 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
II.
He stands before the door; the house is steeped in silence;
he knocks; the casement light flickers for a moment, and then
moves away; within, he hears a door creak on its hinges; then
his whole heart beats wildly as the outer latch is lifted; and
holding the light above her supernatural head, Isabel stands
before him. It is herself. No word is spoken; no other soul
is seen. They enter the room of the double casement; and
Pierre sits down, overpowered with bodily faintness and spiritual
awe. He lifts his eyes to Isabel's gaze of loveliness and
loneliness; and then a low, sweet, half-sobbing voice of more
than natural musicalness is heard:—
“And so, thou art my brother;—shall I call thee Pierre?”
Steadfastly, with his one first and last fraternal inquisition of
the person of the mystic girl, Pierre now for an instant eyes
her; and in that one instant sees in the imploring face, not only
the nameless touchingness of that of the sewing-girl, but also the
subtler expression of the portrait of his then youthful father,
strangely translated, and intermarryingly blended with some
before unknown, foreign feminineness. In one breath, Memory
and Prophecy, and Intuition tell him—“Pierre, have no reserves;
no minutest possible doubt;—this being is thy sister;
thou gazest on thy father's flesh.”
“And so thou art my brother?—shall I call thee Pierre?”
He sprang to his feet, and caught her in his undoubting
arms.
“Thou art! thou art!”
He felt a faint struggling within his clasp; her head drooped
against him; his whole form was bathed in the flowing glossiness
of her long and unimprisoned hair. Brushing the locks
aside, he now gazed upon the death-like beauty of the face, and
caught immortal sadness from it. She seemed as dead; as
tranquillities and sweetnesses of the human countenance.
He would have called aloud for succor; but the slow eyes
opened upon him; and slowly he felt the girl's supineness
leaving her; and now she recovers herself a little,—and again
he feels her faintly struggling in his arms, as if somehow
abashed, and incredulous of mortal right to hold her so. Now
Pierre repents his overardent and incautious warmth, and feels
himself all reverence for her. Tenderly he leads her to a bench
within the double casement; and sits beside her; and waits in
silence, till the first shock of this encounter shall have left her
more composed and more prepared to hold communion with
him.
“How feel'st thou now, my sister?”
“Bless thee! bless thee!”
Again the sweet, wild power of the musicalness of the voice,
and some soft, strange touch of foreignness in the accent,—so
it fancifully seemed to Pierre, thrills through and through his
soul. He bent and kissed her brow; and then feels her hand
seeking his, and then clasping it without one uttered word.
All his being is now condensed in that one sensation of the
clasping hand. He feels it as very small and smooth, but
strangely hard. Then he knew that by the lonely labor of her
hands, his own father's daughter had earned her living in the
same world, where he himself, her own brother, had so idly
dwelled. Once more he reverently kissed her brow, and his
warm breath against it murmured with a prayer to heaven.
“I have no tongue to speak to thee, Pierre, my brother.
My whole being, all my life's thoughts and longings are in endless
arrears to thee; then how can I speak to thee? Were it
God's will, Pierre, my utmost blessing now, were to lie down
and die. Then should I be at peace. Bear with me, Pierre.”
“Eternally will I do that, my beloved Isabel! Speak not to
me yet awhile, if that seemeth best to thee, if that only is possible
thy tongue to me.”
“I know not where to begin to speak to thee, Pierre; and
yet my soul o'erbrims in me.”
“From my heart's depths, I love and reverence thee; and
feel for thee, backward and forward, through all eternity!”
“Oh, Pierre, can'st thou not cure in me this dreaminess,
this bewilderingness I feel? My poor head swims and swims,
and will not pause. My life can not last long thus; I am too
full without discharge. Conjure tears for me, Pierre; that my
heart may not break with the present feeling,—more death-like
to me than all my grief gone by!”
“Ye thirst-slaking evening skies, ye hilly dews and mists,
distil your moisture here! The bolt hath passed; why comes
not the following shower?—Make her to weep!”
Then her head sought his support; and big drops fell on
him; and anon, Isabel gently slid her head from him, and sat
a little composedly beside him.
“If thou feelest in endless arrears of thought to me, my
sister; so do I feel toward thee. I too, scarce know what I
should speak to thee. But when thou lookest on me, my sister,
thou beholdest one, who in his soul hath taken vows immutable,
to be to thee, in all respects, and to the uttermost bounds
and possibilities of Fate, thy protecting and all-acknowledging
brother!”
“Not mere sounds of common words, but inmost tones of
my heart's deepest melodies should now be audible to thee.
Thou speakest to a human thing, but something heavenly
should answer thee;—some flute heard in the air should answer
thee; for sure thy most undreamed-of accents, Pierre, sure
they have not been unheard on high. Blessings that are
imageless to all mortal fancyings, these shall be thine for this.”
“Blessing like to thine, doth but recoil and bless homeward
to the heart that uttered it. I can not bless thee, my sister,
Isabel, by still keeping present the first wonder of our meeting,
we shall make our hearts all feebleness. Let me then rehearse
to thee what Pierre is; what life hitherto he hath been leading;
and what hereafter he shall lead;—so thou wilt be prepared.”
“Nay, Pierre, that is my office; thou art first entitled to my
tale, then, if it suit thee, thou shalt make me the unentitled
gift of thine. Listen to me, now. The invisible things will
give me strength;—it is not much, Pierre;—nor aught very
marvelous. Listen then;—I feel soothed down to utterance
now.”
During some brief, interluding, silent pauses in their interview
thus far, Pierre had heard a soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro,
meditative stepping on the floor above; and in the frequent
pauses that intermitted the strange story in the following chapter,
that same soft, slow, sad, to-and-fro, meditative, and most
melancholy stepping, was again and again audible in the silent
room.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |