uninterrupted, the consciousness of the whole of Humanity within me.”— SCHLEIERMACHERS, Monologen.
“ . . . such a sweetness, such a grace,
In all thy speech appear,
That what to th’eye a beauteous face,
That thy tongue is to the ear.”
— COWLEY.
The water was deep to the very edge; and I sprang from the little boat upon a soft grassy2 turf. The island seemed rich with a profusion3 of all grasses and low flowers. All delicate lowly things were most plentiful4; but no trees rose skywards, not even a bush overtopped the tall grasses, except in one place near the cottage I am about to describe, where a few plants of the gum-cistus, which drops every night all the blossoms that the day brings forth5, formed a kind of natural arbour. The whole island lay open to the sky and sea. It rose nowhere more than a few feet above the level of the waters, which flowed deep all around its border. Here there seemed to be neither tide nor storm. A sense of persistent6 calm and fulness arose in the mind at the sight of the slow, pulse-like rise and fall of the deep, clear, unrippled waters against the bank of the island, for shore it could hardly be called, being so much more like the edge of a full, solemn river. As I walked over the grass towards the cottage, which stood at a little distance from the bank, all the flowers of childhood looked at me with perfect child-eyes out of the grass. My heart, softened8 by the dreams through which it had passed, overflowed9 in a sad, tender love towards them. They looked to me like children impregnably fortified10 in a helpless confidence. The sun stood half-way down the western sky, shining very soft and golden; and there grew a second world of shadows amidst the world of grasses and wild flowers.
The cottage was square, with low walls, and a high pyramidal roof thatched with long reeds, of which the withered11 blossoms hung over all the eaves. It is noticeable that most of the buildings I saw in Fairy Land were cottages. There was no path to a door, nor, indeed, was there any track worn by footsteps in the island.
The cottage rose right out of the smooth turf. It had no windows that I could see; but there was a door in the centre of the side facing me, up to which I went. I knocked, and the sweetest voice I had ever heard said, “Come in.” I entered. A bright fire was burning on a hearth13 in the centre of the earthern floor, and the smoke found its way out at an opening in the centre of the pyramidal roof. Over the fire hung a little pot, and over the pot bent14 a woman-face, the most wonderful, I thought, that I had ever beheld15. For it was older than any countenance16 I had ever looked upon. There was not a spot in which a wrinkle could lie, where a wrinkle lay not. And the skin was ancient and brown, like old parchment. The woman’s form was tall and spare: and when she stood up to welcome me, I saw that she was straight as an arrow. Could that voice of sweetness have issued from those lips of age? Mild as they were, could they be the portals whence flowed such melody? But the moment I saw her eyes, I no longer wondered at her voice: they were absolutely young — those of a woman of five-and-twenty, large, and of a clear gray. Wrinkles had beset17 them all about; the eyelids18 themselves were old, and heavy, and worn; but the eyes were very incarnations of soft light. She held out her hand to me, and the voice of sweetness again greeted me, with the single word, “Welcome.” She set an old wooden chair for me, near the fire, and went on with her cooking. A wondrous19 sense of refuge and repose20 came upon me. I felt like a boy who has got home from school, miles across the hills, through a heavy storm of wind and snow. Almost, as I gazed on her, I sprang from my seat to kiss those old lips. And when, having finished her cooking, she brought some of the dish she had prepared, and set it on a little table by me, covered with a snow-white cloth, I could not help laying my head on her bosom21, and bursting into happy tears. She put her arms round me, saying, “Poor child; poor child!”
As I continued to weep, she gently disengaged herself, and, taking a spoon, put some of the food (I did not know what it was) to my lips, entreating22 me most endearingly to swallow it. To please her, I made an effort, and succeeded. She went on feeding me like a baby, with one arm round me, till I looked up in her face and smiled: then she gave me the spoon and told me to eat, for it would do me good. I obeyed her, and found myself wonderfully refreshed. Then she drew near the fire an old-fashioned couch that was in the cottage, and making me lie down upon it, sat at my feet, and began to sing. Amazing store of old ballads23 rippled7 from her lips, over the pebbles24 of ancient tunes25; and the voice that sang was sweet as the voice of a tuneful maiden26 that singeth ever from very fulness of song. The songs were almost all sad, but with a sound of comfort. One I can faintly recall. It was something like this:
Sir Aglovaile through the churchyard rode;
SING, ALL ALONE I LIE:
Little recked he where’er he yode,
ALL ALONE, UP IN THE SKY.
Swerved28 his courser, and plunged29 with fear
ALL ALONE I LIE:
His cry might have wakened the dead men near,
ALL ALONE, UP IN THE SKY.
The very dead that lay at his feet,
Lapt in the mouldy winding-sheet.
But he curbed30 him and spurred him, until he stood
Still in his place, like a horse of wood,
With nostrils31 uplift, and eyes wide and wan32;
But the sweat in streams from his fetlocks ran.
A ghost grew out of the shadowy air,
And sat in the midst of her moony hair.
In her gleamy hair she sat and wept;
In the dreamful moon they lay and slept;
The shadows above, and the bodies below,
Lay and slept in the moonbeams slow.
And she sang, like the moan of an autumn wind
Over the stubble left behind:
Alas33, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.
Alas, how hardly things go right!
’Tis hard to watch on a summer night,
For the sigh will come and the kiss will stay,
And the summer night is a winter day.
“Oh, lovely ghosts my heart is woes35
To see thee weeping and wailing36 so.
Oh, lovely ghost,” said the fearless knight37,
“Can the sword of a warrior38 set it right?
Or prayer of bedesman, praying mild,
As a cup of water a feverish39 child,
Sooth thee at last, in dreamless mood
To sleep the sleep a dead lady should?
Thine eyes they fill me with longing40 sore,
As if I had known thee for evermore.
Oh, lovely ghost, I could leave the day
To sit with thee in the moon away
If thou wouldst trust me, and lay thy head
To rest on a bosom that is not dead.”
The lady sprang up with a strange ghost-cry,
And she flung her white ghost-arms on high:
And she laughed a laugh that was not gay,
And it lengthened41 out till it died away;
And the dead beneath turned and moaned,
And the yew-trees above they shuddered43 and groaned44.
“Will he love me twice with a love that is vain?
Will he kill the poor ghost yet again?
I thought thou wert good; but I said, and wept:
‘Can I have dreamed who have not slept?’
And I knew, alas! or ever I would,
Whether I dreamed, or thou wert good.
When my baby died, my brain grew wild.
I awoke, and found I was with my child.”
“If thou art the ghost of my Adelaide,
How is it? Thou wert but a village maid,
And thou seemest an angel lady white,
Though thin, and wan, and past delight.”
The lady smiled a flickering45 smile,
And she pressed her temples hard the while.
“Thou seest that Death for a woman can
Do more than knighthood for a man.”
“But show me the child thou callest mine,
Is she out to-night in the ghost’s sunshine?”
“In St. Peter’s Church she is playing on,
At hide-and-seek, with Apostle John.
When the moonbeams right through the window go,
Where the twelve are standing46 in glorious show,
She says the rest of them do not stir,
But one comes down to play with her.
Then I can go where I list, and weep,
For good St. John my child will keep.”
“Thy beauty filleth the very air,
Never saw I a woman so fair.”
“Come, if thou darest, and sit by my side;
But do not touch me, or woe34 will betide.
Alas, I am weak: I might well know
This gladness betokens47 some further woe.
Yet come. It will come. I will bear it. I can.
For thou lovest me yet — though but as a man.”
The knight dismounted in earnest speed;
Away through the tombstones thundered the steed,
And fell by the outer wall, and died.
But the knight he kneeled by the lady’s side;
Kneeled beside her in wondrous bliss48,
Rapt in an everlasting49 kiss:
Though never his lips come the lady nigh,
And his eyes alone on her beauty lie.
All the night long, till the cock crew loud,
He kneeled by the lady, lapt in her shroud50.
And what they said, I may not say:
Dead night was sweeter than living day.
How she made him so blissful glad
Who made her and found her so ghostly sad,
I may not tell; but it needs no touch
To make them blessed who love so much.
“Come every night, my ghost, to me;
And one night I will come to thee.
’Tis good to have a ghostly wife:
She will not tremble at clang of strife51;
She will only hearken, amid the din12,
Behind the door, if he cometh in.”
And this is how Sir Aglovaile
Often walked in the moonlight pale.
And oft when the crescent but thinned the gloom,
Full orbed moonlight filled his room;
And through beneath his chamber52 door,
Fell a ghostly gleam on the outer floor;
And they that passed, in fear averred53
That murmured words they often heard.
’Twas then that the eastern crescent shone
Through the chancel window, and good St. John
Played with the ghost-child all the night,
And the mother was free till the morning light,
And sped through the dawning night, to stay
With Aglovaile till the break of day.
And their love was a rapture54, lone27 and high,
And dumb as the moon in the topmost sky.
One night Sir Aglovaile, weary, slept
And dreamed a dream wherein he wept.
A warrior he was, not often wept he,
But this night he wept full bitterly.
He woke — beside him the ghost-girl shone
Out of the dark: ’twas the eve of St. John.
He had dreamed a dream of a still, dark wood,
Where the maiden of old beside him stood;
But a mist came down, and caught her away,
And he sought her in vain through the pathless day,
Till he wept with the grief that can do no more,
And thought he had dreamt the dream before.
From bursting heart the weeping flowed on;
And lo! beside him the ghost-girl shone;
Shone like the light on a harbour’s breast,
Over the sea of his dream’s unrest;
Shone like the wondrous, nameless boon55,
That the heart seeks ever, night or noon:
Warnings forgotten, when needed most,
He clasped to his bosom the radiant ghost.
She wailed56 aloud, and faded, and sank.
With upturn’d white face, cold and blank,
In his arms lay the corpse57 of the maiden pale,
And she came no more to Sir Aglovaile.
Only a voice, when winds were wild,
Sobbed58 and wailed like a chidden child.
Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.
Show me the child thou callest mine
This was one of the simplest of her songs, which, perhaps, is the cause of my being able to remember it better than most of the others. While she sung, I was in Elysium, with the sense of a rich soul upholding, embracing, and overhanging mine, full of all plenty and bounty59. I felt as if she could give me everything I wanted; as if I should never wish to leave her, but would be content to be sung to and fed by her, day after day, as years rolled by. At last I fell asleep while she sang.
When I awoke, I knew not whether it was night or day. The fire had sunk to a few red embers, which just gave light enough to show me the woman standing a few feet from me, with her back towards me, facing the door by which I had entered. She was weeping, but very gently and plentifully60. The tears seemed to come freely from her heart. Thus she stood for a few minutes; then, slowly turning at right angles to her former position, she faced another of the four sides of the cottage. I now observed, for the first time, that here was a door likewise; and that, indeed, there was one in the centre of every side of the cottage.
When she looked towards the second door, her tears ceased to flow, but sighs took their place. She often closed her eyes as she stood; and every time she closed her eyes, a gentle sigh seemed to be born in her heart, and to escape at her lips. But when her eyes were open, her sighs were deep and very sad, and shook her whole frame. Then she turned towards the third door, and a cry as of fear or suppressed pain broke from her; but she seemed to hearten herself against the dismay, and to front it steadily61; for, although I often heard a slight cry, and sometimes a moan, yet she never moved or bent her head, and I felt sure that her eyes never closed. Then she turned to the fourth door, and I saw her shudder42, and then stand still as a statue; till at last she turned towards me and approached the fire. I saw that her face was white as death. But she gave one look upwards62, and smiled the sweetest, most child-innocent smile; then heaped fresh wood on the fire, and, sitting down by the blaze, drew her wheel near her, and began to spin. While she spun63, she murmured a low strange song, to which the hum of the wheel made a kind of infinite symphony. At length she paused in her spinning and singing, and glanced towards me, like a mother who looks whether or not her child gives signs of waking. She smiled when she saw that my eyes were open. I asked her whether it was day yet. She answered, “It is always day here, so long as I keep my fire burning.”
I felt wonderfully refreshed; and a great desire to see more of the island awoke within me. I rose, and saying that I wished to look about me, went towards the door by which I had entered.
“Stay a moment,” said my hostess, with some trepidation64 in her voice. “Listen to me. You will not see what you expect when you go out of that door. Only remember this: whenever you wish to come back to me, enter wherever you see this mark.”
Show me the child thou callest mine
She held up her left hand between me and the fire. Upon the palm, which appeared almost transparent65, I saw, in dark red, a mark like this which I took care to fix in my mind.
She then kissed me, and bade me good-bye with a solemnity that awed66 me; and bewildered me too, seeing I was only going out for a little ramble67 in an island, which I did not believe larger than could easily be compassed in a few hours’ walk at most. As I went she resumed her spinning.
I opened the door, and stepped out. The moment my foot touched the smooth sward, I seemed to issue from the door of an old barn on my father’s estate, where, in the hot afternoons, I used to go and lie amongst the straw, and read. It seemed to me now that I had been asleep there. At a little distance in the field, I saw two of my brothers at play. The moment they caught sight of me, they called out to me to come and join them, which I did; and we played together as we had done years ago, till the red sun went down in the west, and the gray fog began to rise from the river. Then we went home together with a strange happiness. As we went, we heard the continually renewed larum of a landrail in the long grass. One of my brothers and I separated to a little distance, and each commenced running towards the part whence the sound appeared to come, in the hope of approaching the spot where the bird was, and so getting at least a sight of it, if we should not be able to capture the little creature. My father’s voice recalled us from trampling68 down the rich long grass, soon to be cut down and laid aside for the winter. I had quite forgotten all about Fairy Land, and the wonderful old woman, and the curious red mark.
My favourite brother and I shared the same bed. Some childish dispute arose between us; and our last words, ere we fell asleep, were not of kindness, notwithstanding the pleasures of the day. When I woke in the morning, I missed him. He had risen early, and had gone to bathe in the river. In another hour, he was brought home drowned. Alas! alas! if we had only gone to sleep as usual, the one with his arm about the other! Amidst the horror of the moment, a strange conviction flashed across my mind, that I had gone through the very same once before.
I rushed out of the house, I knew not why, sobbing69 and crying bitterly. I ran through the fields in aimless distress70, till, passing the old barn, I caught sight of a red mark on the door. The merest trifles sometimes rivet71 the attention in the deepest misery72; the intellect has so little to do with grief. I went up to look at this mark, which I did not remember ever to have seen before. As I looked at it, I thought I would go in and lie down amongst the straw, for I was very weary with running about and weeping. I opened the door; and there in the cottage sat the old woman as I had left her, at her spinning-wheel.
“I did not expect you quite so soon,” she said, as I shut the door behind me. I went up to the couch, and threw myself on it with that fatigue73 wherewith one awakes from a feverish dream of hopeless grief.
The old woman sang:
The great sun, benighted74,
May faint from the sky;
But love, once uplighted,
Will never more die.
Form, with its brightness,
From eyes will depart:
It walketh, in whiteness,
The halls of the heart.
Ere she had ceased singing, my courage had returned. I started from the couch, and, without taking leave of the old woman, opened the door of Sighs, and sprang into what should appear.
I stood in a lordly hall, where, by a blazing fire on the hearth, sat a lady, waiting, I knew, for some one long desired. A mirror was near me, but I saw that my form had no place within its depths, so I feared not that I should be seen. The lady wonderfully resembled my marble lady, but was altogether of the daughters of men, and I could not tell whether or not it was she.
It was not for me she waited. The tramp of a great horse rang through the court without. It ceased, and the clang of armour75 told that his rider alighted, and the sound of his ringing heels approached the hall. The door opened; but the lady waited, for she would meet her lord alone. He strode in: she flew like a home-bound dove into his arms, and nestled on the hard steel. It was the knight of the soiled armour. But now the armour shone like polished glass; and strange to tell, though the mirror reflected not my form, I saw a dim shadow of myself in the shining steel.
“O my beloved, thou art come, and I am blessed.”
Her soft fingers speedily overcame the hard clasp of his helmet; one by one she undid76 the buckles77 of his armour; and she toiled78 under the weight of the mail, as she WOULD carry it aside. Then she unclasped his greaves, and unbuckled his spurs; and once more she sprang into his arms, and laid her head where she could now feel the beating of his heart. Then she disengaged herself from his embrace, and, moving back a step or two, gazed at him. He stood there a mighty79 form, crowned with a noble head, where all sadness had disappeared, or had been absorbed in solemn purpose. Yet I suppose that he looked more thoughtful than the lady had expected to see him, for she did not renew her caresses80, although his face glowed with love, and the few words he spoke81 were as mighty deeds for strength; but she led him towards the hearth, and seated him in an ancient chair, and set wine before him, and sat at his feet.
“I am sad,” he said, “when I think of the youth whom I met twice in the forests of Fairy Land; and who, you say, twice, with his songs, roused you from the death-sleep of an evil enchantment82. There was something noble in him, but it was a nobleness of thought, and not of deed. He may yet perish of vile83 fear.”
“Ah!” returned the lady, “you saved him once, and for that I thank you; for may I not say that I somewhat loved him? But tell me how you fared, when you struck your battle-axe84 into the ash-tree, and he came and found you; for so much of the story you had told me, when the beggar-child came and took you away.”
“As soon as I saw him,” rejoined the knight, “I knew that earthly arms availed not against such as he; and that my soul must meet him in its naked strength. So I unclasped my helm, and flung it on the ground; and, holding my good axe yet in my hand, gazed at him with steady eyes. On he came, a horror indeed, but I did not flinch85. Endurance must conquer, where force could not reach. He came nearer and nearer, till the ghastly face was close to mine. A shudder as of death ran through me; but I think I did not move, for he seemed to quail86, and retreated. As soon as he gave back, I struck one more sturdy blow on the stem of his tree, that the forest rang; and then looked at him again. He writhed87 and grinned with rage and apparent pain, and again approached me, but retreated sooner than before. I heeded88 him no more, but hewed89 with a will at the tree, till the trunk creaked, and the head bowed, and with a crash it fell to the earth. Then I looked up from my labour, and lo! the spectre had vanished, and I saw him no more; nor ever in my wanderings have I heard of him again.”
“Well struck! well withstood! my hero,” said the lady.
“But,” said the knight, somewhat troubled, “dost thou love the youth still?”
“Ah!” she replied, “how can I help it? He woke me from worse than death; he loved me. I had never been for thee, if he had not sought me first. But I love him not as I love thee. He was but the moon of my night; thou art the sun of my clay, O beloved.”
“Thou art right,” returned the noble man. “It were hard, indeed, not to have some love in return for such a gift as he hath given thee. I, too, owe him more than words can speak.”
Humbled90 before them, with an aching and desolate91 heart, I yet could not restrain my words:
“Let me, then, be the moon of thy night still, O woman! And when thy day is beclouded, as the fairest days will be, let some song of mine comfort thee, as an old, withered, half-forgotten thing, that belongs to an ancient mournful hour of uncompleted birth, which yet was beautiful in its time.”
They sat silent, and I almost thought they were listening. The colour of the lady’s eyes grew deeper and deeper; the slow tears grew, and filled them, and overflowed. They rose, and passed, hand in hand, close to where I stood; and each looked towards me in passing. Then they disappeared through a door which closed behind them; but, ere it closed, I saw that the room into which it opened was a rich chamber, hung with gorgeous arras. I stood with an ocean of sighs frozen in my bosom. I could remain no longer. She was near me, and I could not see her; near me in the arms of one loved better than I, and I would not see her, and I would not be by her. But how to escape from the nearness of the best beloved? I had not this time forgotten the mark; for the fact that I could not enter the sphere of these living beings kept me aware that, for me, I moved in a vision, while they moved in life. I looked all about for the mark, but could see it nowhere; for I avoided looking just where it was. There the dull red cipher92 glowed, on the very door of their secret chamber. Struck with agony, I dashed it open, and fell at the feet of the ancient woman, who still spun on, the whole dissolved ocean of my sighs bursting from me in a storm of tearless sobs93. Whether I fainted or slept, I do not know; but, as I returned to consciousness, before I seemed to have power to move, I heard the woman singing, and could distinguish the words:
O light of dead and of dying days!
O Love! in thy glory go,
In a rosy94 mist and a moony maze95,
O’er the pathless peaks of snow.
But what is left for the cold gray soul,
That moans like a wounded dove?
One wine is left in the broken bowl! —
’Tis — TO LOVE, AND LOVE AND LOVE.
Now I could weep. When she saw me weeping, she sang:
Better to sit at the waters’ birth,
Than a sea of waves to win;
To live in the love that floweth forth,
Than the love that cometh in.
Be thy heart a well of love, my child,
Flowing, and free, and sure;
For a cistern96 of love, though undefiled,
Keeps not the spirit pure.
I rose from the earth, loving the white lady as I had never loved her before.
Then I walked up to the door of Dismay, and opened it, and went out. And lo! I came forth upon a crowded street, where men and women went to and fro in multitudes. I knew it well; and, turning to one hand, walked sadly along the pavement. Suddenly I saw approaching me, a little way off, a form well known to me (WELL-KNOWN! — alas, how weak the word!) in the years when I thought my boyhood was left behind, and shortly before I entered the realm of Fairy Land. Wrong and Sorrow had gone together, hand-inhand as it is well they do.
Unchangeably dear was that face. It lay in my heart as a child lies in its own white bed; but I could not meet her.
“Anything but that,” I said, and, turning aside, sprang up the steps to a door, on which I fancied I saw the mystic sign. I entered — not the mysterious cottage, but her home. I rushed wildly on, and stood by the door of her room.
“She is out,” I said, “I will see the old room once more.”
I opened the door gently, and stood in a great solemn church. A deep-toned bell, whose sounds throbbed97 and echoed and swam through the empty building, struck the hour of midnight. The moon shone through the windows of the clerestory, and enough of the ghostly radiance was diffused98 through the church to let me see, walking with a stately, yet somewhat trailing and stumbling step, down the opposite aisle99, for I stood in one of the transepts, a figure dressed in a white robe, whether for the night, or for that longer night which lies too deep for the day, I could not tell. Was it she? and was this her chamber? I crossed the church, and followed. The figure stopped, seemed to ascend100 as it were a high bed, and lay down. I reached the place where it lay, glimmering101 white. The bed was a tomb. The light was too ghostly to see clearly, but I passed my hand over the face and the hands and the feet, which were all bare. They were cold — they were marble, but I knew them. It grew dark. I turned to retrace102 my steps, but found, ere long, that I had wandered into what seemed a little chapel103. I groped about, seeking the door. Everything I touched belonged to the dead. My hands fell on the cold effigy104 of a knight who lay with his legs crossed and his sword broken beside him. He lay in his noble rest, and I lived on in ignoble105 strife. I felt for the left hand and a certain finger; I found there the ring I knew: he was one of my own ancestors. I was in the chapel over the burial-vault106 of my race. I called aloud: “If any of the dead are moving here, let them take pity upon me, for I, alas! am still alive; and let some dead woman comfort me, for I am a stranger in the land of the dead, and see no light.” A warm kiss alighted on my lips through the dark. And I said, “The dead kiss well; I will not be afraid.” And a great hand was reached out of the dark, and grasped mine for a moment, mightily107 and tenderly. I said to myself: “The veil between, though very dark, is very thin.”
Groping my way further, I stumbled over the heavy stone that covered the entrance of the vault: and, in stumbling, descried108 upon the stone the mark, glowing in red fire. I caught the great ring. All my effort could not have moved the huge slab109; but it opened the door of the cottage, and I threw myself once more, pale and speechless, on the couch beside the ancient dame110. She sang once more:
Thou dreamest: on a rock thou art,
High o’er the broken wave;
Thou fallest with a fearful start
But not into thy grave;
For, waking in the morning’s light,
Thou smilest at the vanished night
So wilt111 thou sink, all pale and dumb,
Into the fainting gloom;
But ere the coming terrors come,
Thou wak’st — where is the tomb?
Thou wak’st — the dead ones smile above,
With hovering112 arms of sleepless113 love.
She paused; then sang again:
We weep for gladness, weep for grief;
The tears they are the same;
We sigh for longing, and relief;
The sighs have but one name,
And mingled114 in the dying strife,
Are moans that are not sad
The pangs115 of death are throbs116 of life,
Its sighs are sometimes glad.
The face is very strange and white:
It is Earth’s only spot
That feebly flickers117 back the light
The living seeth not.
I fell asleep, and slept a dreamless sleep, for I know not how long. When I awoke, I found that my hostess had moved from where she had been sitting, and now sat between me and the fourth door.
I guessed that her design was to prevent my entering there. I sprang from the couch, and darted118 past her to the door. I opened it at once and went out. All I remember is a cry of distress from the woman: “Don’t go there, my child! Don’t go there!” But I was gone.
I knew nothing more; or, if I did, I had forgot it all when I awoke to consciousness, lying on the floor of the cottage, with my head in the lap of the woman, who was weeping over me, and stroking my hair with both hands, talking to me as a mother might talk to a sick and sleeping, or a dead child. As soon as I looked up and saw her, she smiled through her tears; smiled with withered face and young eyes, till her countenance was irradiated with the light of the smile. Then she bathed my head and face and hands in an icy cold, colourless liquid, which smelt119 a little of damp earth. Immediately I was able to sit up. She rose and put some food before me. When I had eaten, she said: “Listen to me, my child. You must leave me directly!”
“Leave you!” I said. “I am so happy with you. I never was so happy in my life.”
“But you must go,” she rejoined sadly. “Listen! What do you hear?”
“I hear the sound as of a great throbbing120 of water.”
“Ah! you do hear it? Well, I had to go through that door — the door of the Timeless” (and she shuddered as she pointed121 to the fourth door)—“to find you; for if I had not gone, you would never have entered again; and because I went, the waters around my cottage will rise and rise, and flow and come, till they build a great firmament122 of waters over my dwelling123. But as long as I keep my fire burning, they cannot enter. I have fuel enough for years; and after one year they will sink away again, and be just as they were before you came. I have not been buried for a hundred years now.” And she smiled and wept.
“Alas! alas!” I cried. “I have brought this evil on the best and kindest of friends, who has filled my heart with great gifts.”
“Do not think of that,” she rejoined. “I can bear it very well. You will come back to me some day, I know. But I beg you, for my sake, my dear child, to do one thing. In whatever sorrow you may be, however inconsolable and irremediable it may appear, believe me that the old woman in the cottage, with the young eyes” (and she smiled), “knows something, though she must not always tell it, that would quite satisfy you about it, even in the worst moments of your distress. Now you must go.”
“But how can I go, if the waters are all about, and if the doors all lead into other regions and other worlds?”
“This is not an island,” she replied; “but is joined to the land by a narrow neck; and for the door, I will lead you myself through the right one.”
She took my hand, and led me through the third door; whereupon I found myself standing in the deep grassy turf on which I had landed from the little boat, but upon the opposite side of the cottage. She pointed out the direction I must take, to find the isthmus124 and escape the rising waters.
Then putting her arms around me, she held me to her bosom; and as I kissed her, I felt as if I were leaving my mother for the first time, and could not help weeping bitterly. At length she gently pushed me away, and with the words, “Go, my son, and do something worth doing,” turned back, and, entering the cottage, closed the door behind her. I felt very desolate as I went.
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1
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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2
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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3
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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6
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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8
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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9
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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10
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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11
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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12
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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13
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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14
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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15
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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16
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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17
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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18
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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19
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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20
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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21
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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22
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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23
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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24
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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25
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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26
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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27
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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28
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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30
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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32
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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33
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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34
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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35
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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36
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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37
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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38
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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39
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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40
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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41
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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43
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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44
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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45
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
betokens
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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49
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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50
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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51
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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52
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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53
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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54
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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55
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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56
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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58
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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59
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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60
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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61
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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62
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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63
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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64
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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65
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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66
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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68
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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69
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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70
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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71
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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72
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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73
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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74
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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75
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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76
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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77
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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78
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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79
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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80
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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81
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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82
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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83
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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84
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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85
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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86
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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87
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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90
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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91
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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92
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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93
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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94
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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95
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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96
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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97
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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98
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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99
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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100
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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101
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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102
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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103
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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104
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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105
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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106
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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107
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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108
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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109
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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110
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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111
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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112
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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113
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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114
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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115
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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116
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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117
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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118
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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119
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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120
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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121
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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122
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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123
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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124
isthmus
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| n.地峡 | |
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