第22章 共23章

ELEONORA

Sub conservatione formæ specificæ salva anima.

—Raymond Lully.

I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of

passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet

settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest

intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is

profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from moods of

mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who

dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who

dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses

of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have

been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn

something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere

knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless

or compassless into the vast ocean of the “light ineffable,” and

again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, “agressi

sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi.”

We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there

are two distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition

of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the

memory of events forming the first epoch of my life—and a

condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and

to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of

my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period,

believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only

such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt

it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.

She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and

distinctly these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only

sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my

cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun,

in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No unguided footstep

ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range of

giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the

sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its

vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting

back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees,

and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant

flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of

the world without the valley—I, and my cousin, and her mother.

From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our

encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river,

brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding

stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length,

through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those

whence it had issued. We called it the “River of Silence”; for

there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur

arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the

pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its

bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each

in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.

The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that

glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the

spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths

of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the

bottom,—these spots, not less than the whole surface of the

valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were

carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even,

and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the

yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the

ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts

in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.

And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like

wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall

slender stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward

the light that peered at noon-day into the centre of the valley.

Their mark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of

ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of

Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves

that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying

with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of

Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.

Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with

Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one

evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the

fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other’s embrace,

beneath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the water

of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words

during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the

morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from

that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the

fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for

centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies

for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a

delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A

change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers,

star-shaped, burn out upon the trees where no flowers had been

known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when,

one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in

place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life

arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with

all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us.

The golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of

which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length,

into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of

Æolus—sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too,

a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of

Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and

settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower and lower,

until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, turning

all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, as if

forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.

The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was

a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among

the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated

her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we

walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and

discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place

therein.

At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad

change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only

upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our

converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz, the same

images are found occurring, again and again, in every impressive

variation of phrase.

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom—that,

like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only

to die; but the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a

consideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight,

by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that,

having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I

would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love

which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer

and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly

at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to

Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any

daughter of Earth—that I would in no manner prove recreant to her

dear memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which

she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe

to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I

invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove

traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the exceeding

great horror of which will not permit me to make record of it

here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words;

and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her

breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made

acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it

made easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not

many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I

had done for the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in

that spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her

return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, if this

thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise,

that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her

presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the

air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels.

And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent

life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.

Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in

Time’s path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with

the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over

my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But

let me on.—Years dragged themselves along heavily, and still I

dwelled within the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second

change had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank

into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of

the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red asphodels

withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten,

dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever

encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the

tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us,

but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay

glowing birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and

silver fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our

domain and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling

melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of Æolus, and more

divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by

little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream

returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original

silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and,

abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell

back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold

golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored

Grass.

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the

sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams

of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at

lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my

brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs

filled often the night air, and once—oh, but once only! I was

awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the

pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.

But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I

longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At

length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and

I left it for ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of

the world.

I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have

served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed

so long in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and

pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of arms, and

the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my

brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the

indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in

the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they

ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood

aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible

temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far

distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I

served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded

at once—at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in

the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What,

indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in

comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the

spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my

whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?—Oh,

bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had

room for none other. Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as

I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought

only of them—and of her.

I wedded—nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness

was not visited upon me. And once—but once again in the silence

of the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which

had forsaken me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and

sweet voice, saying:

“Sleep in peace! for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and,

in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art

absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in

Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora.”