第 五 章 · Chapter V

. Chapter V

“And she was smooth and full, as if one gush

Of life had washed her, or as if a sleep

Lay on her eyelid, easier to sweep

Than bee from daisy.”

BEDDOES’ _Pygmalion_.

“Sche was as whyt as lylye yn May,

Or snow that sneweth yn wynterys day.”

_Romance of Sir Launfal_.

I walked on, in the fresh morning air, as if new-born. The only thing

that damped my pleasure was a cloud of something between sorrow and

delight that crossed my mind with the frequently returning thought of

my last night’s hostess. “But then,” thought I, “if she is sorry, I

could not help it; and she has all the pleasures she ever had. Such a

day as this is surely a joy to her, as much at least as to me. And her

life will perhaps be the richer, for holding now within it the memory

of what came, but could not stay. And if ever she is a woman, who knows

but we may meet somewhere? there is plenty of room for meeting in the

universe.” Comforting myself thus, yet with a vague compunction, as if

I ought not to have left her, I went on. There was little to

distinguish the woods to-day from those of my own land; except that all

the wild things, rabbits, birds, squirrels, mice, and the numberless

other inhabitants, were very tame; that is, they did not run away from

me, but gazed at me as I passed, frequently coming nearer, as if to

examine me more closely. Whether this came from utter ignorance, or

from familiarity with the human appearance of beings who never hurt

them, I could not tell. As I stood once, looking up to the splendid

flower of a parasite, which hung from the branch of a tree over my

head, a large white rabbit cantered slowly up, put one of its little

feet on one of mine, and looked up at me with its red eyes, just as I

had been looking up at the flower above me. I stooped and stroked it;

but when I attempted to lift it, it banged the ground with its hind

feet and scampered off at a great rate, turning, however, to look at me

several times before I lost sight of it. Now and then, too, a dim human

figure would appear and disappear, at some distance, amongst the trees,

moving like a sleep-walker. But no one ever came near me.

This day I found plenty of food in the forest—strange nuts and fruits I

had never seen before. I hesitated to eat them; but argued that, if I

could live on the air of Fairy Land, I could live on its food also. I

found my reasoning correct, and the result was better than I had hoped;

for it not only satisfied my hunger, but operated in such a way upon my

senses that I was brought into far more complete relationship with the

things around me. The human forms appeared much more dense and defined;

more tangibly visible, if I may say so. I seemed to know better which

direction to choose when any doubt arose. I began to feel in some

degree what the birds meant in their songs, though I could not express

it in words, any more than you can some landscapes. At times, to my

surprise, I found myself listening attentively, and as if it were no

unusual thing with me, to a conversation between two squirrels or

monkeys. The subjects were not very interesting, except as associated

with the individual life and necessities of the little creatures: where

the best nuts were to be found in the neighbourhood, and who could

crack them best, or who had most laid up for the winter, and such like;

only they never said where the store was. There was no great difference

in kind between their talk and our ordinary human conversation. Some of

the creatures I never heard speak at all, and believe they never do so,

except under the impulse of some great excitement. The mice talked; but

the hedgehogs seemed very phlegmatic; and though I met a couple of

moles above ground several times, they never said a word to each other

in my hearing. There were no wild beasts in the forest; at least, I did

not see one larger than a wild cat. There were plenty of snakes,

however, and I do not think they were all harmless; but none ever bit

me.

Soon after mid-day I arrived at a bare rocky hill, of no great size,

but very steep; and having no trees—scarcely even a bush—upon it,

entirely exposed to the heat of the sun. Over this my way seemed to

lie, and I immediately began the ascent. On reaching the top, hot and

weary, I looked around me, and saw that the forest still stretched as

far as the sight could reach on every side of me. I observed that the

trees, in the direction in which I was about to descend, did not come

so near the foot of the hill as on the other side, and was especially

regretting the unexpected postponement of shelter, because this side of

the hill seemed more difficult to descend than the other had been to

climb, when my eye caught the appearance of a natural path, winding

down through broken rocks and along the course of a tiny stream, which

I hoped would lead me more easily to the foot. I tried it, and found

the descent not at all laborious; nevertheless, when I reached the

bottom, I was very tired and exhausted with the heat. But just where

the path seemed to end, rose a great rock, quite overgrown with shrubs

and creeping plants, some of them in full and splendid blossom: these

almost concealed an opening in the rock, into which the path appeared

to lead. I entered, thirsting for the shade which it promised. What was

my delight to find a rocky cell, all the angles rounded away with rich

moss, and every ledge and projection crowded with lovely ferns, the

variety of whose forms, and groupings, and shades wrought in me like a

poem; for such a harmony could not exist, except they all consented to

some one end! A little well of the clearest water filled a mossy hollow

in one corner. I drank, and felt as if I knew what the elixir of life

must be; then threw myself on a mossy mound that lay like a couch along

the inner end. Here I lay in a delicious reverie for some time; during

which all lovely forms, and colours, and sounds seemed to use my brain

as a common hall, where they could come and go, unbidden and unexcused.

I had never imagined that such capacity for simple happiness lay in me,

as was now awakened by this assembly of forms and spiritual sensations,

which yet were far too vague to admit of being translated into any

shape common to my own and another mind. I had lain for an hour, I

should suppose, though it may have been far longer, when, the

harmonious tumult in my mind having somewhat relaxed, I became aware

that my eyes were fixed on a strange, time-worn bas-relief on the rock

opposite to me. This, after some pondering, I concluded to represent

Pygmalion, as he awaited the quickening of his statue. The sculptor sat

more rigid than the figure to which his eyes were turned. That seemed

about to step from its pedestal and embrace the man, who waited rather

than expected.

“A lovely story,” I said to myself. “This cave, now, with the bushes

cut away from the entrance to let the light in, might be such a place

as he would choose, withdrawn from the notice of men, to set up his

block of marble, and mould into a visible body the thought already

clothed with form in the unseen hall of the sculptor’s brain. And,

indeed, if I mistake not,” I said, starting up, as a sudden ray of

light arrived at that moment through a crevice in the roof, and lighted

up a small portion of the rock, bare of vegetation, “this very rock is

marble, white enough and delicate enough for any statue, even if

destined to become an ideal woman in the arms of the sculptor.”

I took my knife and removed the moss from a part of the block on which

I had been lying; when, to my surprise, I found it more like alabaster

than ordinary marble, and soft to the edge of the knife. In fact, it

was alabaster. By an inexplicable, though by no means unusual kind of

impulse, I went on removing the moss from the surface of the stone; and

soon saw that it was polished, or at least smooth, throughout. I

continued my labour; and after clearing a space of about a couple of

square feet, I observed what caused me to prosecute the work with more

interest and care than before. For the ray of sunlight had now reached

the spot I had cleared, and under its lustre the alabaster revealed its

usual slight transparency when polished, except where my knife had

scratched the surface; and I observed that the transparency seemed to

have a definite limit, and to end upon an opaque body like the more

solid, white marble. I was careful to scratch no more. And first, a

vague anticipation gave way to a startling sense of possibility; then,

as I proceeded, one revelation after another produced the entrancing

conviction, that under the crust of alabaster lay a dimly visible form

in marble, but whether of man or woman I could not yet tell. I worked

on as rapidly as the necessary care would permit; and when I had

uncovered the whole mass, and rising from my knees, had retreated a

little way, so that the effect of the whole might fall on me, I saw

before me with sufficient plainness—though at the same time with

considerable indistinctness, arising from the limited amount of light

the place admitted, as well as from the nature of the object itself—a

block of pure alabaster enclosing the form, apparently in marble, of a

reposing woman. She lay on one side, with her hand under her cheek, and

her face towards me; but her hair had fallen partly over her face, so

that I could not see the expression of the whole. What I did see

appeared to me perfectly lovely; more near the face that had been born

with me in my soul, than anything I had seen before in nature or art.

The actual outlines of the rest of the form were so indistinct, that

the more than semi-opacity of the alabaster seemed insufficient to

account for the fact; and I conjectured that a light robe added its

obscurity. Numberless histories passed through my mind of change of

substance from enchantment and other causes, and of imprisonments such

as this before me. I thought of the Prince of the Enchanted City, half

marble and half a man; of Ariel; of Niobe; of the Sleeping Beauty in

the Wood; of the bleeding trees; and many other histories. Even my

adventure of the preceding evening with the lady of the beech-tree

contributed to arouse the wild hope, that by some means life might be

given to this form also, and that, breaking from her alabaster tomb,

she might glorify my eyes with her presence. “For,” I argued, “who can

tell but this cave may be the home of Marble, and this, essential

Marble—that spirit of marble which, present throughout, makes it

capable of being moulded into any form? Then if she should awake! But

how to awake her? A kiss awoke the Sleeping Beauty! a kiss cannot reach

her through the incrusting alabaster.” I kneeled, however, and kissed

the pale coffin; but she slept on. I bethought me of Orpheus, and the

following stones—that trees should follow his music seemed nothing

surprising now. Might not a song awake this form, that the glory of

motion might for a time displace the loveliness of rest? Sweet sounds

can go where kisses may not enter. I sat and thought. Now, although

always delighting in music, I had never been gifted with the power of

song, until I entered the fairy forest. I had a voice, and I had a true

sense of sound; but when I tried to sing, the one would not content the

other, and so I remained silent. This morning, however, I had found

myself, ere I was aware, rejoicing in a song; but whether it was before

or after I had eaten of the fruits of the forest, I could not satisfy

myself. I concluded it was after, however; and that the increased

impulse to sing I now felt, was in part owing to having drunk of the

little well, which shone like a brilliant eye in a corner of the cave.

I sat down on the ground by the “antenatal tomb,” leaned upon it with

my face towards the head of the figure within, and sang—the words and

tones coming together, and inseparably connected, as if word and tone

formed one thing; or, as if each word could be uttered only in that

tone, and was incapable of distinction from it, except in idea, by an

acute analysis. I sang something like this: but the words are only a

dull representation of a state whose very elevation precluded the

possibility of remembrance; and in which I presume the words really

employed were as far above these, as that state transcended this

wherein I recall it:

“Marble woman, vainly sleeping

In the very death of dreams!

Wilt thou—slumber from thee sweeping,

All but what with vision teems—

Hear my voice come through the golden

Mist of memory and hope;

And with shadowy smile embolden

Me with primal Death to cope?

“Thee the sculptors all pursuing,

Have embodied but their own;

Round their visions, form enduring,

Marble vestments thou hast thrown;

But thyself, in silence winding,

Thou hast kept eternally;

Thee they found not, many finding—

I have found thee: wake for me.”

As I sang, I looked earnestly at the face so vaguely revealed before

me. I fancied, yet believed it to be but fancy, that through the dim

veil of the alabaster, I saw a motion of the head as if caused by a

sinking sigh. I gazed more earnestly, and concluded that it was but

fancy. Neverthless I could not help singing again—

“Rest is now filled full of beauty,

And can give thee up, I ween;

Come thou forth, for other duty

Motion pineth for her queen.

“Or, if needing years to wake thee

From thy slumbrous solitudes,

Come, sleep-walking, and betake thee

To the friendly, sleeping woods.

Sweeter dreams are in the forest,

Round thee storms would never rave;

And when need of rest is sorest,

Glide thou then into thy cave.

“Or, if still thou choosest rather

Marble, be its spell on me;

Let thy slumber round me gather,

Let another dream with thee!”

Again I paused, and gazed through the stony shroud, as if, by very

force of penetrative sight, I would clear every lineament of the lovely

face. And now I thought the hand that had lain under the cheek, had

slipped a little downward. But then I could not be sure that I had at

first observed its position accurately. So I sang again; for the

longing had grown into a passionate need of seeing her alive—

“Or art thou Death, O woman? for since I

Have set me singing by thy side,

Life hath forsook the upper sky,

And all the outer world hath died.

“Yea, I am dead; for thou hast drawn

My life all downward unto thee.

Dead moon of love! let twilight dawn:

Awake! and let the darkness flee.

“Cold lady of the lovely stone!

Awake! or I shall perish here;

And thou be never more alone,

My form and I for ages near.

“But words are vain; reject them all—

They utter but a feeble part:

Hear thou the depths from which they call,

The voiceless longing of my heart.”

There arose a slightly crashing sound. Like a sudden apparition that

comes and is gone, a white form, veiled in a light robe of whiteness,

burst upwards from the stone, stood, glided forth, and gleamed away

towards the woods. For I followed to the mouth of the cave, as soon as

the amazement and concentration of delight permitted the nerves of

motion again to act; and saw the white form amidst the trees, as it

crossed a little glade on the edge of the forest where the sunlight

fell full, seeming to gather with intenser radiance on the one object

that floated rather than flitted through its lake of beams. I gazed

after her in a kind of despair; found, freed, lost! It seemed useless

to follow, yet follow I must. I marked the direction she took; and

without once looking round to the forsaken cave, I hastened towards the

forest.