senses long years before? In all the intervening
time, we were separated by great distance, no word or sign passed
between us, nor did we even hear of each other except indefinitely and
through chance. Is there, then, any explanation of that vision more
rational than that the spirit thus closely affined with my own was
enabled, through its innate potencies, or through some agency of which
we are ignorant, to impress upon my bodily perceptions its
uncontrollable emotions? That this manifestation was made through what
physiologists call the unconscious or involuntary action of the mind
was proved by the incredulity and surprise of Blanche when I told her
of the wonderful coincidence.
"I need not relate, even if I could do so, the outpouring of long-pent
emotions which relieved the yearning love and haunting memories of sad,
silent, lingering years. It is enough to tell you briefly of the
story which was repeated in fragments through many hours of unfamiliar
bliss. Soon after my departure from New Orleans, the father of Blanche,
with the stern authority which many parents exercise over the
matrimonial affairs of their daughters, insisted upon her forming an
alliance to which the opposition of her own heart was the only
objection. So trifling an impediment was decisively put aside by him,
and Blanche, having delayed the marriage as long as possible, until the
time fixed for my return was past, and unable to plead any open
acknowledgment on my part which could justify her refusal, had no
alternative but to obey. 'I confess,' said she, in faltering tones,
'that, after my fate was fixed, and I was parted from you, as I
believed for life, I tried to believe that the love which had given so
slight witness in words to its truth and fervor must have faded
entirely away, and that I was forgotten, and perhaps supplanted. And
therefore, in the varied pursuits and pleasures of my new sphere, and
in the indulgence and kindness which ministered to the outer, but,
alas! never to the inner life, I sought happiness, and I, too, like
yourself, strove to forget. Ah! that art of forgetting, which the
Athenian coveted as the best of boons,--when was it ever found through
effort or desire? In all scenes of beauty or of excitement, in the
allurements of society, in solitude and in sorrow, my heart still
turned to you with ceaseless longing, as if you alone could touch its
master-chord, and waken the harmonies which were struggling for
expression. By slow degrees, as I learned to dissever you from the
material world, there came a conviction of the nearness of your spirit,
sometimes so positive that I would waken from a reverie, in which I
was lost to sights and sounds around me, with a sense of having been
in your actual presence. I was aware of an effect rather than of an
immediate consciousness,--as if the magnetism of your touch had swept
over me, cooling the fever of my brain, and charming to deep
tranquillity my troubled heart. And thus I learned, through similar
experience, the same belief as yours. I have felt the continuous
nearness, the inseparable union of our spirits, as plainly as I feel
it now, with my hand clasped in yours, and reading in your eyes the
unutterable things which we can never hope to speak, because they are
foreshadowings of another existence.
"What I possess I see afar off lying,
And what I lost is real and undying."
The material presence is indeed very dear, but I believe that it is not
essential to the perpetuity of that love which is nurtured through
mutual and perfect understanding.'
"'It is not essential,' I replied, 'but it is, as you say, very, very
dear, because it is an exponent and participant of the hidden life
which it was designed to aid and to enframe. Blanche, it was you who
first wakened my soul to the glorious revelation, the heavenly
heritage of love. It was you who opened to me the world which lies
beyond the mere external, who gently allured me from the coarse and
clouding elements of sense, and infolded me in the holy purity of that
marriage of kindred natures which alone is hallowed by the laws of
God, and which no accidents of time or place can rend asunder. Apart
from the bitterness of this long separation, the lesson might not have
been learned; but now that it is ineffaceably engraven on both our
hearts, and confirmed in the assurance of this blessed reunion, may I
not hope that for the remainder of our earthly lives we may study
together in visible companionship such further lessons as may be held
in reserve for us?'
"Her face glowed with a soft crimson flush, and again her eyes were
suffused with tears, through which beamed a look of sweet, heavenly
sorrow,--such as might have shone in the orbs of the angel who enforced
upon Adam the sentence of expulsion from Paradise, and who, while
sharing the exile's grief, beheld in the remote horizon, far beyond the
tangled wilderness of Earth, another gate, wide opening to welcome him
to the Immortal Land. She was silent for a little time, and then she
murmured, lingering gently on the words, 'No, it must not be. We are,
indeed, inalienably one, in a nearer and dearer sense than can be
expressed by any transient symbol. Let us not seek to quit the
spiritual sphere in which we have long dwelt and communed together, for
one liable to discord and misinterpretation. I have an irresistible
impression that my life here will be very brief. While I remain, come
to me when you will, let me be the Egeria of your hours of leisure, and
a consoler in your cares,--but let us await, for another and a higher
life, the more perfect consummation of our love. For, oh, believe, as I
believe, faith is no mockery, nor is the heart's prophecy a lie. We
were not born to be the dupes of dreams or the sport of chance. The
voice which whispered to me long ago the promise fulfilled in this hour
tells me that in a bright Hereafter we shall find compensation for
every sorrow, reality for every ideal, and that there at last shall be
resolved in luminous perception the veiled and troubled mystery of
PRESENCE!'"
* * * * *