 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
I.
Not immediately, not for a long time, could Pierre fully, or
by any approximation, realize the scene which he had just departed.
But the vague revelation was now in him, that the
visible world, some of which before had seemed but too common
and prosaic to him; and but too intelligible; he now
vaguely felt, that all the world, and every misconceivedly common
and prosaic thing in it, was steeped a million fathoms in a
mysteriousness wholly hopeless of solution. First, the enigmatical
story of the girl, and the profound sincerity of it, and
yet the ever accompanying haziness, obscurity, and almost
miraculousness of it;—first, this wonderful story of the girl had
displaced all commonness and prosaicness from his soul; and
then, the inexplicable spell of the guitar, and the subtleness of
the melodious appealings of the few brief words from Isabel
sung in the conclusion of the melody—all this had bewitched
him, and enchanted him, till he had sat motionless and bending
over, as a tree-transformed and mystery-laden visitant, caught
and fast bound in some necromancer's garden.
But as now burst from these sorceries, he hurried along the
open road, he strove for the time to dispel the mystic feeling, or
at least postpone it for a while, until he should have time to
of that day's long fastings and wanderings, and that
night's never-to-be-forgotten scene. He now endeavored to beat
away all thoughts from him, but of present bodily needs.
Passing through the silent village, he heard the clock tell the
mid hour of night. Hurrying on, he entered the mansion by a
private door, the key of which hung in a secret outer place.
Without undressing, he flung himself upon the bed. But remembering
himself again, he rose and adjusted his alarm-clock,
so that it would emphatically repeat the hour of five. Then to
bed again, and driving off all intrudings of thoughtfulness, and
resolutely bending himself to slumber, he by-and-by fell into its
at first reluctant, but at last welcoming and hospitable arms.
At five he rose; and in the east saw the first spears of the
advanced-guard of the day.
It had been his purpose to go forth at that early hour, and
so avoid all casual contact with any inmate of the mansion, and
spend the entire day in a second wandering in the woods, as
the only fit prelude to the society of so wild a being as his newfound
sister Isabel. But the familiar home-sights of his chamber
strangely worked upon him. For an instant, he almost
could have prayed Isabel back into the wonder-world from
which she had so slidingly emerged. For an instant, the fond,
all-understood blue eyes of Lucy displaced the as tender, but
mournful and inscrutable dark glance of Isabel. He seemed
placed between them, to choose one or the other; then both
seemed his; but into Lucy's eyes there stole half of the mournfulness
of Isabel's, without diminishing hers.
Again the faintness, and the long life-weariness benumbed
him. He left the mansion, and put his bare forehead against
the restoring wind. He re-entered the mansion, and adjusted
the clock to repeat emphatically the call of seven; and then
lay upon his bed. But now he could not sleep. At seven he
changed his dress; and at half-past eight went below to meet
her step upon the stair.
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |