tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16075833004053301822024-02-07T04:46:47.168+02:00Sublime RomanceMelianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-21270754723596516162010-08-30T21:57:00.001+03:002010-08-30T22:01:24.257+03:00The Dream - Mary Shelley<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">THE time of the occurrence of the little legend about to be narrated, was that of the commencement of the reign of Henry IV of France, whose accession and conversion, while they brought peace to the kingdom whose throne he ascended, were inadequate to heal the deep wounds mutually inflicted by the inimical parties. Private feuds, and the memory of mortal injuries, existed between those now apparently united; and often did the hands that had clasped each p other in seeming friendly greeting, involuntarily, as the grasp was released, clasp the dagger's hilt, as fitter spokesman to their passions than the words of courtesy that had just fallen from their lips. Many of the fiercer Catholics retreated to their distant provinces; and while they concealed in solitude their rankling discontent, not less keenly did they long for the day when they might show it openly. In a large and fortified château built on a rugged steep overlooking the Loire, not far from the town of Nantes, dwelt the last of her race, and the heiress of their fortunes, the young and beautiful Countess de Villeneuve. She had spent the preceding year in complete solitude in her secluded abode; and the mourning she wore for a father and two brothers, the victims of the civil wars, was a graceful and good reason why she did not appear at court, and mingle with its festivities. But the orphan countess inherited a high name and broad lands; and it was soon signified to her that the king, her guardian, desired that she should bestow them, together with her hand, upon some noble whose birth and accomplishments should entitle him to the gift. Constance, in reply, expressed her intention of taking vows, and retiring to a convent. The king earnestly and resolutely forbade this act, believing such an idea to be the result of sensibility overwrought by sorrow, and relying on the hope that, after a time, the genial spirit of youth would break through this cloud.<br /><br />A year passed, and still the countess persisted; and at last Henry, unwilling, to exercise compulsion, —desirous, too, of judging for himself of the motives that led one so beautiful, young, and gifted with fortune's favours, to desire to bury herself in a cloister, —announced his intention, now that the period of her mourning was expired, of visiting her château; and if he brought not with him, the monarch said, inducement sufficient to change her design, he would yield his consent to its fulfilment.<br /><br />Many a sad hour had Constance passed —many a day of tears, and many a night of restless misery. She had closed her gates against every visitant; and, like the Lady Olivia in 'Twelfth Night', vowed herself to loneliness and weeping. Mistress of herself, she easily silenced the entreaties and remonstrances of underlings, and nursed her grief as it had been the thing she loved. Yet it was too keen, too bitter, too burning, to be a favoured guest. In fact, Constance, young, ardent, and vivacious, battled with it, struggled and longed to cast it off; but all that was joyful in itself, or fair in outward show, only served to renew it; and she could best support the burden of her sorrow with patience, when, yielding to it, it oppressed but did not torture her.<br /><br />Constance had left the castle to wander in the neighbouring grounds. Lofty and extensive as were the apartments of her abode, she felt pent up within their walls, beneath their fretted roofs. The spreading uplands and the antique wood, associated to her with every dear recollection of her past life, enticed her to spend hours and days beneath their leafy coverts. The motion and change eternally working, as the wind stirred among the boughs, or the journeying sun rained its beams through them, soothed and called her out of that dull sorrow which clutched her heart with so unrelenting a pang beneath her castle roof.<br /><br />There was one spot on the verge of the well-wooded park, one nook of ground, whence she could discern the country extended beyond, yet which was in itself thick set with tall umbrageous trees —a spot which she had forsworn, yet whither unconsciously her steps for ever tended, and where again for the twentieth time that day, she had unaware found herself. She sat upon a grassy mound, and looked wistfully on the flowers she had herself planted to adorn the verdurous recess —to her the temple of memory and love. She held the letter from the king which was the parent to her of so much despair. Dejection sat upon her features, and her gentle heart asked fate why, so young, unprotected, and forsaken, she should have to struggle with this new form of wretchedness.<br /><br />'I but ask,' she thought, 'to live in my father's halls —in the spot familiar to my infancy --to water with my frequent tears the graves of those I loved; and here in these woods, where such a mad dream of happiness was mine, to celebrate for ever the obsequies of Hope!'<br /><br />A rustling among the boughs now met her car —her heart beat quick —all again was still.<br /><br />'Foolish girl!' she half muttered; 'dupe of thine own passionate fancy: because here we met; because seated here I have expected, and sounds like these have announced, his dear approach; so now every. coney as it stirs, and every bird as it awakens silence, speaks of him. O Gaspar! —mine once —never again will this beloved spot be made glad by thee —never more!'<br /><br />Again the bushes were stirred, and footsteps were heard in the brake. She rose; her heart beat high; it must be that silly Manon, with her impertinent entreaties for her to return. But the steps were firmer and slower than would be those of her waiting-woman; and now emerging from the shade, she too plainly discerned the intruder. He first impulse was to fly: but once again to see him —to hear his voice: —once again before she placed eternal vows between them, to stand together, and find the wide chasm filled which absence had made, could not injure the dead, and would soften the fatal sorrow that made her cheek so pale.<br /><br />And now he was before, her, the same beloved one with whom she had exchanged vows of constancy. He, like her, seemed sad; nor could she resist the imploring glance that entreated her for one moment to remain.<br /><br />'I come, lady,' said the young knight, 'without a hope to bend your inflexible will. 1 come but once again to see you, and to bid you farewell before I depart for the Holy Land. I come to beseech you not to immure yourself in the dark cloister to avoid one as hateful as myself, —one you will never see more. Whether I die or live, France and I are parted for ever!'<br /><br />'That were fearful, were it true,' said Constance; 'but King Henry will never so lose his favourite cavalier. The throne you helped to build, you still will guard. Nay, as I ever had power over thought of thine, go not to Palestine.'<br /><br />'One word of yours could detain me —one smile —Constance' —and the youthful lover knelt before her; but her harsher purpose was recalled by the image once so dear and familiar, now so strange and so forbidden.<br /><br />'Linger no longer here!' she cried. 'No smile, no word of mine will ever again be yours. Why are you here —here, where the spirits of the dead wander, and claiming these shades as their own, curse the false girl who permits their murderer to disturb their sacred repose?'<br /><br />'When love was young and you were kind,' replied the knight, 'you taught me to thread the intricacies of these woods you welcomed me to this dear spot, where once you vowed to be my own —even beneath these ancient trees.'<br /><br />'A wicked sin it was,' said Constance, 'to unbar my father's doors to the son of his enemy, and dearly is it punished!'<br /><br />The young knight gained courage as she spoke; yet he dared not move, lest she, who, every instant, appeared ready to take flight, should be startled from her momentary tranquillity, but he slowly replied: —'Those were happy days, Constance, full of terror and deep joy, when evening brought me to your feet; and while hate and vengeance were as its atmosphere to yonder frowning castle, this leafy, starlit bower was the shrine of love.'<br /><br />'Happy ? —miserable days!' echoed Constance; 'when I imagined good could arise from failing in my duty, and that disobedience would be rewarded of God. Speak not of love, Gaspar! --a sea of blood divides us for ever! Approach me not! The dead and the beloved stand even now between us: their pale shadows warn me of my fault, and menace me for listening to their murderer.'<br /><br />'That am not I!' exclaimed the youth. 'Behold, Constance, we are each the last of our race. Death has dealt cruelly with us, and we are alone. It was not so when first we loved —when parent, kinsman, brother, nay, my own mother breathed curses on the house of Villeneuve; and in spite of all I blessed it. I saw thee, my lovely one, and blessed it. The God of peace planted love in our hearts, and with mystery and secrecy we met during many a summer night in the moonlit dells; and when daylight was abroad, in this sweet recess we fled to avoid its scrutiny, and here, even here, where now I kneel in supplication, we both knelt and made our vows. Shall they be broken?'<br /><br />Constance wept as her lover recalled the images of happy hours. 'Never,' she exclaimed, 'O never! Thou knowest, or wilt soon know, Gaspar, the faith and resolves of one who dare not be yours. Was it for us to talk of love and happiness, when war, and hate, and blood were raging around! The fleeting flowers our young hands strewed were trampled by the deadly encounter of mortal foes. By your father's hand mine died; and little boots it to know whether, as my brother swore, and you deny, your hand did or did not deal the blow that destroyed him. You fought among those by whom he died. Say no more —no other word: it is impiety towards the unreposing dead to hear you. Go, Gaspar; forget me. Under the chivalrous and gallant Henry your career may he glorious; and some fair girl will listen, as once I did, to your vows, and be made happy by them. Farewell! May the Virgin bless you! In my cell and cloister-home I will not forget the best Christian lesson —to pray for our enemies. Gaspar, farewell!'<br /><br />She glided hastily from the bower: with swift steps she threaded the glade and sought the castle. Once within the seclusion of her own apartment she gave way to the burst of grief that tore her gentle bosom like a tempest; for hers was that worst sorrow, which taints past joys, making wait upon the memory of bliss, and linking love and fancied guilt in such fearful society as that of -the tyrant when he bound a living body to a corpse. Suddenly a thought darted into her mind. At first she rejected it as puerile and superstitious; but it would not be driven away. She called hastily for her attendant. 'Manon,' she said, 'didst thou ever sleep on St Catherine's couch?'<br /><br />Manon crossed herself. 'Heaven forefend! None ever did, since I was born, but two: one fell into the Loire and was drowned; the other only looked upon the narrow bed, and turned to her own home without a word. It is an awful place; and if the votary have not led a pious and good life, woe betide the hour when she rests her head on the holy stone!'<br /><br />Constance crossed herself also. 'As for our lives, it is only through our Lord and the blessed saints that we can any of us hope for righteousness. I will sleep on that couch tomorrow night!'<br /><br />'Dear, my lady! and the king arrives tomorrow.'<br /><br />'The more need that I resolve. It cannot be that misery so intense should dwell in any heart, and no cure be found. I had hoped to be the bringer of peace to our houses; and if the good work to be for me a crown of thorns Heaven shall direct me. I will rest tomorrow night on St Catherine's bed: and if, as I have heard, the saint deigns to direct her votaries in dreams, I will be guided by her; and, believing that I act according to the dictates of Heaven, I shall feel resigned even to the worst.'<br /><br />The king was on his way to Nantes from Paris, and he slept )n this night at a castle but a few miles distant Before dawn a young cavalier was introduced into his chamber. The knight had a serious, nay, a sad aspect; and all beautiful as he was in feature and limb, looked wayworn and haggard. He stood silent in Henry's presence, who, alert and gay, turned his lively blue eyes upon his guest, saying gently, 'So thou foundest her obdurate, Gaspar?'<br /><br />'I found her resolved on our mutual misery. Alas! my liege, it is not, credit me, the least of my grief, that Constance sacrifices her own happiness when she destroys mine.'<br /><br />'And thou believest that she will say nay to the gaillard chevalier whom we ourselves present to her ?'<br /><br />'Oh, my liege, think not that thought! it cannot be. My heart deeply, most deeply, thanks you for your generous condescension. But she whom her lover's voice in solitude —whose entreaties, when memory and seclusion aided the spell —could not persuade, will resist even your majesty's commands. She is bent upon entering a cloister; and I, so please you, will now take my leave: —1 am henceforth a soldier of the cross.'<br /><br />'Gaspar,' said the monarch, 'I know woman better than thou. It is not by submission nor tearful plaints she is to be won. The death of her relatives naturally sits heavy at the young countess' heart; and nourishing in solitude her regret and her repentance, she fancies that Heaven itself forbids your union. Let the voice of the world reach her —the voice of earthly power and earthly kindness —the one commanding, the other pleading, and both finding response in her own heart —and by my say and the Holy Cross. she will be yours. Let our plan still hold. And now to horse: the morning wears, and the sun is risen.'<br /><br />The king arrived at the bishop's palace, and proceeded forthwith to mass in the cathedral. A sumptuous dinner succeeded, and it was afternoon before the monarch proceeded through the town beside the Loire to where, a little above Nantes, the Chateau Villeneuve was situated. The, young countess received him at the gate. Henry looked in vain for the cheek blanched by misery, the aspect of downcast despair which he had been taught to expect. Her cheek was flushed, her manner animated, her voice scarce tremulous. 'She loves him not,' thought Henry, or already her heart has consented.'<br /><br />A collation was prepared for the monarch; and after some little hesitation, arising from the cheerfulness of her mien, he mentioned the name of Gaspar. Constance blushed instead of turning pale, and replied very quickly, 'Tomorrow, good my liege; I ask for a respite but until tomorrow; —all will then be decided; —tomorrow I am vowed to God —or' -<br /><br />She looked confused, and the king, at once surprised and pleased, said, 'Then you hate not young De Vaudemont; —you forgive him for the inimical blood that warms his veins.'<br /><br />'We are taught that we should forgive, that we should love our enemies,' the countess replied, with some trepidation.<br /><br />'Now, by Saint Denis, that is a right welcome answer for the novice,' said the king, laughing. 'What ho! my faithful servingman, Don Apollo in disguise! come forward, and thank your lady for her love.'<br /><br />In such disguise as had concealed him from all, the cavalier had hung behind, and viewed with infinite surprise the demeanour and calm countenance of the lady. He could not hear her words: but was this even she whom he had seen trembling and weeping the evening before? this she whose very heart was torn by conflicting passion? —who saw the pale ghosts of parent and kinsman stand between her and the lover whom more than her life she adored? It was a riddle hard to solve. The king's call was in unison with his impatience, and he sprang forward. He was at her feet; while she, still passion-driven overwrought by the very calmness she had assumed, uttered one cry as she recognized him. and sank senseless on the floor.<br /><br />All this was very unintelligible. Even when her attendants had brought her to life, another fit succeeded, and then passionate floods of tears; while the monarch, waiting in the hall, eyeing the half-eaten collation, and, humming some romance in commemoration of woman's waywardness, knew not how to reply to Vaudemont's look of bitter disappointment and anxiety. At length the countess' chief attendant came with an apology. 'Her lady was ill, very ill. The next day she would throw herself at the king's feet, at once to solicit his excuse, and to disclose her purpose.'<br /><br />'Tomorrow —again tomorrow! Does tomorrow bear some charm, maiden?' said the king. 'Can you read us the riddle pretty one? What strange tale belongs to tomorrow, that all rests on its advent?<br /><br />Manon coloured, looked down, and hesitated. But Henry was no tyro in the art of enticing ladies' attendants to disclose their ladies' council. Manon was besides, frightened by the countess' scheme, on which she was still obstinately bent, so she was the more readily induced to betray it. To sleep in St Catherine's bed, to rest on a narrow ledge overhanging the deep rapid Loire, and if, as was most probable, the luckless dreamer escaped from falling into it, to take the disturbed visions that, such uneasy slumber might produce for the dictate of Heaven, was a madness of which even Henry himself could scarcely . deem any woman capable. But could Constance, her whose beauty was so highly intellectual, and whom he had heard perpetually praised for her strength of mind and talents, could she be so strangely infatuated! And can passion play such freaks with us? —like death, levelling even the aristocracy of the soul, and bringing noble and peasant, the wise and foolish, under one thraldom? It was strange —yes she must have her way. That she hesitated in her decision was much; and it was to he hoped that St Catherine would play no ill-natured part. Should it be otherwise, a purpose to be swayed by a dream might be influenced by other waking thoughts. To the more material kind of danger some safeguard should be brought.<br /><br />There is no feeling more awful than that which invades a weak human heart bent upon gratifying its ungovernable impulses in contradiction to the dictates of conscience. Forbidden pleasures are said to be the most agreeable; —it may be so to rude natures, to those who love to struggle, combat, and contest; who find happiness in a fray, and joy in the conflict of passion. But softer and sweeter was the gentle spirit of Constance; and love and duty contending crushed and tortured her poor heart. To commit her conduct to the inspirations of religion, or, if it was so to be named, of superstition, was a blessed relief. The very perils that threatened her undertaking gave zest to it; —to dare for his sake was happiness; —the very difficulty of the way that led to the completion of her wishes at once gratified her love and distracted her thoughts from her despair. Or if it was decreed that she must sacrifice all, the risk of danger and of death were of trifling import in comparison with the anguish which would then be her portion for ever.<br /><br />The night threatened to be stormy, the raging wind shook the casements, and the trees waved their huge shadowy arms, as giants might in fantastic dance and mortal broil. Constance and Manon, unattended, quitted the chateau by a postern, and began to descend the hillside. The moon had not yet risen; and though the way was familiar to both, Manon tottered and trembled; while the countess, drawing her silken cloak around her, walked with a firm step down the steep. They came to the river's side, where a small boat was moored, and one man was in waiting. Constance stepped lightly in, and then aided her fearful companion. In a few moments they were in the middle of the stream. The warm, tempestuous, animating, equinoctial wind swept over them. For the first time since her mourning, a thrill of pleasure swelled the bosom of Constance. She hailed the emotion with double joy. It cannot be, she thought, that Heaven will forbid me to love one so brave, so generous, and so good as the noble Gaspar. Another I can never love; 1 shall die if divided from him; and this heart, these limbs, so alive with glowing sensation, are they already predestined to an early grave? Oh no 1 life speaks aloud within them: 1 shall live to love. Do not all things love? —the winds as they whisper to the rushing waters? the waters as they kiss the flowery banks, and speed to mingle with the sea? Heaven and earth are sustained by, and live through, love; and shall Constance alone, whose heart has ever been a deep, gushing, overflowing well of true affection, be compelled to set a stone upon the fount to lock it up for ever?<br /><br />These thoughts bade fair for pleasant dreams; and perhaps the countess, an adept in the blind god's lore, therefore indulged them the more readily. But as thus she was engrossed by soft emotions, Manon caught her arm: —'Lady, look,' she cried; 'it comes yet the oars have no sound. Now the Virgin shield us! Would we were at home!'<br /><br />A dark boat glided by them. Four rowers, habited in black cloaks, pulled at oars which, as Manon said, gave no sound; another sat at the helm: like the rest, his person was veiled in a dark mantle, but he wore no cap; and though his face was turned from them, Constance recognized her lover. 'Gaspar,' she cried aloud, 'dost thou live?' —but the figure in the boat neither turned its head nor replied, and quickly it was lost. in the shadowy waters.<br /><br />How changed now was the fair countess' reverie! Already Heaven had begun its spell, and unearthly forms were around, as she strained her eyes through the gloom. Now she saw and now she lost view of the bark that occasioned her terror; and now it seemed that another was there, which held the spirits of the dead; and her father waved to her from shore, and her brothers frowned on her.<br /><br />Meanwhile they neared the landing. Her bark was moored in a little cove, and Constance stood upon the bank. Now she trembled, and half yielded to Manon's entreaty to return; till the unwise suivante mentioned the king's and De Vaudemont's name, and spoke of the answer to be given tomorrow. What answer, if she turned back from her intent?<br /><br />She now hurried forward up the broken ground of the bank, and then along its edge, till they came to a bill which abruptly hung over the tide. A small chapel stood near. With trembling fingers the countess drew forth the key and unlocked its. door. They entered. It was dark —save that a little lamp, flickering in the wind, showed an uncertain light from before the figure of Saint Catherine. The two women knelt; they prayed; and then rising, with a cheerful accent the countess bade her attendant good-night. She unlocked a little low iron door. It opened on a narrow cavern. The roar of waters was heard beyond. 'Thou mayest not follow, my poor Manon,' said Constance, — 'nor dost thou much desire: —this adventure is for me alone.'<br /><br />It was hardly fair to leave the trembling servant in the chapel alone, who had neither hope nor fear, nor love, nor grief to beguile her; but, in those days, esquires and waiting-women often played the part of subalterns in the army, gaming knocks and no fame. Besides, Manon was safe in holy ground. The countess meanwhile pursued her way groping in the dark through the narrow tortuous passage. At length what seemed light to her long darkened sense gleamed on her. She reached an open cavern in the overhanging hill's side, looking over the rushing tide beneath. . She looked out upon the night. The waters of the Loire were speeding, as since that day have they ever sped —changeful, yet the same; the heavens were thickly veiled with clouds, and the wind in the trees was as mournful and ill-omened as if it rushed round a murderer's tomb. Constance shuddered a little, and looked upon her, bed, —a narrow ledge of earth and a grown stone bordering on the very verge of the precipice. She doffed her mantle, —such was one of the conditions of the spell; —she bowed her head, and loosened the tresses of her dark hair; she bared her feet; and thus, fully prepared for suffering to the utmost the chill influence of the cold night, she stretched herself on the narrow couch that scarce afforded room for her repose, and whence, if she moved in sleep, she must he precipitated into the cold waters below.<br /><br />At first it seemed to her as if she never should sleep again. No great wonder that exposure to the blast and her perilous position should forbid her eyelids to close. At length she fell into a reverie so soft and soothing that she wished even to watch,; and then by degrees her senses became confused; and now she was on St Catherine's bed —the Loire rushing beneath, and the wild wind sweeping by —and now —oh whither? —and what dreams did the saint send, to drive her to despair, or to bid her be blest for ever?<br /><br />Beneath the rugged hill, upon the dark tide, another watched, who feared a thousand things, and scarce dared hope. He had meant to precede the lady on her way, but when he found that he had outstayed his time, with muffled oars and breathless haste he had shot by the bark that contained his Constance, nor even turned at her voice, fearful to incur her blame, and her commands to return. He had seen her emerge from the passage, and shuddered as she leant over the cliff. He saw her step forth, clad as she was in white, and could mark her as she lay on the edge beetling above. What a vigil did the lovers keep! —she given up to visionary thoughts, he knowing —and the consciousness thrilled his bosom with strange emotion —that love, and love for him, had led her to that perilous couch; and that while angers surrounded her in every shape, she was alive only to a small still voice that whispered to her heart the dream which was to decide their destinies. She slept perhaps —but he waked rid watched; and night wore away, as now praying, now entranced by alternating hope and fear, he sat in his boat, his eyes fixed on the white garb of the slumberer above.<br /><br />Morning—was it morning that struggled in the clouds? Would morning ever come to waken her? And had she slept? and what dreams of weal or woe had peopled her sleep? Gaspar grew impatient. He commanded his boatmen still to wait, and he sprang forward, intent on clambering the precipice. In vain they urged the danger, nay, the impossibility of the attempt; he clung to the rugged face of the hill, and found footing where it would seem no footing was. The acclivity, indeed, was not high; the dangers of St Catherine's bed arising from the likelihood that any one who slept on so narrow a couch would be precipitated into the waters beneath. Up the steep ascent Gaspar continued to toil, and at last reached the roots of a tree that grew near the summit. Aided by its branches, he made good his stand at the very extremity of the ledge, near the pillow on which lay the uncovered head of his beloved. Her hands were folded on her bosom; her dark hair fell round her throat and pillowed her cheek; her face was serene: sleep was there in all its innocence and in all its helplessness; every wilder emotion was hushed, and her bosom heaved in regular breathing. He could see her heart beat as it lifted her fair hands crossed above. No statue hewn of marble in monumental effigy was ever half so fair; and within that surpassing form dwelt a soul true, tender, self-devoted, and affectionate as ever warmed a human breast.<br /><br />With what deep passion did Gaspar gaze, gathering hope from the placidity of her angel countenance! A smile wreathed her lips, and he too involuntarily smiled, as he hailed the happy omen; when suddenly her cheek was flushed, her bosom heaved, a tear stole from her dark lashes, and then a whole shower fell, as starting up she cried, 'No! —he shall not die! —I will unloose his chains! —I will save him!' Gaspar's hand was there. He caught her light form ready to fall from the perilous couch. She opened her eyes and beheld her lover, who had watched over her dream of fate, and who had saved her.<br /><br />Manon also had slept well, dreaming or not, and was startled in the morning to find that she waked surrounded by a crowd. The little desolate chapel was hung with tapestry, the altar adorned with golden chalices —the priest was chanting mass to a goodly array of kneeling knights. Manon saw that King Henry was there; and she looked for another whom she found not, when the iron door of the cavern passage opened, and Gaspar de Vaudemont entered from it, leading the fair form of Constance; who, in her white robes and dark dishevelled hair, with a face in which smiles and blushes contended with deeper emotion, approached the altar, and, kneeling with her lover, pronounced the vows that united them for ever.<br /><br />It was long before the happy Gaspar could win from his lady the secret of her dream. In spite of the happiness she now enjoyed, she had suffered too much not to look back even with terror to those days when she thought love a crime, and every event connected with them wore an awful aspect. 'Many a vision,' she said, 'she had that fearful night. She had seen the spirits of her father and brothers in Paradise; she had beheld Gaspar victoriously combating among the infidels; she had beheld him in King Henry's court, favoured and beloved; and she herself —now pining in a cloister, now a bride, now grateful to Heaven for the full measure of bliss presented to her, now weeping away her sad days —till suddenly she thought herself in Paynim land; and the saint herself, St Catherine, guiding her unseen through the city of the infidels. She entered a palace, and beheld the miscreants rejoicing in victory; and then, descending to the dungeons beneath, they groped their way through damp vaults, and low, mildewed passages, to one cell, darker more frightful than the rest. On the floor lay one with soiled tattered garments, with unkempt locks and wild, matted beard. His cheek was worn and thin; his eyes had lost their fire; his form was a mere skeleton; the chains hung loosely on the fleshless bones.'<br /><br />'And was it my appearance in that attractive state and winning costume that softened the hard heart of Constance?' asked Gaspar, smiling at this painting of what would never be.<br /><br />'Even so,' replied Constance; 'for my heart whispered me that this was my doing; and who could recall the life that waned in your pulses —who restore, save the destroyer? My heart never warmed to my living, happy knight as then it did to his wasted image as it lay, in the visions of night, at my feet. A veil fell from my eyes; a darkness was dispelled from before me. Methought I then knew for the first time what life and what death was. I was bid believe that to make the living happy was not to injure the dead; and I felt how wicked and how vain was that false philosophy which placed virtue and good in hatred, and unkindness. You should not die; I would loosen your chains and save you, and bid you live for love. I sprang forward, and the death I deprecated for you would, in my presumption, have been mine, —then, when first I felt the real value of life, —but that your arm was there to save me, your dear voice to bid me be blest for evermore.' </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">THE END</span></div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-89631386092701713002010-02-07T21:43:00.006+02:002010-02-07T22:40:12.916+02:00Bright Star<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Bright Star</span><br /></div><br />A film based on the three-year romance between the famous 19th century poet John Keats and Fanny Brawne, which was cut short by Keats' untimely death at age 25. A film written and directed by the Academy Award Winner Jane Campion (<span style="font-style: italic;">The Piano</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Portrait of a Lady</span>) starring Ben Whishaw (<span style="font-style: italic;">The Perfume</span>) and Abbie Cornish.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object><width="300"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lTetIodauIM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lTetIodauIM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="300"></embed></object><br /></div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-18934442238936573132010-01-13T23:26:00.002+02:002010-01-13T23:35:29.511+02:00Running to the Edge of the World<div style="text-align: center;"><object width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/F7j5deiFIp0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/F7j5deiFIp0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320"></embed></object><br /><br />Remember when I took you<br />Up to the top of the hill?<br />We had our knives drawn.<br />They were as sharp<br />As we were in love.<br /><br />If god crossed us<br />We'd take all his drugs,<br />Burn his money<br />And his house down,<br />And wait for the fire to spread.<br /><br />But sometimes hate is not enough<br />To turn this all to ashes.<br /><br />Together as one<br />Against all others<br />Break all of our wings to<br />Make sure it crashes<br />We're running to the<br />Edge of the world<br />Running, running away<br />We're running to the edge of the world<br />I don't know if the world will end today<br /><br />I had no choice,<br />I erased the debt of our family,<br />Let you say goodbye<br />With lips like dynamite.<br /><br />And everyone<br />Turned their backs<br />Because they knew<br />When we held on tight<br />To each other,<br />We were something fatal,<br />That fell into the wrong hands.<br /></div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-56392386655005637382009-11-26T22:01:00.002+02:002009-11-26T22:18:29.045+02:00The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows - W.B. YeatsOne summer night, when there was peace, a score of Puritan troopers under the pious Sir Frederick Hamilton, broke through the door of the Abbey of the White Friars which stood over the Gara Lough at Sligo. As the door fell with a crash they saw a little knot of friars, gathered about the altar, their white habits glimmering in the steady light of the holy candles. All the monks were kneeling except the abbot, who stood upon the altar steps with a great brazen crucifix in his hand. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Shoot them!</span>' cried Sir Frederick Hamilton, but none stirred, for all were new converts, and feared the crucifix and the holy candles. The white lights from the altar threw the shadows of the troopers up on to roof and wall. As the troopers moved about, the shadows began a fantastic dance among the corbels and the memorial tablets. For a little while all was silent, and then five troopers who were the body-guard of Sir Frederick Hamilton lifted their muskets, and shot down five of the friars. The noise and the smoke drove away the mystery of the pale altar lights, and the other troopers took courage and began to strike. In a moment the friars lay about the altar steps, their white habits stained with blood. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Set</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> fire to the house!</span>' cried Sir Frederick Hamilton, and at his word one went out, and came in again carrying a heap of dry straw, and piled it against the western wall, and, having done this, fell back, for the fear of the crucifix and of the holy candles was still in his heart. Seeing this, the five troopers who were Sir Frederick Hamilton's body-guard darted forward, and taking each a holy candle set the straw in a blaze. The red tongues of fire rushed up and flickered from corbel to corbel and from tablet to tablet, and crept along the floor, setting in a blaze the seats and benches. The dance of the shadows passed away, and the dance of the fires began. The troopers fell back towards the door in the southern wall, and watched those yellow dancers springing hither and thither.<br /><br />For a time the altar stood safe and apart in the midst of its white light; the eyes of the troopers turned upon it. The abbot whom they had thought dead had risen to his feet and now stood before it with the crucifix lifted in both hands high above his head. Suddenly he cried with a loud voice, '<span style="font-style: italic;">Woe unto all who smite those who dwell</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> within the Light of the Lord, for they shall wander among the</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> ungovernable shadows, and follow the ungovernable fires!</span>' And having so cried he fell on his face dead, and the brazen crucifix rolled down the steps of the altar. The smoke had now grown very thick, so that it drove the troopers out into the open air. Before them were burning houses. Behind them shone the painted windows of the Abbey filled with saints and martyrs, awakened, as from a sacred trance, into an angry and animated life. The eyes of the troopers were dazzled, and for a while could see nothing but the flaming faces of saints and martyrs. Presently, however, they saw a man covered with dust who came running towards them. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Two messengers</span>,' he cried, '<span style="font-style: italic;">have</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> been sent by the defeated Irish to raise against you the whole</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> country about Manor Hamilton, and if you do not stop them you will be</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> overpowered in the woods before you reach home again! They ride</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> north-east between Ben Bulben and Cashel-na-Gael</span>.'<br /><br />Sir Frederick Hamilton called to him the five troopers who had first fired upon the monks and said, '<span style="font-style: italic;">Mount quickly, and ride through the</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> woods towards the mountain, and get before these men, and kill them.</span>'<br /><br />In a moment the troopers were gone, and before many moments they had splashed across the river at what is now called Buckley's Ford, and plunged into the woods. They followed a beaten track that wound along the northern bank of the river. The boughs of the birch and quicken trees mingled above, and hid the cloudy moonlight, leaving the pathway in almost complete darkness. They rode at a rapid trot, now chatting together, now watching some stray weasel or rabbit scuttling away in the darkness. Gradually, as the gloom and silence of the woods oppressed them, they drew closer together, and began to talk rapidly; they were old comrades and knew each other's lives. One was married, and told how glad his wife would be to see him return safe from this harebrained expedition against the White Friars, and to hear how fortune had made amends for rashness. The oldest of the five, whose wife was dead, spoke of a flagon of wine which awaited<br />him upon an upper shelf; while a third, who was the youngest, had a sweetheart watching for his return, and he rode a little way before the others, not talking at all. Suddenly the young man stopped, and they saw that his horse was trembling. '<span style="font-style: italic;">I saw something,</span>' he said, '<span style="font-style: italic;">and yet I do not know but it may have been one of the shadows. It</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> looked like a great worm with a silver crown upon his head.</span>' One of the five put his hand up to his forehead as if about to cross himself, but remembering that he had changed his religion he put it down, and said: '<span style="font-style: italic;">I am certain it was but a shadow, for there are a</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> great many about us, and of very strange kinds.</span>' Then they rode on in silence. It had been raining in the earlier part of the day, and the drops fell from the branches, wetting their hair and their shoulders. In a little they began to talk again. They had been in many battles against many a rebel together, and now told each other over again the story of their wounds, and so awakened in their hearts the strongest of all fellowships, the fellowship of the sword, and half forgot the terrible solitude of the woods.<br /><br />Suddenly the first two horses neighed, and then stood still, and would go no further. Before them was a glint of water, and they knew by the rushing sound that it was a river. They dismounted, and after much tugging and coaxing brought the horses to the river-side. In the midst of the water stood a tall old woman with grey hair flowing over a grey dress. She stood up to her knees in the water, and stooped from time to time as though washing. Presently they could see that she was washing something that half floated. The moon cast a flickering light upon it, and they saw that it was the dead body of a man, and, while they were looking at it, an eddy of the river turned the face towards them, and each of the five troopers recognised at the same moment his own face. While they stood dumb and motionless with horror, the woman began to speak, saying slowly and loudly: '<span style="font-style: italic;">Did</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> you see my son? He has a crown of silver on his head, and there are</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> rubies in the crown.</span>' Then the oldest of the troopers, he who had been most often wounded, drew his sword and cried: '<span style="font-style: italic;">I have fought for</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> the truth of my God, and need not fear the shadows of Satan,</span>' and with that rushed into the water. In a moment he returned. The woman had vanished, and though he had thrust his sword into air and water he had found nothing.<br /><br />The five troopers remounted, and set their horses at the ford, but all to no purpose. They tried again and again, and went plunging hither and thither, the horses foaming and rearing. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Let us,</span>' said the old trooper, '<span style="font-style: italic;">ride back a little into the wood, and strike the</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> river higher up.</span>' They rode in under the boughs, the ground-ivy crackling under the hoofs, and the branches striking against their steel caps. After about twenty minutes' riding they came out again upon the river, and after another ten minutes found a place where it was possible to cross without sinking below the stirrups. The wood upon the other side was very thin, and broke the moonlight into long streams. The wind had arisen, and had begun to drive the clouds rapidly across the face of the moon, so that thin streams of light seemed to be dancing a grotesque dance among the scattered bushes and small fir-trees. The tops of the trees began also to moan, and the sound of it was like the voice of the dead in the wind; and the troopers remembered the belief that tells how the dead in purgatory are spitted upon the points of the trees and upon the points of the rocks. They turned a little to the south, in the hope that they might strike the beaten path again, but they could find no trace of it.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the moaning grew louder and louder, and the dance of the white moon-fires more and more rapid. Gradually they began to be aware of a sound of distant music. It was the sound of a bagpipe, and they rode towards it with great joy. It came from the bottom of a deep, cup-like hollow. In the midst of the hollow was an old man with a red cap and withered face. He sat beside a fire of sticks, and had a burning torch thrust into the earth at his feet, and played an old bagpipe furiously. His red hair dripped over his face like the iron rust upon a rock. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Did you see my wife?</span>' he cried, looking up a moment; '<span style="font-style: italic;">she was washing! she was washing!</span>' '<span style="font-style: italic;">I am afraid of him,</span>' said the young trooper, '<span style="font-style: italic;">I fear he is one of the Sidhe.</span>' '<span style="font-style: italic;">No,</span>' said the old trooper, '<span style="font-style: italic;">he is a man, for I can see the sun-freckles upon</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> his face. We will compel him to be our guide</span>'; and at that he drew his sword, and the others did the same. They stood in a ring round the piper, and pointed their swords at him, and the old trooper then told him that they must kill two rebels, who had taken the road between Ben Bulben and the great mountain spur that is called Cashel-na-Gael, and that he must get up before one of them and be their guide, for they had lost their way. The piper turned, and pointed to a neighbouring tree, and they saw an old white horse ready bitted, bridled, and saddled. He slung the pipe across his back, and, taking the torch in his hand, got upon the horse, and started off before them, as hard as he could go.<br /><br />The wood grew thinner and thinner, and the ground began to slope up toward the mountain. The moon had already set, and the little white flames of the stars had come out everywhere. The ground sloped more and more until at last they rode far above the woods upon the wide top of the mountain. The woods lay spread out mile after mile below, and away to the south shot up the red glare of the burning town. But before and above them were the little white flames. The guide drew rein suddenly, and pointing upwards with the hand that did not hold the torch, shrieked out, '<span style="font-style: italic;">Look; look at the holy candles!</span>' and then plunged forward at a gallop, waving the torch hither and thither. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Do</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> you hear the hoofs of the messengers?</span>' cried the guide. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Quick,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> quick! or they will be gone out of your hands!</span>' and he laughed as with delight of the chase. The troopers thought they could hear far off, and as if below them, rattle of hoofs; but now the ground began<br />to slope more and more, and the speed grew more headlong moment by moment. They tried to pull up, but in vain, for the horses seemed to have gone mad. The guide had thrown the reins on to the neck of the old white horse, and was waving his arms and singing a wild Gaelic song. Suddenly they saw the thin gleam of a river, at an immense distance below, and knew that they were upon the brink of the abyss that is now called Lug-na-Gael, or in English the Stranger's Leap. The six horses sprang forward, and five screams went up into the air, a moment later five men and horses fell with a dull crash upon the green slopes at the foot of the rocks.Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-18145155511106467752009-09-04T00:39:00.001+03:002009-09-04T00:43:47.782+03:00Sanctuario di Sangue - My Dying Bride<div align="center"><object height="300" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OTgOQUUqszo&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OTgOQUUqszo&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="300" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">With your baronial motif<br />Mankind at your feet<br />and your opulent guests<br />With whom you do test<br />The whisper of your blood<br />The call to those you loved<br />Who lay down for you<br />For you to run them through<br /><br />Carelessly dressed<br />I grovel highness<br />Beneath your stars and your moon<br />and your feminine doom<br /><br />Beneath the shiver of your sea<br />and the gold that you bleed<br />On the wings of your charm<br />A promise of great harm<br /><br />The light within us fades<br />As we shy away from day<br />The passion of her bite<br />and the glory of her sight<br />In a hive of open lore<br />We await the call to war<br />In an issue of drying blood<br />Lies the victim of our love<br /><br />Regale me with lies<br />and punish me outright<br />The crisis of my empire<br />The volume of your desire<br /><br />Your enfolding dark<br />Your beauty and your mark<br />I give you my veins<br />As we lay down in pain<br /><br />I couldn't help the things we did<br />No matter where or how I hid<br />We live for every single night<br />Victorious in every fight </div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-61546284078997570162009-08-24T21:23:00.002+03:002009-09-05T20:23:37.032+03:00Death of the Beloved - Rainer Maria Rilke<em>She only knew of death what all men say:<br />that those it takes it thrusts into dumb night.<br />When he himself, though - no, not snatched away,<br />but tenderly unloosened from her sight,<br /><br />had glided over to the unknown shades,<br />and when she felt that she had now resigned<br />the moonlight of his laughter to their glades,<br />and all his ways of being kind:<br /><br />then all at once she came to understand<br />the dead through him, and joined them in their walk,<br />kin to them all; she let the others talk,<br /><br />and paid no heed to them; and called that land<br />the fortunately-placed, the ever-sweet.<br />And groped out all its pathways for his feet.<br /></em>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-39709205008278984872009-06-13T19:38:00.004+03:002009-06-13T19:55:41.281+03:00Claire de Lune - Paul Verlaine<p><b> Claire de Lune</b><br /></p> <p>Votre âme est un paysage choisi<br />Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques<br />Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi<br />Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.</p> <p>Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur<br />L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune<br />Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur<br />Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,</p> <p>Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,<br />Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres<br />Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,<br />Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.</p><p><br /></p><p style="font-style: italic;">Moonlight (translation by Norman R. Shapiro)</p><p style="font-style: italic;"><br /></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Your soul is like a landscape fantasy</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise,</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Hidden beneath their fanciful disguise.</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Singing in minor mode of life's largesse</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">And all victorious love, they yet seem quite</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Reluctant to believe their happiness,</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">And their song mingles with the pale moonlight,</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming,</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees,</span></p><p style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">And makes the marbles fountains, gushing, streaming -</span></p><p style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Slender, jet-fountains - sob their ecstasies.</span><br /></p><p><br /></p>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-6381863717414655922009-03-21T16:15:00.003+02:002009-03-21T16:18:06.898+02:00White<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">She wore white</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Hoping to preserve her innocence</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Like a peach canned in a jar</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Imbuing the room with its wild aroma upon unscrewing</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">She wore red</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Tearing through life</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Wanting to be noticed</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">If only for an instant</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">She wore blue</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">On those days when the rain is relentless</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">And the drip drip sound</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Echoes the emptiness of her heart</span><br />She wore the colors of life in all their splendor and variety<br />She wore life itself grafted to her skin<br />And with each breath<br />She came closer to her death<br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /><br />(This poem of an unknown poet was published in the Greek magazine "Μοτέρ", issue 15. It's one of a kind, so I thought it would be fantastic to share it with you. Hope you like it!)<br /></span>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-22477865971698250502009-03-07T12:36:00.003+02:002009-03-07T12:50:55.078+02:00I Died for Beauty - Emily Dickinson<pre style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I died for beauty but was scarce</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Adjusted in the tomb,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When one who died for truth was lain</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In an adjoining room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He questioned softly why I failed?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"For beauty," I replied.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"And I for truth,--the two are one;</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We brethren are," he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And so, as kinsmen met a night,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We talked between the rooms,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Until the moss had reached our lips,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And covered up our names.</span></span><br /></pre>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-55913227801129921882009-03-07T02:19:00.001+02:002009-03-07T02:20:23.395+02:00Invocation - Percy Bysshe ShelleyRarely, rarely, comest thou,<br />Spirit of Delight!<br />Wherefore hast thou left me now<br />Many a day and night?<br />Many a weary night and day<br />'Tis since thou art fled away.<br /><br />How shall ever one like me<br />Win thee back again?<br />With the joyous and the free<br />Thou wilt scoff at pain.<br />Spirit false! thou hast forgot<br />All but those who need thee not.<br /><br />As a lizard with the shade<br />Of a trembling leaf,<br />Thou with sorrow art dismayed;<br />Even the sighs of grief<br />Reproach thee, that thou art not near,<br />And reproach thou wilt not hear.<br /><br />Let me set my mournful ditty<br />To a merry measure;<br />Thou wilt never come for pity,<br />Thou wilt come for pleasure; -<br />Pity then will cut away<br />Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.<br /><br />I love all that thou lovest,<br />Spirit of Delight!<br />The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,<br />And the starry night;<br />Autumn evening, and the morn<br />When the golden mists are born.<br /><br />I love snow and all the forms<br />Of the radiant frost;<br />I love waves, and winds, and storms,<br />Everything almost<br />Which is Nature's, and may be<br />Untainted by man's misery.<br /><br />I love tranquil solitude,<br />And such society<br />As is quiet, wise, and good: -<br />Between thee and me<br />What difference? but thou dost possess<br />The things I seek, not love them less.<br /><br />I love Love -though he has wings,<br />And like light can flee,<br />But above all other things,<br />Spirit, I love thee -<br />Thou art love and life! O come!<br />Make once more my heart thy home!Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-45489229769132085592008-12-31T17:35:00.006+02:002009-08-25T00:23:15.421+03:00Catherine & Heathcliff<span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Catherine announcing to Nelly her marriage to Linton</span><br /><blockquote>"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and <span style="font-style: italic;">he </span>remained, <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods; time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I <span style="font-style: italic;">am </span>Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."</blockquote><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Catherine after her marriage with Linton during her illness</span><br /><blockquote>"'Look!" she cried eagerly, "that's my room with the candle in it, and the trees swaying before it: and the other candle is in Joseph's garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn't he? He's waiting till I come home that he may lock the gate. Well, he'll wait a while yet. It's a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton Kirk, to go that journey! We've braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I'll keep you. I'll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won't rest till you are with me. I never will!"</blockquote><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Quarrel between Heathcliff and Catherine in Catherine's deathbed</span><br /><br /><blockquote>"You teach me now how cruel you've been-cruel and false. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why </span>did you despise me? <span style="font-style: italic;">Why </span>did you betray you own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you-they'll damn you. You loved me-then what <span style="font-style: italic;">right </span>had you to leave me? What right-answer me-for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart-<span style="font-style: italic;">you </span>have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me, that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you-oh, God! would <span style="font-style: italic;">you </span>like to live with your soul in the grave?"<br />"Let me alone. Let me alone," sobbed Catherine. "If I have done wrong, I'm dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won't upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!"<br />"It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands," he answered. "Kiss me again; and don't let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer-but <span style="font-style: italic;">yours!</span> How can I?"</blockquote><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Heathcliff's reaction when he learns about Catherine's death</span><br /><blockquote>"May she wake in torment!" he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. "Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span>-not in heaven-not perished-where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer-I repeat it till my tongue stiffens-Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you-haunt me, then! The murdered <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts <span style="font-style: italic;">have </span>wandered on earth, Be with me always-take any form-drive me mad! only <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I <span style="font-style: italic;">cannot </span>live without my life! I <span style="font-style: italic;">cannot </span>live without my soul!"<br />He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes, howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast getting goaded to death with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night.</blockquote><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Heathcliff one step before his death, one step closer to his Catherine</span><br /><blockquote>"Then you are not afraid of death?" I pursued.<br />"Afraid? No!" he replied. "I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment, nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and temperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations there is scarcely a black hair on my head. And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe-almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is like bending back a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the slightest act not prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I notice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so unwaveringly, that I'm convinved it <span style="font-style: italic;">will </span>be reached-and soon-because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the anticipation of its fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved me; but they may account for some otherwise unaccountable phases of humour which I show. O God! It is a long fight; I wish it were over!</blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >These excerpts were taken from Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, one of my favourite novels and one that is purely Gothic. Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff loved each other with a strange but deep love, a love beyond time and space. And there is nothing more sublime that this...</span><br /><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-49616031349099865522008-12-29T14:41:00.009+02:002008-12-29T15:06:05.396+02:00My death waits there... a New Year's Sublime Present<div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><object width="400" height="300"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rIzE3j84kKU&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rIzE3j84kKU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><br />My death waits like an old roué<br />so confident I'll go his way<br />whistle to him and the passing time...<br />My death waits like a Bible truth<br />at the funeral of my youth<br />weep loud for that -<br />and the passing time...<br />My death waits like<br />a witch at night<br />as surely as our love is bright<br />let's not think about the passing time<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">But whatever lies behind the door</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">there is nothing much to do...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">angel or devil, I don't care</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">for in front of that door...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">there is you.</span><br /><br />My death waits like a beggar blind<br />who sees the world through an unlit mind<br />throw him a dime<br />for the passing time...<br />My death waits there between your thighs<br />your cool fingers will close my eyes<br />let's think of that and the passing time.<br />My death waits to allow my friends<br />a few good times before it ends<br />so let's drink to that and the passing time<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">But what ever lies behind the door,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">there is nothing much to do</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">angel or devil I don't care</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">for in front of that door... there is you</span><br /><br />My death waits there among the leaves<br />in magicians mysterious sleeves<br />rabbits and dogs and the passing time.<br />My death waits there among the flowers<br />where the blackest shadow, blackest shadow cowers<br />let's pick lilacs for the passing time.<br />My death waits there, in a double bed<br />sails of oblivion at my head<br />so pull up the sheets<br />against the passing time<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">But whatever lies behind the door</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">there is nothing much to do</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">angel or devil... I don't care</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">for in front of that door</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">there is...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:100%;" ></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">(I love this song! It's sooo much David Bowie! This man is more than a singer... amazing!I dedicate it with all my love to all of you the sublime sweethearts, wishing you to find your 'death' out there this year! Make most of this year and don't forget to laugh, not just smile! Love, Melian)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-16503100534499989002008-12-20T14:11:00.004+02:002008-12-20T14:30:07.371+02:00The Heart of Everything - Within Temptation<div align="center"><object width="400" height="300"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8FTfvCglizI&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8FTfvCglizI&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">For the pain and the sorrow caused by my mistakes<br />Won’t repent to a mortal, whom is all to blame?<br />Now I know I won`t make it, there will be a time<br />We'll get back our freedom, they can't break what's inside<br /><br />I'll face it cause it's the heart of everything<br /><br />Open up your eyes<br />Save yourself from fading away now, don't let it go<br />Open up your eyes<br />See what you've become, don't sacrifice<br />It's truly the heart of everything<br /><br />Open up your eyes<br /><br />Stay with me now, I’m facing my last solemn hour<br />Very soon I'll embrace you on the other side<br />Hear the crowd in the distance screaming out my faith<br />Now their voices are fading, I can feel no more pain<br /><br />I'll face it cause it's the heart of everything<br /><br />Open up your eyes<br />Save yourself from fading away now, don't let it go<br />Open up your eyes<br />See what you've become, don't sacrifice<br />It's truly the heart of everything<br /><br />Open up your eyes<br />Open up your eyes<br /><br />Open up your eyes<br />Save yourself from fading away now, don't let it go<br />Open up your eyes<br />See what you've become, don't sacrifice<br />It's truly the heart of everything</div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-29076626409021755772008-12-18T20:09:00.004+02:002008-12-18T20:21:46.955+02:00Le Vampire (Les Fleurs du Mal) - Charles BaudelaireToi qui, comme un coup de couteau,<br />Dans mon coeur plaintif es entree,<br />Toi qui, forte comme un troupeau<br />De demons, vins, folle et paree,<br /><br />De mon esprit humilie<br />Faire ton lit et ton domaine;<br />-Infame a qui je suis lie<br />Comme le forcat a la chaine,<br /><br />Comme au jeu le joueur tetu,<br />Comme a la bouteille l'ivrogne,<br />Comme aux vermines la charogne<br />-Maudite, maudite sois-tu!<br /><br />J'ai prie le glaive rapide<br />De conquerir ma liberte,<br />Et j'ai dit au poison perfide<br />De secourir ma lachete.<br /><br />Helas! le poison et le glaive<br />M'ont pris en dedain et m'ont dit:<br />"Tu n'es pas digne qu'on t'enleve<br />A ton esclavage maudit,<br /><br />Imbecile! - de son empire<br />Si nos efforts te delivraient,<br />Tes baisers ressusciteraient<br />Le cadavre de ton vampire!"<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Translation in English):<br /></span><p><span style="font-size:85%;"> You that, like a dagger’s thrust,</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Have entered my complaining heart,</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> You that, stronger than a host</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Of demons, came, wild yet prepared;</span></p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Within my mind’s humility</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> You made your bed and your domain;</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> — Infamous one who’s bound to me</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Like any felon by his chain,<br /><br /><br /></span> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Like a gambler by his games,</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Like the bottle and the sot,</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Like the worms in one’s remains,</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> — Damn you! Damnation be your lot!</span></p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> I’ve begged the merciful, swift sword</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> To overcome my liberty —</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> To poison I have said the word:</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Save me from poltroonery.</span></p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Alas the sword! Alas the poison!</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Contemptuous, they spoke to me:</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> "You never can deserve remission</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Of your accursed slavery,</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p> <span style="font-size:85%;"></span> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Imbecile! — If our deadly empire</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Freed you from your present fate,</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> Your kiss would soon resuscitate</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> The cold cadaver of your vampire!"</span></p><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">translation source:</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.geocities.com/mahtezcatpoc/baudelaire-vampire.html">http://www.geocities.com/mahtezcatpoc/baudelaire-vampire.html</a></span>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-84227488638478407152008-12-13T11:56:00.003+02:002008-12-13T11:59:33.338+02:00Lamia - Part II - John KeatsPart II<br /><br />Love in a hut, with water and a crust,<br />Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust;<br />Love in a palace is perhaps at last<br />More grievous torment than a hermit's fast -<br />That is a doubtful tale from faery land,<br />Hard for the non-elect to understand.<br />Had Lycius liv'd to hand his story down,<br />He might have given the moral a fresh frown,<br />Or clench'd it quite: but too short was their bliss<br />To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.<br />Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare,<br />Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,<br />Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar,<br />Above the lintel of their chamber door,<br />And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.<br /><br /> For all this came a ruin: side by side<br />They were enthroned, in the even tide,<br />Upon a couch, near to a curtaining<br />Whose airy texture, from a golden string,<br />Floated into the room, and let appear<br />Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear,<br />Betwixt two marble shafts: - there they reposed,<br />Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,<br />Saving a tythe which love still open kept,<br />That they might see each other while they almost slept;<br />When from the slope side of a suburb hill,<br />Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill<br />Of trumpets - Lycius started - the sounds fled,<br />But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.<br />For the first time, since first he harbour'd in<br />That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,<br />His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn<br />Into the noisy world almost forsworn.<br />The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,<br />Saw this with pain, so arguing a want<br />Of something more, more than her empery<br />Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh<br />Because he mused beyond her, knowing well<br />That but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell.<br />"Why do you sigh, fair creature?" whisper'd he:<br />"Why do you think?" return'd she tenderly:<br />"You have deserted me - where am I now?<br />Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow:<br />No, no, you have dismiss'd me; and I go<br />From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so."<br />He answer'd, bending to her open eyes,<br />Where he was mirror'd small in paradise,<br />My silver planet, both of eve and morn!<br />Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,<br />While I am striving how to fill my heart<br />With deeper crimson, and a double smart?<br />How to entangle, trammel up and snare<br />Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there<br />Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose?<br />Ay, a sweet kiss - you see your mighty woes.<br />My thoughts! shall I unveil them? Listen then!<br />What mortal hath a prize, that other men<br />May be confounded and abash'd withal,<br />But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,<br />And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice<br />Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice.<br />Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,<br />While through the thronged streets your bridal car<br />Wheels round its dazzling spokes." The lady's cheek<br />Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek,<br />Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain<br />Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain<br />Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung,<br />To change his purpose. He thereat was stung,<br />Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim<br />Her wild and timid nature to his aim:<br />Besides, for all his love, in self despite,<br />Against his better self, he took delight<br />Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.<br />His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue<br />Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible<br />In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell.<br />Fine was the mitigated fury, like<br />Apollo's presence when in act to strike<br />The serpent - Ha, the serpent! certes, she<br />Was none. She burnt, she lov'd the tyranny,<br />And, all subdued, consented to the hour<br />When to the bridal he should lead his paramour.<br />Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth,<br />"Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth,<br />I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee<br />Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny,<br />As still I do. Hast any mortal name,<br />Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?<br />Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth,<br />To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth?"<br />"I have no friends," said Lamia," no, not one;<br />My presence in wide Corinth hardly known:<br />My parents' bones are in their dusty urns<br />Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns,<br />Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me,<br />And I neglect the holy rite for thee.<br />Even as you list invite your many guests;<br />But if, as now it seems, your vision rests<br />With any pleasure on me, do not bid<br />Old Apollonius - from him keep me hid."<br />Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank,<br />Made close inquiry; from whose touch she shrank,<br />Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade<br />Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd<br /><br /> It was the custom then to bring away<br />The bride from home at blushing shut of day,<br />Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along<br />By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song,<br />With other pageants: but this fair unknown<br />Had not a friend. So being left alone,<br />(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin)<br />And knowing surely she could never win<br />His foolish heart from its mad pompousness,<br />She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress<br />The misery in fit magnificence.<br />She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence<br />Came, and who were her subtle servitors.<br />About the halls, and to and from the doors,<br />There was a noise of wings, till in short space<br />The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace.<br />A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone<br />Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan<br />Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.<br />Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade<br />Of palm and plantain, met from either side,<br />High in the midst, in honour of the bride:<br />Two palms and then two plantains, and so on,<br />From either side their stems branch'd one to one<br />All down the aisled place; and beneath all<br />There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.<br />So canopied, lay an untasted feast<br />Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest,<br />Silently paced about, and as she went,<br />In pale contented sort of discontent,<br />Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich<br />The fretted splendour of each nook and niche.<br />Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,<br />Came jasper pannels; then, anon, there burst<br />Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees,<br />And with the larger wove in small intricacies.<br />Approving all, she faded at self-will,<br />And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still,<br />Complete and ready for the revels rude,<br />When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.<br /><br /> The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout.<br />O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout<br />The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours,<br />And show to common eyes these secret bowers?<br />The herd approach'd; each guest, with busy brain,<br />Arriving at the portal, gaz'd amain,<br />And enter'd marveling: for they knew the street,<br />Remember'd it from childhood all complete<br />Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen<br />That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne;<br />So in they hurried all, maz'd, curious and keen:<br />Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe,<br />And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere;<br />'Twas Apollonius: something too he laugh'd,<br />As though some knotty problem, that had daft<br />His patient thought, had now begun to thaw,<br />And solve and melt - 'twas just as he foresaw.<br /><br /> He met within the murmurous vestibule<br />His young disciple. "'Tis no common rule,<br />Lycius," said he, "for uninvited guest<br />To force himself upon you, and infest<br />With an unbidden presence the bright throng<br />Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong,<br />And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and led<br />The old man through the inner doors broad-spread;<br />With reconciling words and courteous mien<br />Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen.<br /><br /> Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,<br />Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume:<br />Before each lucid pannel fuming stood<br />A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,<br />Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,<br />Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft<br />Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke<br />From fifty censers their light voyage took<br />To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose<br />Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous.<br />Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,<br />High as the level of a man's breast rear'd<br />On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold<br />Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told<br />Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine<br />Come from the gloomy tun with merry shine.<br />Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,<br />Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.<br /><br /> When in an antichamber every guest<br />Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd,<br />By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,<br />And fragrant oils with ceremony meet<br />Pour'd on his hair, they all mov'd to the feast<br />In white robes, and themselves in order placed<br />Around the silken couches, wondering<br />Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring.<br /><br /> Soft went the music the soft air along,<br />While fluent Greek a vowel'd undersong<br />Kept up among the guests discoursing low<br />At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;<br />But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains,<br />Louder they talk, and louder come the strains<br />Of powerful instruments - the gorgeous dyes,<br />The space, the splendour of the draperies,<br />The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,<br />Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear,<br />Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,<br />And every soul from human trammels freed,<br />No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine,<br />Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.<br />Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height;<br />Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:<br />Garlands of every green, and every scent<br />From vales deflower'd, or forest-trees branch rent,<br />In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought<br />High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought<br />Of every guest; that each, as he did please,<br />Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease.<br /><br /> What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?<br />What for the sage, old Apollonius?<br />Upon her aching forehead be there hung<br />The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue;<br />And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him<br />The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim<br />Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage,<br />Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage<br />War on his temples. Do not all charms fly<br />At the mere touch of cold philosophy?<br />There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:<br />We know her woof, her texture; she is given<br />In the dull catalogue of common things.<br />Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,<br />Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,<br />Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine -<br />Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made<br />The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.<br /><br /> By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,<br />Scarce saw in all the room another face,<br />Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took<br />Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look<br />'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance<br />From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance,<br />And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher<br />Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir<br />Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,<br />Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.<br />Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch,<br />As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:<br />'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;<br />Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains<br />Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.<br />"Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?<br />Know'st thou that man?" Poor Lamia answer'd not.<br />He gaz'd into her eyes, and not a jot<br />Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:<br />More, more he gaz'd: his human senses reel:<br />Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;<br />There was no recognition in those orbs.<br />"Lamia!" he cried - and no soft-toned reply.<br />The many heard, and the loud revelry<br />Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes;<br />The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths.<br />By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;<br />A deadly silence step by step increased,<br />Until it seem'd a horrid presence there,<br />And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.<br />"Lamia!" he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriek<br />With its sad echo did the silence break.<br />"Begone, foul dream!" he cried, gazing again<br />In the bride's face, where now no azure vein<br />Wander'd on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom<br />Misted the cheek; no passion to illume<br />The deep-recessed vision - all was blight;<br />Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.<br />"Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!<br />Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban<br />Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images<br />Here represent their shadowy presences,<br />May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn<br />Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,<br />In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright<br />Of conscience, for their long offended might,<br />For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,<br />Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.<br />Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch!<br />Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch<br />Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!<br />My sweet bride withers at their potency."<br />"Fool!" said the sophist, in an under-tone<br />Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan<br />From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost,<br />He sank supine beside the aching ghost.<br />"Fool! Fool!" repeated he, while his eyes still<br />Relented not, nor mov'd; "from every ill<br />Of life have I preserv'd thee to this day,<br />And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?"<br />Then Lamia breath'd death breath; the sophist's eye,<br />Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,<br />Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well<br />As her weak hand could any meaning tell,<br />Motion'd him to be silent; vainly so,<br />He look'd and look'd again a level - No!<br />"A Serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said,<br />Than with a frightful scream she vanished:<br />And Lycius' arms were empty of delight,<br />As were his limbs of life, from that same night.<br />On the high couch he lay! - his friends came round<br />Supported him - no pulse, or breath they found,<br />And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-46110080407785316342008-11-01T20:27:00.005+02:002008-11-01T20:43:57.755+02:00Twilight: the new frenzy by Stephenie Meyer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQoy5errxaL4dlGyKIN77XalRBk-H0Qy1BaUGqEBGebCis91lV_0KFRzCZ1HgPgXUg3j-wVXw-ypJtA8z_MUS3ag936eXSkjnoP5NzlFwlrnt3S5P9OuIwegDSBjsitSDAjiHYvd8v04U/s1600-h/twilight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQoy5errxaL4dlGyKIN77XalRBk-H0Qy1BaUGqEBGebCis91lV_0KFRzCZ1HgPgXUg3j-wVXw-ypJtA8z_MUS3ag936eXSkjnoP5NzlFwlrnt3S5P9OuIwegDSBjsitSDAjiHYvd8v04U/s320/twilight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263757733643080882" border="0" /></a>It's been almost two months since the last time I wrote in this blog and now I feel once again the need to share my thoughts with you. The main incentive was actually the reading of <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight </span>by Stephenie Meyer, the first of the author's Twilight saga.<br /><br />To be honest I enjoyed the story of the book very much and I really loved the way Meyer pictured this new type of vampires. I was afraid that the book would try too much to be close to what Anne Rice suggested that it would lose its fun. But it was nothing like that. Certainly this book is addressed to a younger group of people, mostly to adolescents or to those who still feel of that age. One more aspect that made me love it is that it was breath-taking -I've read it into 24 hours - and well-plotted. I haven't felt like that since the last time I've read Harry Potter!<br /><br />So, I have finally realized what was all the fuss about. With the upcoming movie and the internet frenzy I wanted to figure out if its fans were right. And in my opinion they were, because once in a while you need this kind of literature to take you out of your miserable reality and to make you hope that somewhere else might be something different. Anyway, if you want to escape reality <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight </span>would be a nice and 'safe' pill. And if you are for ultimate love stories <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight </span>will be one of your favourite romance novels.<br /><br />I can't wait watching the upcoming movie...Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-30366621594502669662008-09-09T22:56:00.003+03:002008-09-09T23:23:54.755+03:00Shatter (All My Dead Friends) - London After Midnight<div style="text-align: center;"><object height="344" width="400"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ANSiSVmB-5Y&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ANSiSVmB-5Y&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="400"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> You're telling me<br />that I'm the most important thing to you,<br />but can't you see?<br />you're killing me with all the things you do,<br />and I really want to believe it's impossible<br />I really want to believe it's all a dream,<br />but I just can't seem to wake up,<br />I just can't seem to turn on the light,<br />one step off the edge<br />and the world will seem all right<br /><br />You did it again,<br />yes you in the mirror,<br />you put your faith in a cruel world,<br />All my dead friends come to haunt, harm and hinder,<br />never letting go,<br />here to drag me down to Hell,<br />just say goodbye...<br /><br />Just answer me,<br />what was the point of all that treachery,<br />and soon we'll see<br />the truth behind all of your blasphemy,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> No never again</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I'll never trust no one again,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I'd sooner slit my wrists and risk discovery of Hell,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> than stay another moment here where certain Devils dwell...</span></div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-64918524541153469252008-08-17T12:43:00.003+03:002008-08-17T12:52:14.686+03:00Lamia - Part I - John KeatsPart I<br /><br />Upon a time, before the faery broods<br />Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,<br />Before King Oberon's bright diadem,<br />Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem,<br />Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns<br />From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip'd lawns,<br />The ever-smitten Hermes empty left<br />His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:<br />From high Olympus had he stolen light,<br />On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight<br />Of his great summoner, and made retreat<br />Into a forest on the shores of Crete.<br />For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt<br />A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;<br />At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured<br />Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored.<br />Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,<br />And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,<br />Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,<br />Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose.<br />Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!<br />So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat<br />Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,<br />That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,<br />Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair,<br />Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.<br />From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,<br />Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,<br />And wound with many a river to its head,<br />To find where this sweet nymph prepar'd her secret bed:<br />In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,<br />And so he rested, on the lonely ground,<br />Pensive, and full of painful jealousies<br />Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.<br />There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,<br />Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys<br />All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake:<br />"When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake!<br />When move in a sweet body fit for life,<br />And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife<br />Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!"<br />The God, dove-footed, glided silently<br />Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,<br />The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,<br />Until he found a palpitating snake,<br />Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.<br /><br /> She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,<br />Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;<br />Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,<br />Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd;<br />And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,<br />Dissolv'd, or brighter shone, or interwreathed<br />Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries -<br />So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries,<br />She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf,<br />Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.<br />Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire<br />Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar:<br />Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!<br />She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete:<br />And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there<br />But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?<br />As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.<br />Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake<br />Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake,<br />And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,<br />Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey.<br /><br /> "Fair Hermes, crown'd with feathers, fluttering light,<br />I had a splendid dream of thee last night:<br />I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,<br />Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,<br />The only sad one; for thou didst not hear<br />The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chaunting clear,<br />Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,<br />Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious moan.<br />I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,<br />Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks,<br />And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart,<br />Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art!<br />Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?"<br />Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd<br />His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:<br />"Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high inspired!<br />Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,<br />Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise,<br />Telling me only where my nymph is fled, -<br />Where she doth breathe!" "Bright planet, thou hast said,"<br />Return'd the snake, "but seal with oaths, fair God!"<br />"I swear," said Hermes, "by my serpent rod,<br />And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown!"<br />Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.<br />Then thus again the brilliance feminine:<br />"Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine,<br />Free as the air, invisibly, she strays<br />About these thornless wilds; her pleasant days<br />She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet<br />Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;<br />From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green,<br />She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:<br />And by my power is her beauty veil'd<br />To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd<br />By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,<br />Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs.<br />Pale grew her immortality, for woe<br />Of all these lovers, and she grieved so<br />I took compassion on her, bade her steep<br />Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep<br />Her loveliness invisible, yet free<br />To wander as she loves, in liberty.<br />Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,<br />If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!"<br />Then, once again, the charmed God began<br />An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran<br />Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.<br />Ravish'd, she lifted her Circean head,<br />Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said,<br />"I was a woman, let me have once more<br />A woman's shape, and charming as before.<br />I love a youth of Corinth - O the bliss!<br />Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is.<br />Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,<br />And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now."<br />The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,<br />She breath'd upon his eyes, and swift was seen<br />Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.<br />It was no dream; or say a dream it was,<br />Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass<br />Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.<br />One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem<br />Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd;<br />Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd<br />To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm,<br />Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm.<br />So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent,<br />Full of adoring tears and blandishment,<br />And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,<br />Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain<br />Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower<br />That faints into itself at evening hour:<br />But the God fostering her chilled hand,<br />She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland,<br />And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,<br />Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees.<br />Into the green-recessed woods they flew;<br />Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.<br /><br /> Left to herself, the serpent now began<br />To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,<br />Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent,<br />Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent;<br />Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear,<br />Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,<br />Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.<br />The colours all inflam'd throughout her train,<br />She writh'd about, convuls'd with scarlet pain:<br />A deep volcanian yellow took the place<br />Of all her milder-mooned body's grace;<br />And, as the lava ravishes the mead,<br />Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede;<br />Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,<br />Eclips'd her crescents, and lick'd up her stars:<br />So that, in moments few, she was undrest<br />Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,<br />And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,<br />Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.<br />Still shone her crown; that vanish'd, also she<br />Melted and disappear'd as suddenly;<br />And in the air, her new voice luting soft,<br />Cried, "Lycius! gentle Lycius!" - Borne aloft<br />With the bright mists about the mountains hoar<br />These words dissolv'd: Crete's forests heard no more.<br /><br /> Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,<br />A full-born beauty new and exquisite?<br />She fled into that valley they pass o'er<br />Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore;<br />And rested at the foot of those wild hills,<br />The rugged founts of the Peraean rills,<br />And of that other ridge whose barren back<br />Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,<br />South-westward to Cleone. There she stood<br />About a young bird's flutter from a wood,<br />Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,<br />By a clear pool, wherein she passioned<br />To see herself escap'd from so sore ills,<br />While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.<br /><br /> Ah, happy Lycius! - for she was a maid<br />More beautiful than ever twisted braid,<br />Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered lea<br />Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:<br />A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore<br />Of love deep learned to the red heart's core:<br />Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain<br />To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain;<br />Define their pettish limits, and estrange<br />Their points of contact, and swift counterchange;<br />Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart<br />Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art;<br />As though in Cupid's college she had spent<br />Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,<br />And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.<br /><br /> Why this fair creature chose so fairily<br />By the wayside to linger, we shall see;<br />But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse<br />And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,<br />Of all she list, strange or magnificent:<br />How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went;<br />Whether to faint Elysium, or where<br />Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair<br />Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair;<br />Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,<br />Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;<br />Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine<br />Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line.<br />And sometimes into cities she would send<br />Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend;<br />And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,<br />She saw the young Corinthian Lycius<br />Charioting foremost in the envious race,<br />Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,<br />And fell into a swooning love of him.<br />Now on the moth-time of that evening dim<br />He would return that way, as well she knew,<br />To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew<br />The eastern soft wind, and his galley now<br />Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow<br />In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle<br />Fresh anchor'd; whither he had been awhile<br />To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there<br />Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.<br />Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire;<br />For by some freakful chance he made retire<br />From his companions, and set forth to walk,<br />Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk:<br />Over the solitary hills he fared,<br />Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appeared<br />His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,<br />In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades.<br />Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near -<br />Close to her passing, in indifference drear,<br />His silent sandals swept the mossy green;<br />So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen<br />She stood: he pass'd, shut up in mysteries,<br />His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes<br />Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white<br />Turn'd - syllabling thus, "Ah, Lycius bright,<br />And will you leave me on the hills alone?<br />Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown."<br />He did; not with cold wonder fearingly,<br />But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice;<br />For so delicious were the words she sung,<br />It seem'd he had lov'd them a whole summer long:<br />And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,<br />Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,<br />And still the cup was full, - while he afraid<br />Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid<br />Due adoration, thus began to adore;<br />Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:<br />"Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see<br />Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!<br />For pity do not this sad heart belie -<br />Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.<br />Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!<br />To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:<br />Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,<br />Alone they can drink up the morning rain:<br />Though a descended Pleiad, will not one<br />Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune<br />Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?<br />So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine<br />Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade<br />Thy memory will waste me to a shade -<br />For pity do not melt!" - "If I should stay,"<br />Said Lamia, "here, upon this floor of clay,<br />And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,<br />What canst thou say or do of charm enough<br />To dull the nice remembrance of my home?<br />Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam<br />Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, -<br />Empty of immortality and bliss!<br />Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know<br />That finer spirits cannot breathe below<br />In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,<br />What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe<br />My essence? What serener palaces,<br />Where I may all my many senses please,<br />And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?<br />It cannot be - Adieu!" So said, she rose<br />Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose<br />The amorous promise of her lone complain,<br />Swoon'd, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.<br />The cruel lady, without any show<br />Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe,<br />But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,<br />With brighter eyes and slow amenity,<br />Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh<br />The life she had so tangled in her mesh:<br />And as he from one trance was wakening<br />Into another, she began to sing,<br />Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,<br />A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,<br />While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires<br />And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone,<br />As those who, safe together met alone<br />For the first time through many anguish'd days,<br />Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise<br />His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,<br />For that she was a woman, and without<br />Any more subtle fluid in her veins<br />Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains<br />Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.<br />And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss<br />Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,<br />She dwelt but half retir'd, and there had led<br />Days happy as the gold coin could invent<br />Without the aid of love; yet in content<br />Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by,<br />Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully<br />At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd<br />Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd<br />Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before<br />The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,<br />But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?<br />Lycius from death awoke into amaze,<br />To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;<br />Then from amaze into delight he fell<br />To hear her whisper woman's lore so well;<br />And every word she spake entic'd him on<br />To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known.<br />Let the mad poets say whate'er they please<br />Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,<br />There is not such a treat among them all,<br />Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,<br />As a real woman, lineal indeed<br />From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.<br />Thus gentle Lamia judg'd, and judg'd aright,<br />That Lycius could not love in half a fright,<br />So threw the goddess off, and won his heart<br />More pleasantly by playing woman's part,<br />With no more awe than what her beauty gave,<br />That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.<br />Lycius to all made eloquent reply,<br />Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;<br />And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet,<br />If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet.<br />The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness<br />Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease<br />To a few paces; not at all surmised<br />By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.<br />They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how<br />So noiseless, and he never thought to know.<br /><br /> As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,<br />Throughout her palaces imperial,<br />And all her populous streets and temples lewd,<br />Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd,<br />To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.<br />Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,<br />Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white,<br />Companion'd or alone; while many a light<br />Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,<br />And threw their moving shadows on the walls,<br />Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade<br />Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade.<br /><br /> Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,<br />Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near<br />With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,<br />Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown:<br />Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,<br />Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,<br />While hurried Lamia trembled: "Ah," said he,<br />"Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?<br />Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?" -<br />"I'm wearied," said fair Lamia: "tell me who<br />Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind<br />His features - Lycius! wherefore did you blind<br />Yourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius replied,<br />'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide<br />And good instructor; but to-night he seems<br />The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.<br /><br /> While yet he spake they had arrived before<br />A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door,<br />Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow<br />Reflected in the slabbed steps below,<br />Mild as a star in water; for so new,<br />And so unsullied was the marble hue,<br />So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,<br />Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine<br />Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds Aeolian<br />Breath'd from the hinges, as the ample span<br />Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown<br />Some time to any, but those two alone,<br />And a few Persian mutes, who that same year<br />Were seen about the markets: none knew where<br />They could inhabit; the most curious<br />Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house:<br />And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,<br />For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel,<br />'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,<br />Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-40461711864872976352008-08-12T12:05:00.009+03:002008-08-12T12:50:20.907+03:00Faust (1926) - F.W. MurnauThough F.W.Murnau is a German Expressionist director that is famous for his film <a href="http://sublimeromance.blogspot.com/2007/04/nosferatu-symphony-of-horrors.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Nosferatu, A Symphony of Horrors</span></a>, also created another film, Faust (1926) that is considered by the critics as his masterpiece. The story depicts the legendary figure of Faust as it has been described by Goethe. Thanks to the Google Video you can now watch the movie free and quite easily. If anyone actually chooses to watch the video or has already watched the movie, it would be a pleasure to tell me his thoughts.<br /><br /><embed id="VideoPlayback" style="width: 400px; height: 400px;" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docid=7688523464781787807&hl=en&fs=true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-61623003132566125772008-08-06T21:11:00.001+03:002008-08-06T21:13:49.043+03:00William Wilson - Edgar Allan Poe<pre>What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,<br />That spectre in my path?<br /><br /> <i>Chamberlayne's Pharronida.</i><br /><br /></pre><p> LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn—for the horror—for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned!—to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations?—and a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven? </p> <p> I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This epoch—these later years—took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy—I had nearly said for the pity—of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a wilderness of error. I would have them allow—what they cannot refrain from allowing—that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before—certainly, never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered? Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all sublunary visions? </p> <p> I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to myself. I grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age when few children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of my own actions. </p> <p> My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep. </p> <p> It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am—misery, alas! only too real—I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognise the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember. </p> <p> The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like rampart formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week—once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body through some of the neighbouring fields—and twice during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast,—-could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution! </p> <p> At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire! It was never opened save for the three periodical egressions and ingressions already mentioned; then, in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery—a world of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation. </p> <p> The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs; but through this sacred division we passed only upon rare occasions indeed—such as a first advent to school or final departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer holy-days. </p> <p> But the house!—how quaint an old building was this!—to me how veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its windings—to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult, at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable—inconceivable—and so returning in upon themselves, that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars. </p> <p> The school-room was the largest in the house—I could not help thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, "during hours," of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the "Dominic," we would all have willingly perished by the peine forte et dure. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of the "classical" usher, one of the "English and mathematical." Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous dimensions at the other. </p> <p> Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident to occupy or amuse it; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first mental development had in it much of the uncommon—even much of the outre. Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression. All is gray shadow—a weak and irregular remembrance—an indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the exergues of the Carthaginian medals. </p> <p> Yet in fact—in the fact of the world's view—how little was there to remember! The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to bed; the connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues;—these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring. "Oh, le bon temps, que ce siecle de fer!" </p> <p> In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my schoolmates, and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself;—over all with a single exception. This exception was found in the person of a scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same Christian and surname as myself;—a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable; for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those everyday appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson,—a fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted "our set," presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class—in the sports and broils of the play-ground—to refuse implicit belief in my assertions, and submission to my will—indeed, to interfere with my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a master mind in boyhood over the less energetic spirits of its companions. </p> <p> Wilson's rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrassment;—the more so as, in spite of the bravado with which in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I secretly felt that I feared him, and could not help thinking the equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a proof of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority—even this equality—was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by some unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially his impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify myself; although there were times when I could not help observing, with a feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, and assuredly most unwelcome affectionateness of manner. I could only conceive this singular behavior to arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage and protection. </p> <p> Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson's conduct, conjoined with our identity of name, and the mere accident of our having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire with much strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby's, I casually learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January, 1813—and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day is precisely that of my own nativity. </p> <p> It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on his own, kept us always upon what are called "speaking terms," while there were many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to awake me in a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real feelings towards him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous admixture;—some petulant animosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself were the most inseparable of companions. </p> <p> It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which turned all my attacks upon him, (and they were many, either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical joke (giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and determined hostility. But my endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful, even when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that, lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist less at his wit's end than myself;—my rival had a weakness in the faucal or guttural organs, which precluded him from raising his voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did not fall to take what poor advantage lay in my power. </p> <p> Wilson's retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form of his practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a question I never could solve; but, having discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plebeian praenomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon the day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its twofold repetition, who would be constantly in my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable coincidence, be often confounded with my own. </p> <p> The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical, between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the remarkable fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I perceived that we were even singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of feature. I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship, which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing could more seriously disturb me, (although I scrupulously concealed such disturbance,) than any allusion to a similarity of mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself,) this similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, or even observed at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance, can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary penetration. </p> <p> His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key, it was identical; and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own. </p> <p> How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not justly be termed a caricature,) I will not now venture to describe. I had but one consolation—in the fact that the imitation, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavours might have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the master air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter, (which in a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin. </p> <p> I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent officious interference withy my will. This interference often took the ungracious character of advice; advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own; and that I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly despised. </p> <p> As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his distasteful supervision, and daily resented more and more openly what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in the first years of our connexion as schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been easily ripened into friendship: but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding me. </p> <p> It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of demeanor rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy—wild, confused and thronging memories of a time when memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed me than by saying that I could with difficulty shake off the belief of my having been acquainted with the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago—some point of the past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came; and I mention it at all but to define the day of the last conversation I there held with my singular namesake. </p> <p> The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large chambers communicating with each other, where slept the greater number of the students. There were, however, (as must necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned,) many little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these small apartments was occupied by Wilson. </p> <p> One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately after the altercation just mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long been plotting one of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to put my scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him feel the whole extent of the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his tranquil breathing. Assured of his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment, upon his countenance. I looked;—and a numbness, an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an objectless yet intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were these—these the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as if with a fit of the ague in fancying they were not. What was there about them to confound me in this manner? I gazed;—while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he appeared—assuredly not thus—in the vivacity of his waking hours. The same name! the same contour of person! the same day of arrival at the academy! And then his dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation? Awe-stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again. </p> <p> After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby's, or at least to effect a material change in the nature of the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth—the tragedy—of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt the evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at all but with wonder at extent of human credulity, and a smile at the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past hours, engulfed at once every solid or serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest levities of a former existence. </p> <p> I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy here—a profligacy which set at defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly, passed without profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of the most dissolute students to a secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for our debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had already faintly appeared in the east, while our delirious extravagance was at its height. Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted by the violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall. </p> <p> Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather delighted than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this low and small room there hung no lamp; and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my own height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light enabled me to perceive; but the features of his face I could not distinguish. Upon my entering he strode hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by. the arm with a gesture of petulant impatience, whispered the words "William Wilson!" in my ear. </p> <p> I grew perfectly sober in an instant. There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement; but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing utterance; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables, which came with a thousand thronging memories of bygone days, and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover the use of my senses he was gone. </p> <p> Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disordered imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of the singular individual who thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this Wilson?—and whence came he?—and what were his purposes? Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied; merely ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby's academy on the afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to think upon the subject; my attention being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit and annual establishment, which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart,—to vie in profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain. </p> <p> Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament broke forth with redoubled ardor, and I spurned even the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief appendix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of Europe. </p> <p> It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having become an adept in his despicable science, to practise it habitually as a means of increasing my already enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity of this offence against all manly and honourable sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impunity with which it was committed. Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson—the noblest and most commoner at Oxford—him whose follies (said his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy—whose errors but inimitable whim—whose darkest vice but a careless and dashing extravagance? </p> <p> I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the university a young parvenu nobleman, Glendinning—rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus—his riches, too, as easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler's usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be final and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr. Preston,) equally intimate with both, but who, to do him Justice, entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give to this a better colouring, I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary upon similar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim. </p> <p> We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length effected the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite ecarte! The rest of the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were standing around us as spectators. The parvenu, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In a very short period he had become my debtor to a large amount, when, having taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what I had been coolly anticipating—he proposed to double our already extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some angry words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, did I finally comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey was in my toils; in less than an hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to my astonishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet lost, although in themselves vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than from any less interested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of Glendinning, gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend. </p> <p> What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all; and, for some moments, a profound silence was maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many burning glances of scorn or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that an intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which ensued. The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total; and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the intruder. </p> <p> "Gentlemen," he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very marrow of my bones, "Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour, because in thus behaving, I am but fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who has to-night won at ecarte a large sum of money from Lord Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon an expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information. Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper." </p> <p> While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I—shall I describe my sensations?—must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned? Most assuredly I had little time given for reflection. Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately reprocured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all the court cards essential in ecarte, and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of those used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of the species called, technically, arrondees; the honours being slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the length of the pack, will invariably find that he cuts his antagonist an honor; while the gambler, cutting at the breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may count in the records of the game. </p> <p> Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure, with which it was received. </p> <p> "Mr. Wilson," said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, "Mr. Wilson, this is your property." (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the scene of play.) "I presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with a bitter smile) for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed, we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of quitting Oxford—at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers." </p> <p> Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should have resented this galling language by immediate personal violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare description of fur; how rare, how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon the floor, and near the folding doors of the apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that the one presented me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible particular. The singular being who had so disastrously exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none had been worn at all by any of the members of our party with the exception of myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own; left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day, commenced a hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame. </p> <p> I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and proved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious dominion had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I had fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no relief. Villain!—at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! At Vienna, too—at Berlin—and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain. </p> <p> And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I demand the questions "Who is he?—whence came he?—and what are his objects?" But no answer was there found. And then I scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits of his impertinent supervision. But even here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied! </p> <p> I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time, (while scrupulously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with myself,) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton—in the destroyer of my honor at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt,—that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, could fall to recognise the William Wilson of my school boy days,—the namesake, the companion, the rival,—the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby's? Impossible!—But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama. </p> <p> Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain other traits in his nature and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to murmur,—to hesitate,—to resist. And was it only fancy which induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness, that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be enslaved. </p> <p> It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18—, that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine-table; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty, too, of forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a little to the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking, (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret of the costume in which she would be habited, and now, having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence.—At this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable whisper within my ear. </p> <p> In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether similar to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask of black silk entirely covered his face. </p> <p> "Scoundrel!" I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury, "scoundrel! impostor! accursed villain! you shall not—you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!"—and I broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante-chamber adjoining—dragging him unresistingly with me as I went. </p> <p> Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then, with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his defence. </p> <p> The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom. </p> <p> At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then presented to view? The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror,—so at first it seemed to me in my confusion—now stood where none had been perceptible before; and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait. </p> <p> Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist—it was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment—not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not, even in the most absolute identity, mine own! </p> <p> It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said: </p> <p> "You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead—dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself." </p>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-68252378461052793312008-07-21T11:24:00.007+03:002008-12-29T15:06:22.318+02:00Wishful Beginnings - David Bowie & Brian Eno<div style="text-align: center;"><embed src="http://static.boomp3.com/player.swf?song=bz9bnjo5a_o" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" allowscriptaccess="always" align="middle" width="200" height="20"></embed></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd6DEM7mEEpjr49yxXJ3D5URSzTo9lSjD2E4LSd_eGCTZOjN0fKSHkwT85ckb0gYNVYnu-dhdPNcQRTqFkAXdOZP7kPVfmvroWW5te37lmm292MvMajAHkcfW8LM6zcGMPIaOfSfOTbw/s1600-h/Daddy__s_Girl_by_platinumgoddess.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd6DEM7mEEpjr49yxXJ3D5URSzTo9lSjD2E4LSd_eGCTZOjN0fKSHkwT85ckb0gYNVYnu-dhdPNcQRTqFkAXdOZP7kPVfmvroWW5te37lmm292MvMajAHkcfW8LM6zcGMPIaOfSfOTbw/s320/Daddy__s_Girl_by_platinumgoddess.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225409127935932386" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Cruising around me<br />the flames burn my body<br />Wishful beginnings<br />Does this remind them again & again<br />You're a sorry little girl<br />You're a sorry little girl<br />Please hide,<br />for the pain must feel<br />like snow<br />You're a sorry little girl<br />Sorry little girl<br /><br />Please hide from the kiss and the bite<br />Shame burns<br />Breathing in, breathing out<br />Breathing in only doubt<br />The pain must feel like snow<br />I'm no longer your golden boy<br />Sorry little girl<br />I'm sorry little girl<br /><br />The pain must feel like snow<br />There you go<br />Cover me, cover me<br />We flew on the wings<br />We were deep in the dead air<br />And this one will never go down<br /><br />We had such<br />wishful beginnings<br />But we lived<br />unbearable lives<br />I'm sorry little girl<br />Sorry little girl<br />So so sorry little girl<br /><br />The pain must feel like snow<br />There you go<br />There you go<br /></div><br /><br />photo: <a href="http://platinumgoddess.deviantart.com/art/Daddy-s-Girl-78297590">deviantArt</a>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-73698690768144770722008-07-16T12:18:00.001+03:002008-07-16T12:20:26.871+03:00The Birthmark - Nathaniel Hawthorne<p>In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to his own.</p> <p>Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.</p> <p>"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?"</p> <p>"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth it has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."</p> <p>"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection."</p> <p>"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you!"</p> <p>To explain this conversation it must be mentioned that in the centre of Georgiana's left cheek there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state of her complexion--a healthy though delicate bloom--the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. When she blushed it gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting motion caused her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human hand, though of the smallest pygmy size. Georgiana's lovers were wont to say that some fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand upon the infant's cheek, and left this impress there in token of the magic endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy sign manual varied exceedingly, according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious persons--but they were exclusively of her own sex--affirmed that the bloody hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the effect of Georgiana's beauty, and rendered her countenance even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small blue stains which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage,--for he thought little or nothing of the matter before,--Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.</p> <p>Had she been less beautiful,--if Envy's self could have found aught else to sneer at,--he might have felt his affection heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now stealing forth again and glimmering to and fro with every pulse of emotion that throbbed within her heart; but seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The crimson hand expressed the ineludible gripe in which mortality clutches the highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their visible frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of his wife's liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmer's sombre imagination was not long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight.</p> <p>At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably and without intending it, nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary, reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of thought and modes of feeling that it became the central point of all. With the morning twilight Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening hearth his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood fire, the spectral hand that wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance with the peculiar expression that his face often wore to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness, amid which the crimson hand was brought strongly out, like a bass-relief of ruby on the whitest marble.</p> <p>Late one night when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly to betray the stain on the poor wife's cheek, she herself, for the first time, voluntarily took up the subject.</p> <p>"Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble attempt at a smile, "have you any recollection of a dream last night about this odious hand?"</p> <p>"None! none whatever!" replied Aylmer, starting; but then he added, in a dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing the real depth of his emotion, "I might well dream of it; for before I fell asleep it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy."</p> <p>"And you did dream of it?" continued Georgiana, hastily; for she dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to say. "A terrible dream! I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible to forget this one expression?--'It is in her heart now; we must have it out!' Reflect, my husband; for by all means I would have you recall that dream."</p> <p>The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream. He had fancied himself with his servant Aminadab, attempting an operation for the removal of the birthmark; but the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have caught hold of Georgiana's heart; whence, however, her husband was inexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away.</p> <p>When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory, Aylmer sat in his wife's presence with a guilty feeling. Truth often finds its way to the mind close muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practise an unconscious self-deception during our waking moments. Until now he had not been aware of the tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in his heart to go for the sake of giving himself peace.</p> <p>"Aylmer," resumed Georgiana, solemnly, "I know not what may be the cost to both of us to rid me of this fatal birthmark. Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deformity; or it may be the stain goes as deep as life itself. Again: do we know that there is a possibility, on any terms, of unclasping the firm gripe of this little hand which was laid upon me before I came into the world?"</p> <p>"Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject," hastily interrupted Aylmer. "I am convinced of the perfect practicability of its removal."</p> <p>"If there be the remotest possibility of it," continued Georgiana, "let the attempt be made at whatever risk. Danger is nothing to me; for life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror and disgust,--life is a burden which I would fling down with joy. Either remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life! You have deep science. All the world bears witness of it. You have achieved great wonders. Cannot you remove this little, little mark, which I cover with the tips of two small fingers? Is this beyond your power, for the sake of your own peace, and to save your poor wife from madness?"</p> <p>"Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife," cried Aylmer, rapturously, "doubt not my power. I have already given this matter the deepest thought--thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a being less perfect than yourself. Georgiana, you have led me deeper than ever into the heart of science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow; and then, most beloved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Nature left imperfect in her fairest work! Even Pygmalion, when his sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will be."</p> <p>"It is resolved, then," said Georgiana, faintly smiling. "And, Aylmer, spare me not, though you should find the birthmark take refuge in my heart at last."</p> <p>Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek--her right cheek--not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand.</p> <p>The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed whereby he might have opportunity for the intense thought and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation would require; while Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose essential to its success. They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments occupied by Aylmer as a laboratory, and where, during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental powers of Nature that had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe. Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale philosopher had investigated the secrets of the highest cloud region and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied himself of the causes that kindled and kept alive the fires of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and how it is that they gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth. Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recognition of the truth--against which all seekers sooner or later stumble--that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but results. She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them; but because they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana.</p> <p>As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana was cold and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheerfully into her face, with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of the birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek that he could not restrain a strong convulsive shudder. His wife fainted.</p> <p>"Aminadab! Aminadab!" shouted Aylmer, stamping violently on the floor.</p> <p>Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man of low stature, but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging about his visage, which was grimed with the vapors of the furnace. This personage had been Aylmer's underworker during his whole scientific career, and was admirably fitted for that office by his great mechanical readiness, and the skill with which, while incapable of comprehending a single principle, he executed all the details of his master's experiments. With his vast strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky aspect, and the indescribable earthiness that incrusted him, he seemed to represent man's physical nature; while Aylmer's slender figure, and pale, intellectual face, were no less apt a type of the spiritual element.</p> <p>"Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab," said Aylmer, "and burn a pastil."</p> <p>"Yes, master," answered Aminadab, looking intently at the lifeless form of Georgiana; and then he muttered to himself, "If she were my wife, I'd never part with that birthmark."</p> <p>When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had recalled her from her deathlike faintness. The scene around her looked like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains, which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other species of adornment can achieve; and as they fell from the ceiling to the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. And Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, impurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side, watching her earnestly, but without alarm; for he was confident in his science, and felt that he could draw a magic circle round her within which no evil might intrude.</p> <p>"Where am I? Ah, I remember," said Georgiana, faintly; and she placed her hand over her cheek to hide the terrible mark from her husband's eyes.</p> <p>"Fear not, dearest!" exclaimed he. "Do not shrink from me! Believe me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection, since it will be such a rapture to remove it."</p> <p>"Oh, spare me!" sadly replied his wife. "Pray do not look at it again. I never can forget that convulsive shudder."</p> <p>In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from the burden of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught him among its profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas, and forms of unsubstantial beauty came and danced before her, imprinting their momentary footsteps on beams of light. Though she had some indistinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed sway over the spiritual world. Then again, when she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the procession of external existence flitted across a screen. The scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented, but with that bewitching, yet indescribable difference which always makes a picture, an image, or a shadow so much more attractive than the original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest at first; but was soon startled to perceive the germ of a plant shooting upward from the soil. Then came the slender stalk; the leaves gradually unfolded themselves; and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.</p> <p>"It is magical!" cried Georgiana. "I dare not touch it."</p> <p>"Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer,--"pluck it, and inhale its brief perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few moments and leave nothing save its brown seed vessels; but thence may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself."</p> <p>But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black as if by the agency of fire.</p> <p>"There was too powerful a stimulus," said Aylmer, thoughtfully.</p> <p>To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her portrait by a scientific process of his own invention. It was to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal. Georgiana assented; but, on looking at the result, was affrighted to find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable; while the minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek should have been. Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of corrosive acid.</p> <p>Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of study and chemical experiment he came to her flushed and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of the alchemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal solvent by which the golden principle might be elicited from all things vile and base. Aylmer appeared to believe that, by the plainest scientific logic, it was altogether within the limits of possibility to discover this long-sought medium; "but," he added, "a philosopher who should go deep enough to acquire the power would attain too lofty a wisdom to stoop to the exercise of it." Not less singular were his opinions in regard to the elixir vitae. He more than intimated that it was at his option to concoct a liquid that should prolong life for years, perhaps interminably; but that it would produce a discord in Nature which all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find cause to curse.</p> <p>"Aylmer, are you in earnest?" asked Georgiana, looking at him with amazement and fear. "It is terrible to possess such power, or even to dream of possessing it."</p> <p>"Oh, do not tremble, my love," said her husband. "I would not wrong either you or myself by working such inharmonious effects upon our lives; but I would have you consider how trifling, in comparison, is the skill requisite to remove this little hand."</p> <p>At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if a redhot iron had touched her cheek.</p> <p>Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace room giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer reappeared and proposed that she should now examine his cabinet of chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom. They were of inestimable value, the contents of that little vial; and, as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air and filled the room with piercing and invigorating delight.</p> <p>"And what is this?" asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal globe containing a gold-colored liquid. "It is so beautiful to the eye that I could imagine it the elixir of life."</p> <p>"In one sense it is," replied Aylmer; "or, rather, the elixir of immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted in this world. By its aid I could apportion the lifetime of any mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose would determine whether he were to linger out years, or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king on his guarded throne could keep his life if I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of millions justified me in depriving him of it."</p> <p>"Why do you keep such a terrific drug?" inquired Georgiana in horror.</p> <p>"Do not mistrust me, dearest," said her husband, smiling; "its virtuous potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But see! here is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this in a vase of water, freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek, and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost."</p> <p>"Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?" asked Georgiana, anxiously.</p> <p>"Oh, no," hastily replied her husband; "this is merely superficial. Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper."</p> <p>In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute inquiries as to her sensations and whether the confinement of the rooms and the temperature of the atmosphere agreed with her. These questions had such a particular drift that Georgiana began to conjecture that she was already subjected to certain physical influences, either breathed in with the fragrant air or taken with her food. She fancied likewise, but it might be altogether fancy, that there was a stirring up of her system--a strange, indefinite sensation creeping through her veins, and tingling, half painfully, half pleasurably, at her heart. Still, whenever she dared to look into the mirror, there she beheld herself pale as a white rose and with the crimson birthmark stamped upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as she.</p> <p>To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it necessary to devote to the processes of combination and analysis, Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific library. In many dark old tomes she met with chapters full of romance and poetry. They were the works of philosophers of the middle ages, such as Albertus Magnus, Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and the famous friar who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All these antique naturalists stood in advance of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined themselves to have acquired from the investigation of Nature a power above Nature, and from physics a sway over the spiritual world. Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early volumes of the Transactions of the Royal Society, in which the members, knowing little of the limits of natural possibility, were continually recording wonders or proposing methods whereby wonders might be wrought.</p> <p>But to Georgiana the most engrossing volume was a large folio from her husband's own hand, in which he had recorded every experiment of his scientific career, its original aim, the methods adopted for its development, and its final success or failure, with the circumstances to which either event was attributable. The book, in truth, was both the history and emblem of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet practical and laborious life. He handled physical details as if there were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed himself from materialism by his strong and eager aspiration towards the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced Aylmer and loved him more profoundly than ever, but with a less entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much as he had accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in comparison with the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume, rich with achievements that had won renown for its author, was yet as melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad confession and continual exemplification of the shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter, and of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man of genius in whatever sphere might recognize the image of his own experience in Aylmer's journal.</p> <p>So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that she laid her face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In this situation she was found by her husband.</p> <p>"It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's books," said he with a smile, though his countenance was uneasy and displeased. "Georgiana, there are pages in that volume which I can scarcely glance over and keep my senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you."</p> <p>"It has made me worship you more than ever," said she.</p> <p>"Ah, wait for this one success," rejoined he, "then worship me if you will. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But come, I have sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing to me, dearest."</p> <p>So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave with a boyish exuberance of gayety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a little longer, and that the result was already certain. Scarcely had he departed when Georgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten to inform Aylmer of a symptom which for two or three hours past had begun to excite her attention. It was a sensation in the fatal birthmark, not painful, but which induced a restlessness throughout her system. Hastening after her husband, she intruded for the first time into the laboratory.</p> <p>The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot and feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire, which by the quantities of soot clustered above it seemed to have been burning for ages. There was a distilling apparatus in full operation. Around the room were retorts, tubes, cylinders, crucibles, and other apparatus of chemical research. An electrical machine stood ready for immediate use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was tainted with gaseous odors which had been tormented forth by the processes of science. The severe and homely simplicity of the apartment, with its naked walls and brick pavement, looked strange, accustomed as Georgiana had become to the fantastic elegance of her boudoir. But what chiefly, indeed almost solely, drew her attention, was the aspect of Aylmer himself.</p> <p>He was pale as death, anxious and absorbed, and hung over the furnace as if it depended upon his utmost watchfulness whether the liquid which it was distilling should be the draught of immortal happiness or misery. How different from the sanguine and joyous mien that he had assumed for Georgiana's encouragement!</p> <p>"Carefully now, Aminadab; carefully, thou human machine; carefully, thou man of clay!" muttered Aylmer, more to himself than his assistant. "Now, if there be a thought too much or too little, it is all over."</p> <p>"Ho! ho!" mumbled Aminadab. "Look, master! look!"</p> <p>Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew paler than ever, on beholding Georgiana. He rushed towards her and seized her arm with a gripe that left the print of his fingers upon it.</p> <p>"Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your husband?" cried he, impetuously. "Would you throw the blight of that fatal birthmark over my labors? It is not well done. Go, prying woman, go!"</p> <p>"Nay, Aylmer," said Georgiana with the firmness of which she possessed no stinted endowment, "it is not you that have a right to complain. You mistrust your wife; you have concealed the anxiety with which you watch the development of this experiment. Think not so unworthily of me, my husband. Tell me all the risk we run, and fear not that I shall shrink; for my share in it is far less than your own."</p> <p>"No, no, Georgiana!" said Aylmer, impatiently; "it must not be."</p> <p>"I submit," replied she calmly. "And, Aylmer, I shall quaff whatever draught you bring me; but it will be on the same principle that would induce me to take a dose of poison if offered by your hand."</p> <p>"My noble wife," said Aylmer, deeply moved, "I knew not the height and depth of your nature until now. Nothing shall be concealed. Know, then, that this crimson hand, superficial as it seems, has clutched its grasp into your being with a strength of which I had no previous conception. I have already administered agents powerful enough to do aught except to change your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried. If that fail us we are ruined."</p> <p>"Why did you hesitate to tell me this?" asked she.</p> <p>"Because, Georgiana," said Aylmer, in a low voice, "there is danger."</p> <p>"Danger? There is but one danger--that this horrible stigma shall be left upon my cheek!" cried Georgiana. "Remove it, remove it, whatever be the cost, or we shall both go mad!"</p> <p>"Heaven knows your words are too true," said Aylmer, sadly. "And now, dearest, return to your boudoir. In a little while all will be tested."</p> <p>He conducted her back and took leave of her with a solemn tenderness which spoke far more than his words how much was now at stake. After his departure Georgiana became rapt in musings. She considered the character of Aylmer, and did it completer justice than at any previous moment. Her heart exulted, while it trembled, at his honorable love--so pure and lofty that it would accept nothing less than perfection nor miserably make itself contented with an earthlier nature than he had dreamed of. She felt how much more precious was such a sentiment than that meaner kind which would have borne with the imperfection for her sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its perfect idea to the level of the actual; and with her whole spirit she prayed that, for a single moment, she might satisfy his highest and deepest conception. Longer than one moment she well knew it could not be; for his spirit was ever on the march, ever ascending, and each instant required something that was beyond the scope of the instant before.</p> <p>The sound of her husband's footsteps aroused her. He bore a crystal goblet containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright enough to be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather the consequence of a highly-wrought state of mind and tension of spirit than of fear or doubt.</p> <p>"The concoction of the draught has been perfect," said he, in answer to Georgiana's look. "Unless all my science have deceived me, it cannot fail."</p> <p>"Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer," observed his wife, "I might wish to put off this birthmark of mortality by relinquishing mortality itself in preference to any other mode. Life is but a sad possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral advancement at which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder it might be happiness. Were I stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die."</p> <p>"You are fit for heaven without tasting death!" replied her husband "But why do we speak of dying? The draught cannot fail. Behold its effect upon this plant."</p> <p>On the window seat there stood a geranium diseased with yellow blotches, which had overspread all its leaves. Aylmer poured a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew. In a little time, when the roots of the plant had taken up the moisture, the unsightly blotches began to be extinguished in a living verdure.</p> <p>"There needed no proof," said Georgiana, quietly. "Give me the goblet I joyfully stake all upon your word."</p> <p>"Drink, then, thou lofty creature!" exclaimed Aylmer, with fervid admiration. "There is no taint of imperfection on thy spirit. Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect."</p> <p>She quaffed the liquid and returned the goblet to his hand.</p> <p>"It is grateful," said she with a placid smile. "Methinks it is like water from a heavenly fountain; for it contains I know not what of unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness. It allays a feverish thirst that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest, let me sleep. My earthly senses are closing over my spirit like the leaves around the heart of a rose at sunset."</p> <p>She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required almost more energy than she could command to pronounce the faint and lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered through her lips ere she was lost in slumber. Aylmer sat by her side, watching her aspect with the emotions proper to a man the whole value of whose existence was involved in the process now to be tested. Mingled with this mood, however, was the philosophic investigation characteristic of the man of science. Not the minutest symptom escaped him. A heightened flush of the cheek, a slight irregularity of breath, a quiver of the eyelid, a hardly perceptible tremor through the frame,--such were the details which, as the moments passed, he wrote down in his folio volume. Intense thought had set its stamp upon every previous page of that volume, but the thoughts of years were all concentrated upon the last.</p> <p>While thus employed, he failed not to gaze often at the fatal hand, and not without a shudder. Yet once, by a strange and unaccountable impulse he pressed it with his lips. His spirit recoiled, however, in the very act, and Georgiana, out of the midst of her deep sleep, moved uneasily and murmured as if in remonstrance. Again Aylmer resumed his watch. Nor was it without avail. The crimson hand, which at first had been strongly visible upon the marble paleness of Georgiana's cheek, now grew more faintly outlined. She remained not less pale than ever; but the birthmark with every breath that came and went, lost somewhat of its former distinctness. Its presence had been awful; its departure was more awful still. Watch the stain of the rainbow fading out the sky, and you will know how that mysterious symbol passed away.</p> <p>"By Heaven! it is well-nigh gone!" said Aylmer to himself, in almost irrepressible ecstasy. "I can scarcely trace it now. Success! success! And now it is like the faintest rose color. The lightest flush of blood across her cheek would overcome it. But she is so pale!"</p> <p>He drew aside the window curtain and suffered the light of natural day to fall into the room and rest upon her cheek. At the same time he heard a gross, hoarse chuckle, which he had long known as his servant Aminadab's expression of delight.</p> <p>"Ah, clod! ah, earthly mass!" cried Aylmer, laughing in a sort of frenzy, "you have served me well! Matter and spirit--earth and heaven --have both done their part in this! Laugh, thing of the senses! You have earned the right to laugh."</p> <p>These exclamations broke Georgiana's sleep. She slowly unclosed her eyes and gazed into the mirror which her husband had arranged for that purpose. A faint smile flitted over her lips when she recognized how barely perceptible was now that crimson hand which had once blazed forth with such disastrous brilliancy as to scare away all their happiness. But then her eyes sought Aylmer's face with a trouble and anxiety that he could by no means account for.</p> <p>"My poor Aylmer!" murmured she.</p> <p>"Poor? Nay, richest, happiest, most favored!" exclaimed he. "My peerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!"</p> <p>"My poor Aylmer," she repeated, with a more than human tenderness, "you have aimed loftily; you have done nobly. Do not repent that with so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the earth could offer. Aylmer, dearest Aylmer, I am dying!"</p> <p>Alas! it was too true! The fatal hand had grappled with the mystery of life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept itself in union with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark--that sole token of human imperfection--faded from her cheek, the parting breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenward flight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever does the gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumph over the immortal essence which, in this dim sphere of half development, demands the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Alymer reached a profounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness which would have woven his mortal life of the selfsame texture with the celestial. The momentary circumstance was too strong for him; he failed to look beyond the shadowy scope of time, and, living once for all in eternity, to find the perfect future in the present.</p><p style="text-align: center;">THE END<br /></p>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-53340022140933320192008-06-17T20:33:00.008+03:002008-07-16T01:39:02.994+03:00His name was Edward<pre>OLD KIM<br />Well, a long time ago, an inventor lived in<br />that mansion. He made many things, I suppose.<br />He also created a man. He gave him inside, a<br />heart, a brain, everything. Well, almost<br />everything. You see, the inventor was very old.<br />He died before he got to finish the man he<br />invented. So the man was left by himself,<br />incomplete and all alone.<br /><br />GRANDDAUGHTER<br />He didn't have a name?<br /><br />OLD KIM<br />Of course, he had a name. <span style="font-style: italic;">His name was Edward</span>.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">His name was Edward and people known him as Edward<br />Scissorhands.</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">He was kind and gentle but he had scissors<br />for hands and ... </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">people never forgave him that. </span><br /></pre>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-64228953422415513172008-06-16T18:00:00.004+03:002008-07-16T01:39:31.858+03:00Introducing The Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="zemanta-img" style="margin: 1em; float: right; display: block;"><span class="zemanta-img-attribution" style="margin: 1em 0pt 0pt; display: block;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">"As Shakespeare knew, love burns high when thwarted by obstacles. In </span><em style="font-style: italic;">Twilight</em><span style="font-style: italic;">, an exquisite fantasy by Stephenie Meyer, readers discover a pair of lovers who are supremely star-crossed. Bella adores beautiful Edward, and he returns her love. But Edward is having a hard time controlling the blood lust she arouses in him, because—he’s a vampire. At any moment, the intensity of their passion could drive him to kill her, and he agonizes over the danger. But, Bella would rather be dead than part from Edward, so she risks her life to stay near him, and the novel burns with the erotic tension of their dangerous and necessarily chaste relationship.”</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> — </span><em><span style="font-style: italic;">Amazon.com<br /><br /><br /></span></em><em></em></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.slashfilm.com/wp/wp-content/images/twilightposter1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.slashfilm.com/wp/wp-content/images/twilightposter1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">This is the review of the first novel of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Twilight Saga</span> by Stephenie Meyer as I found it in Amazon.com. It is about a new</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> vampire series that has become very popular amongst teenagers and adults. I admit that the </span><span style="" lang="EN-GB"> theme of the saga has intrigued my interest although I haven't yet read any novel of the series. I have ordered the first novel from Amazon.com and I expect it to come in the next days. Then I intend also to come back with a review of the first novel and I hope that it will inspire me to read the following novels of the saga. In the meantime, I have to inform you that the novels were so successful that a movie is also about to come. It is expected on December 12, 2008 starring Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattinson (he was the one who played Cedric Diggory in <span style="font-style: italic;">Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire</span>). I am looking forward to watch this new vampire movie as well and I do hope that it will respect the vampire myth as it was renovated and vitalized by the mother of the modern vampires, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Anne Rice</span>.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">For those who might be interested in finding more information about <span style="font-style: italic;">The Twilight Saga</span> you can visit the official page of the author Stephenie Meyer: <a href="http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/">http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/</a> and the official page of the movie: <a href="http://twilightthemovie.com/">http://twilightthemovie.com/</a><br /></p><em></em><div style="margin-top: 10px; height: 15px;" class="zemanta-pixie"><a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://reblog.zemanta.com/zemified/6f770068-6a09-45b7-b6bd-4fc606145232/" title="Zemified by Zemanta"><img style="border: medium none ; float: right;" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/reblog_e.png?x-id=6f770068-6a09-45b7-b6bd-4fc606145232" alt="Zemanta Pixie" /></a></div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1607583300405330182.post-74997539156963951962008-06-16T13:22:00.004+03:002008-07-16T01:39:54.457+03:00Manfred - Act 3 - Lord Byron<center><b>ACT III</b> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> SCENE I</span><br /><i>A Hall in the Castle of Manfred.</i></p></center> <pre> MANFRED <i>and</i> HERMAN.<br /><br />MANFRED. What is the hour?<br /><br />HERMAN. It wants but one till sunset,<br />And promises a lovely twilight.<br /><br />MANFRED. Say,<br />Are all things so disposed of in the tower<br />As I directed?<br /><br />HERMAN. All, my lord, are ready;<br />Here is the key and casket.<br /><br />MANFRED. It is well:<br />Thou mayst retire. <i style="font-style: italic;">[Exit</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> HERMAN.]</span><br /><br />MANFRED <i>(alone)</i>. There is a calm upon me--<br />Inexplicable stillness! which till now<br />Did not belong to what I knew of life.<br />If that I did not know philosophy<br />To be of all our vanities the motliest,<br />The merest word that ever fool'd the ear<br />From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem<br />The golden secret, the sought 'Kalon,' found,<br />And seated in my soul. It will not last,<br />But it is well to have known it, though but once:<br />It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,<br />And I within my tablets would note down<br />That there is such a feeling. Who is there?<br /><br /><br /> <i>Re-enter</i> HERMAN.<br /><br />HERMAN. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves<br />To greet your presence.<br /><br /> <i>Enter the</i> ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE.<br /><br />ABBOT. Peace be with Count Manfred!<br /><br />MANFRED. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls;<br />Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those<br />Who dwell within them.<br /><br />ABBOT. Would it were so, Count!--<br />But I would fain confer with thee alone.<br /><br />MANFRED. Herman, retire.-- What would my reverend guest?<br /><br />ABBOT. Thus, without prelude:-- Age and zeal, my office,<br />And good intent, must plead my privilege;<br />Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood,<br />May also be my herald. Rumours strange,<br />And of unholy nature, are abroad,<br />And busy with thy name; a noble name<br />For centuries: may he who bears it now<br />Transmit it unimpair'd!<br /><br />MANFRED. Proceed,-- I listen.<br /><br />ABBOT 'T is said thou holdest converse with the things<br />Which are forbidden to the search of man;<br />That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,<br />The many evil and unheavenly spirits<br />Which walk the valley of the shade of death,<br />Thou communest. I know that with mankind,<br />Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely<br />Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude<br />Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.<br /><br />MANFRED. And what are they who do avouch these things?<br /><br />ABBOT. My pious brethren, the scared peasantry,<br />Even thy own vassals, who do look on thee<br />With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril.<br /><br />MANFRED. Take it.<br /><br />ABBOT. I come to save, and not destroy.<br />I would not pry into thy secret soul;<br />But if these things be sooth, there still is time<br />For penitence and pity: reconcile thee<br />With the true church, and through the church to heaven.<br /><br />MANFRED. I hear thee. This is my reply, whate'er<br />I may have been, or am, doth rest between<br />Heaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortal<br />To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd<br />Against your ordinances? prove and punish!<br /><br />ABBOT. My son! I did not speak of punishment,<br />But penitence and pardon; with thyself<br />The choice of such remains-- and for the last,<br />Our institutions and our strong belief<br />Have given me power to smooth the path from sin<br />To higher hope and better thoughts, the first<br />I leave to heaven-- 'Vengeance is mine alone!'<br />So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness<br />His servant echoes back the awful word.<br /><br />MANFRED. Old man! there is no power in holy men,<br />Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form<br />Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast,<br />Nor agony, nor, greater than all these,<br />The innate tortures of that deep despair<br />Which is remorse without the fear of hell<br />But all in all sufficient to itself<br />Would make a hell of heaven,-- can exorcise<br />From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense<br />Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge<br />Upon itself; there is no future pang<br />Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd<br />He deals on his own soul.<br /><br />ABBOT. All this is well;<br />For this will pass away, and be succeeded<br />By an auspicious hope, which shall look up<br />With calm assurance to that blessed place<br />Which all who seek may win, whatever be<br />Their earthly errors, so they be atoned:<br />And the commencement of atonement is<br />The sense of its necessity.-- Say on--<br />And all our church can teach thee shall be taught;<br />And all we can absolve thee, shall be pardon'd.<br /><br />MANFRED. When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last,<br />The victim of a self-inflicted wound,<br />To shun the torments of a public death<br />From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,<br />With show of loyal pity, would have staunch'd<br />The gushing throat with his officious robe;<br />The dying Roman thrust him back and said--<br />Some empire still in his expiring glance--<br />'It is too late-- is this fidelity?'<br /><br />ABBOT. And what of this?<br /><br />MANFRED. I answer with the Roman--<br />'It is too late!'<br /><br />ABBOT. It never can be so,<br />To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,<br />And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope?<br />'Tis strange-- even those who do despair above,<br />Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth,<br />To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.<br /><br />MANFRED. Ay-- father! I have had those earthly visions<br />And noble aspirations in my youth,<br />To make my own the mind of other men,<br />The enlightener of nations; and to rise<br />I knew not whither-- it might be to fall;<br />But fall, even as the mountain--cataract,<br />Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,<br />Even in the foaming strength of its abyss<br />(Which casts up misty columns that become<br />Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies)<br />Lies low but mighty still.-- But this is past,<br />My thoughts mistook themselves.<br /><br />ABBOT. And wherefore so?<br /><br />MANFRED. I could not tame my nature down; for he<br />Must serve who fain would sway-- and soothe, and sue,<br />And watch all time, and pry into all place,<br />And be a living lie, who would become<br />A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such<br />The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with<br />A herd, though to be leader-- and of wolves.<br />The lion is alone, and so am I.<br /><br />ABBOT. And why not live and act with other men?<br /><br />MANFRED. Because my nature was averse from life;<br />And yet not cruel; for I would not make,<br />But find a desolation. Like the wind,<br />The red--hot breath of the most lone Simoom,<br />Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er<br />The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast<br />And revels o'er their wild and arid waves,<br />And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,<br />But being met is deadly,-- such hath been<br />The course of my existence; but there came<br />Things in my path which are no more.<br /><br />ABBOT. Alas!<br />I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid<br />From me and from my calling; yet so young,<br />I still would--<br /><br />MANFRED. Look on me! there is an order<br />Of mortals on the earth, who do become<br />Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,<br />Without the violence of warlike death;<br />Some perishing of pleasure, some of study,<br />Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness,<br />Some of disease, and some insanity,<br />And some of wither'd or of broken hearts;<br />For this last is a malady which slays<br />More than are number'd in the lists of Fate,<br />Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.<br />Look upon me! for even of all these things<br />Have I partaken; and of all these things,<br />One were enough; then wonder not that I<br />Am what I am, but that I ever was,<br />Or, having been, that I am still on earth.<br /><br />ABBOT. Yet, hear me still--<br /><br />MANFRED. Old man! I do respect<br />Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem<br />Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain.<br />Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,<br />Far more than me, in shunning at this time<br />All further colloquy; and so-- farewell. <br /><br />[<i>Exit </i>MANFRED.]<br /><br />ABBOT. This should have been a noble creature: he<br />Hath all the energy which would have made<br />A goodly frame of glorious elements,<br />Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,<br />It is an awful chaos-- light and darkness,<br />And mind and dust-- and passions and pure thoughts,<br />Mix'd, and contending without end or order,<br />All dormant or destructive. He will perish,<br />And yet he must not; I will try once more,<br />For such are worth redemption; and my duty<br />Is to dare all things for a righteous end.<br />I'll follow him-- but cautiously, though surely.<br /><br />[<i>Exit</i> ABBOT.]<br /><br /></pre> <center><span style="font-size:85%;">SCENE II </span><br /><i>Another Chamber.</i><br /><br />MANFRED <i>and</i> HERMAN.<br /><br /></center> <pre>HERMAN. My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset:<br />He sinks beyond the mountain.<br /><br />MANFRED. Doth he so?<br />I will look on him.<br /><br /> [MANFRED <i>advances to the Window of the Hall.</i>]<br /><br /> Glorious Orb! the idol<br />Of early nature, and the vigorous race<br />Of undiseased mankind the giant sons<br />Of the embrace of angels, with a sex<br />More beautiful than they, which did draw down<br />The erring spirits who can ne'er return;<br />Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere<br />The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!<br />Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,<br />Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts<br />Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd<br />Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!<br />And representative of the Unknown,<br />Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star!<br />Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth<br />Endurable, and temperest the hues<br />And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!<br />Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes<br />And those who dwell in them! for near or far<br />Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,<br />Even as our outward aspects;-- thou dost rise,<br />And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!<br />I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance<br />Of love and wonder was for thee, then take<br />My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one<br />To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been<br />Of a more fatal nature. He is gone;<br />I follow. [<i>Exit</i> MANFRED.]<br /><br /></pre> <center><span style="font-size:85%;">SCENE III </span><br /><i>The Mountains.-- The Castle of MANFRED at some distance.-- A Terrace before a Tower.-- Time, Twilight.<br /><br /></i> HERMAN, MANUEL, <i>and other Dependants of </i>MANFRED.<br /></center> <pre>HERMAN. 'T is strange enough; night after night, for years,<br />He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,<br />Without a witness. I have been within it,--<br />So have we all been oft-times; but from it<br />Or its contents, it were impossible<br />To draw conclusions absolute of aught<br />His studies tend to. To be sure, there is<br />One chamber where none enter: I would give<br />The fee of what I have to come these three years<br />To pore upon its mysteries.<br /><br />MANUEL. 'T were dangerous;<br />Content thyself with what thou know'st already.<br /><br />HERMAN. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,<br />And could'st say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle--<br />How many years is't?<br /><br />MANUEL. Ere Count Manfred's birth,<br />I served his father, whom he nought resembles.<br /><br />HERMAN. There be more sons in like predicament.<br />But wherein do they differ?<br /><br />MANUEL. I speak not<br />Of features or of form, but mind and habits;<br />Count Sigismund was proud, but gay and free--<br />A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not<br />With books and solitude, nor made the night<br />A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,<br />Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks<br />And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside<br />From men and their delights.<br /><br />HERMAN. Beshrew the hour,<br />But those were jocund times! I would that such<br />Would visit the old walls again; they look<br />As if they had forgotten them.<br /><br />MANUEL. These walls<br />Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen<br />Some strange things in them, Herman.<br /><br />HERMAN. Come, be friendly;<br />Relate me some to while away our watch:<br />I've heard thee darkly speak of an event<br />Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower.<br /><br />MANUEL. That was a night indeed! I do remember<br />'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such<br />Another evening; yon red cloud, which rests<br />On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,--<br />So like that it might be the same; the wind<br />Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows<br />Began to glitter with the climbing moon.<br />Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,--<br />How occupied, we knew not, but with him<br />The sole companion of his wanderings<br />And watchings-- her, whom of all earthly things<br />That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,--<br />As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,<br />The Lady Astarte, his--<br /> Hush! who comes here?<br /><br /> <i>Enter the</i> ABBOT.<br /><br />ABBOT. Where is your master?<br /><br />HERMAN. Yonder in the tower.<br /><br />ABBOT. I must speak with him.<br /><br />MANUEL. 'T is impossible;<br />He is most private, and must not be thus<br />Intruded on.<br /><br />ABBOT. Upon myself I take<br />The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be--<br />But I must see him.<br /><br />HERMAN. Thou hast seen him once<br />This eve already.<br /><br />ABBOT. Herman! I command thee,<br />Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.<br /><br />HERMAN. We dare not.<br /><br />ABBOT. Then it seems I must be herald<br />Of my own purpose.<br /><br />MANUEL. Reverend father, stop--<br />I pray you pause.<br /><br />ABBOT. Why so?<br /><br />MANUEL. But step this way,<br />And I will tell you further. [<i>Exeunt</i>.]<br /><br /></pre> <center><span style="font-size:85%;">SCENE IV</span><i><br />Interior of the Tower.</i><p> </p></center> <pre> MANFRED <i>alone</i>.<br /><br />The stars are forth, the moon above the tops<br />Of the snow-shining mountains.-- Beautiful!<br />I linger yet with Nature, for the night<br />Hath been to me a more familiar face<br />Than that of man; and in her starry shade<br />Of dim, and solitary loveliness,<br />I learn'd the language of another world.<br />I do remember me, that in my youth,<br />When I was wandering,-- upon such a night<br />I stood within the Coloseum's wall,<br />Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome.<br />The trees which grew along the broken arches<br />Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars<br />Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar<br />The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and<br />More near from out the Caesars' palace came<br />The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,<br />Of distant sentinels the fitful song<br />Begun and died upon the gentle wind.<br />Some cypresses beyond the time--worn breach<br />Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood<br />Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt,<br />And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst<br />A grove which springs through levell'd battlements,<br />And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,<br />Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;--<br />But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,<br />A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!<br />While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls<br />Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.--<br />And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon<br />All this, and cast a wide and tender light,<br />Which soften'd down the hoar austerity<br />Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,<br />As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries; <br />Leaving that beautiful which still was so,<br />And making that which was not, till the place<br />Became religion, and the heart ran o'er<br />With silent worship of the great of old,--<br />The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule<br />Our spirits from their urns.--<br /> 'T was such a night!<br />'T is strange that I recall it at this time;<br />But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight<br />Even at the moment when they should array<br />Themselves in pensive order.<br /><br /> <i>Enter the</i> ABBOT.<br /><br />ABBOT. My good Lord!<br />I crave a second grace for this approach;<br />But yet let not my humble zeal offend<br />By its abruptness-- all it hath of ill<br />Recoils on me; its good in the effect<br />May light upon your head-- could I say <i>heart</i>--<br />Could I touch <i>that</i>, with words or prayers, I should<br />Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd<br />But is not yet all lost.<br /><br />MANFRED. Thou know'st me not;<br />My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded:<br />Retire, or 't will be dangerous-- Away!<br /><br />ABBOT. Thou dost not mean to menace me?<br /><br />MANFRED. Not I;<br />I simply tell thee peril is at hand,<br />And would preserve thee.<br /><br />ABBOT. What dost thou mean?<br /><br />MANFRED. Look there!<br />What dost thou see?<br /><br />ABBOT. Nothing.<br /><br />MANFRED. Look there, I say,<br />And steadfastly;-- now tell me what thou seest?<br /><br />ABBOT. That which should shake me-- but I fear it not;<br />I see a dusk and awful figure rise,<br />Like an infernal god from out the earth;<br />His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form<br />Robed as with angry clouds: he stands between<br />Thyself and me-- but I do fear him not.<br /><br />MANFRED. Thou hast no cause; he shall not harm thee, but<br />His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.<br />I say to thee-- Retire!<br /><br />ABBOT. And, I reply,<br />Never-- till I have battled with this fiend:--<br />What doth he here?<br /><br />MANFRED. Why-- ay-- what doth he here?<br />I did not send for him,-- he is unbidden.<br /><br />ABBOT. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these<br />Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake:<br />Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him?<br />Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his brow<br />The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye<br />Glares forth the immortality of hell--<br />Avaunt!--<br /><br />MANFRED. Pronounce-- what is thy mission?<br /><br />SPIRIT. Come!<br /><br />ABBOT. What art thou, unknown being? answer!-- speak!<br /><br />SPIRIT. The genius of this mortal.-- Come! 't is time.<br /><br />MANFRED. I am prepared for all things, but deny<br />The power which summons me. Who sent thee here?<br /><br />SPIRIT. Thou'lt know anon-- Come! Come!<br /><br />MANFRED. I have commanded<br />Things of an essence greater far than thine,<br />And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!<br /><br />SPIRIT. Mortal! thine hour is come-- Away! I say.<br /><br />MANFRED. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not<br />To render up my soul to such as thee:<br />Away! I'll die as I have lived-- alone.<br /><br />SPIRIT. Then I must summon up my brethren.-- Rise!<br /> [<i>Other spirits rise up.</i>]<br /><br />ABBOT. Avaunt! ye evil ones!-- Avaunt! I say,--<br />Ye have no power where piety hath power,<br />And I do charge ye in the name--<br /><br />SPIRIT. Old man!<br />We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;<br />Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,<br />It were in vain; this man is forfeited.<br />Once more I summon him-- Away! away!<br /><br />MANFRED. I do defy ye,-- though I feel my soul<br />Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;<br />Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath<br />To breathe my scorn upon ye-- earthly strength<br />To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take<br />Shall be ta'en limb by limb.<br /><br />SPIRIT. Reluctant mortal!<br />Is this the Magian who would so pervade<br />The world invisible, and make himself<br />Almost our equal?-- Can it be that thou<br />Art thus in love with life? the very life<br />Which made thee wretched!<br /><br />MANFRED. Thou false fiend, thou liest!<br />My life is in its last hour,-- <i>that</i> I know,<br />Nor would redeem a moment of that hour.<br />I do not combat against death, but thee<br />And thy surrounding angels; my past power<br />Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,<br />But by superior science-- penance-- daring,<br />And length of watching-- strength of mind-- and skill<br />In knowledge of our fathers when the earth<br />Saw men and spirits walking side by side<br />And gave ye no supremacy: I stand<br />Upon my strength-- I do defy-- deny--<br />Spurn back, and scorn ye!--<br /><br />SPIRIT. But thy many crimes<br />Have made thee--<br /><br />MANFRED. What are they to such as thee?<br />Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes,<br />And greater criminals?-- Back to thy hell!<br />Thou hast no power upon me, <i>that</i> I feel;<br />Thou never shalt possess me, <i>that</i> I know:<br />What I have done is done; I bear within<br />A torture which could nothing gain from thine.<br />The mind which is immortal makes itself<br />Requital for its good or evil thoughts,<br />Is its own origin of ill and end,<br />And its own place and time; its innate sense,<br />When stripp'd of this mortality, derives<br />No colour from the fleeting things without,<br />But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy,<br />Born from the knowledge of its own desert.<br /><i>Thou</i> didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me;<br />I have not been thy dupe nor am thy prey,<br />But was my own destroyer, and will be<br />My own hereafter.-- Back, ye baffled fiends!<br />The hand of death is on me-- but not yours!<br /> [<i>The Demons disappear.</i>]<br /><br />ABBOT. Alas! how pale thou art-- thy lips are white--<br />And thy breast heaves-- and in thy gasping throat<br />The accents rattle. Give thy prayers to Heaven--<br />Pray-- albeit but in thought,-- but die not thus.<br /><br />MANFRED. 'T is over-- my dull eyes can fix thee not;<br />But all things swim around me, and the earth<br />Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well--<br />Give me thy hand.<br /><br />ABBOT. Cold-- cold-- even to the heart--<br />But yet one prayer-- Alas! how fares it with thee?<br /><br />MANFRED. Old man! 't is not so difficult to die.<br /><br />[MANFRED <i>expires</i>.]<br /><br />ABBOT. He's gone, his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight;<br />Whither? I dread to think; but he is gone.<br /><br /></pre><div style="text-align: center;">THE END</div>Melianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08636963003573562438noreply@blogger.com0