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MORELLA
[A]
[[Greek text:]] xxxx xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx, xxxx xxxx xxxx xx [[:Greek
text]]
Itself -- alone by itself -- eternally one and single.
PLATO – Symp.
With a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend
Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul,
from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never known. But the
fires were not of Eros -- and bitter and tormenting to my eager spirit
was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their
unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met, and
Fate bound us together at the altar, and I never spoke of love, or
dreamed of passion. She, however, shunned society and attaching herself
to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder. It is a
happiness to think.
Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope for life her talents also
were of no common order -- her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt
this, and in many matters became her pupil. Rare and rich volumes were
opened for my use; but my wife, perhaps influenced by her Presburg
education, laid before me, as I took occasion to remark, chiefly those
speculative writings which have, from causes to me unknown, been
neglected in these latter days, and thrown aside, whether properly or
not, among the mass of that German morality which is indeed purely
wild, purely vague, and at times purely fantastical. These -- these
speculative writings were, for what reasons I could not imagine,
Morella's favourite and constant study, and that in process of time
they became my own should be attributed to the simple but effectual
influence of habit and example. In all this, if I think aright, my
powers of thought predominated. My convictions, or I forget myself,
were in no manner acted upon by my imagination; nor was any tincture of
the mysticism which I read to be discovered, unless I greatly err,
either in my meditations or my deeds. Feeling deeply persuaded of this
I abandoned myself more implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and
entered with a bolder spirit into the intricacy of her studies. And
then -- then when poring over forbidden pages I felt the consurning
thirst for the unknown, would Morella place her cold hand upon mine,
and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy words whose singular
import burned themselves in upon my memory: and then hour after hour
would I linger by her side, and listen to the music of her thrilling
voice, until at length its melody was tinged with terror, and I grew
pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones -- and thus,
suddenly, joy faded into Horror, and the most beautiful became the most
hideous as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.
It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions
which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed for so long
a time almost the sole conversation of Morella and my self. By the
learned in what might be called theological morality they will be
readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would at all events be
little understood. The wild Pantheism of Fitche, the modified [[Greek
text:]] xxxxxxxxxx [[:Greek text]] of the Pythagoreans, and above all
the doctrines of Identity as urged by Schelling were the points of
discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella.
That kind of identity which is not improperly called `personal' Mr.
Lock determines, truly I think, to consist in the sameness of a
rational being. And since by person we understand an intelligent
essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always
accompanies thinking, it it this consciousness which makes every one to
be that which he calls 'himself'- thereby distinguishing him from other
beings that think, and giving him his personal identity. But the
"principium individuationis", the notion of tha identity which at death
is or is not lost forever was to me at all times a consideration of
intense interest, not more from the exciting and mystical nature of its
consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella
mentioned them.
But indeed the time had now arrived when my wife's society oppressed me
like a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor
the low tones of her musical language, nor the lustre of her eyes. And
she knew all this, but did not upbraid: she seemed conscious of my
weakness or my folly, and smiling called it -- Fate. Yet she was woman,
and pined away daily. In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon
the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale forehead became prominent:
and one instant my nature melted into pity, but in the next I met the
glance of her melancholy eyes, and my soul sickened and became giddy
with the giddiness of one who gazes downwards into some dreary and
fathomless abyss.
Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming desire for
the moment of Morella's decease? I did: but the fragile spirit clung to
its tenement of clay for many days -- for many weeks and irksome months
-- until at length my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my
mind, and I grew furious with delay, and with the heart of a fiend I
cursed the hours and the bitter moments which seemed to lengthen and
lengthen as her gentle life declined, like shadows in the dying of the
day.
But one autumnal evening when the winds lay still in Heaven Morella
called me to her side. It was that season when the beautiful Halcyon is
nursed* -- there was a dim mist over all the Earth, and a warm glow
upon the waters, and amid the rich November leaves of the forest a
rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen. As I came she was
murmuring in a low under-tone which trembled with fervor some words of
a catholic hymn.
Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes
Upon the sinner's sacrifice
Of fervent prayer, and humble love,
From thy holy throne above.
At morn, at noon, at twilight dim
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn:
In Joy and Woe -- in Good and Ill
Mother of God! be with me still.
When my hours flew gently by,
And no storms were in the sky,
My soul -- lest it should truant be --
Thy love did guide to thine and thee.
Now -- when clouds of Fate oe'rcast
All my Present, and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine.
"It is a day of days" -- said Morella -- "a day of all days, either to
live or die. It is a fair day for the sons of Earth and Life -- ah!
more fair for the daughters of Heaven and Death!" I turned towards her
and she continued.
"I am dying -- yet shall I live. Therefore for me, Morella, thy wife,
hath the charnel-house no terrors - mark me! -- not even the terrors of
the worm. The days have never been when thou couldst love me; but her
whom in life thou didst abhor in death thou shalt adore. I repeat that
I am dying -- but within me is a pledge of that affection -- ah, how
little! -- which thou didst feel for me -- Morella. And when my spirit
departs shall the child live -- thy child and mine, Morella's. But thy
days shall be days of sorrow -- sorrow, which is the most lasting of
impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees. For the
hours of thy happiness are past, and joy is not gathered twice in a
life, as the roses of Paestum twice in a year. Thou shalt not, then,
play the Teian with Time, but, being ignorant of the flowers and the
vine, thou shalt walk the earth with thy shroud around thee, like
Moslemin at Mecca".
"How knowest thou this" -- I demanded eagerly -- "how knowest thou all
this, Morella?" But she turned away her face upon the pillow, and a
slight tremor coming over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her
voice no more.
Yet, as she had predicted, the child -- to which in dying she had given
life, and which breathed not till the mother breathed no more -- the
child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in size, and in
intelligence, and I loved her with a love more fervent and more holy
than I thought it possible to feel on earth.
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