A Crystal Age: Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Although deprived for the present of all intercourse with Chastel and
Yoletta, now in constant attendance on her mother, I ought to have been
happy, for all things seemed conspiring to make my life precious to me.
Nevertheless, I was far from happy; and, having heard so much said about
reason in my late conversations with the father and mother of the house,
I began to pay an unusual amount of attention to this faculty in me, in
order to discover by its aid the secret of the sadness which continued
at all times during this period to oppress my heart. I only discovered,
what others have discovered before me, that the practice of
introspection has a corrosive effect on the mind, which only serves to
aggravate the malady it is intended to cure. During those restful days
in the Mother's Room, when I had sat with Chastel, this spirit of
melancholy had been with me; but the mother's hallowing presence had
given something of a divine color to it, my passions had slumbered, and,
except at rare intervals, I had thought of sorrow as of something at an
immeasurable distance from me. Then to my spirit

"_The gushing of the wave
Far, far away, did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores_";

and so sweet had seemed that pause, that I had hoped and prayed for its
continuance. No sooner was I separated from her than the charm
dissolved, and all my thoughts, like evening clouds that appear luminous
and rich in color until the sun has set, began to be darkened with a
mysterious gloom. Strive how I might, I was unable to compose my mind to
that serene, trustful temper she had desired to see in me, and without
which there could be no blissful futurity. After all the admonitions and
the comforting assurances I had received, and in spite of reason and all
it could say to me, each night I went to my bed with a heavy heart; and
each morning when I woke, there, by my pillow, waited that sad phantom,
to go with me where I went, to remind me at every pause of an implacable
Fate, who held my future in its hands, who was mightier than Chastel,
and would shatter all her schemes for my happiness like vessels of
brittle glass.

Several days--probably about fifteen, for I did not count them--had
passed since I had been admitted into the mother's sleeping-room, when
there came an exceedingly lovely day, which seemed to bring to me a
pleasant sensation of returning health, and made me long to escape from
morbid dreams and vain cravings. Why should I sit at home and mope, I
thought; it was better to be active: sun and wind were full of healing.
Such a day was in truth one of those captain jewels "that seldom placed
are" among the blusterous days of late autumn, with winter already
present to speed its parting. For a long time the sky had been overcast
with multitudes and endless hurrying processions of wild-looking
clouds--torn, wind-chased fugitives, of every mournful shade of color,
from palest gray to slatey-black; and storms of rain had been frequent,
impetuous, and suddenly intermitted, or passing away phantom-like
towards the misty hills, there to lose themselves among other phantoms,
ever wandering sorrowfully in that vast, shadowy borderland where earth
and heaven mingled; and gusts of wind which, as they roared by over a
thousand straining trees and passed off with hoarse, volleying sounds,
seemed to mimic the echoing thunder. And the leaves--the millions and
myriads of sere, cast-off leaves, heaped ankle-deep under the desolate
giants of the wood, and everywhere, in the hollows of the earth, lying
silent and motionless, as became dead, fallen things--suddenly catching a
mock fantastic life from the wind, how they would all be up and
stirring, every leaf with a hiss like a viper, racing, many thousands at
a time, over the barren spaces, all hurriedly talking together in their
dead-leaf language! until, smitten with a mightier gust, they would rise
in flight on flight, in storms and stupendous, eddying columns, whirled
up to the clouds, to fall to the earth again in showers, and freckle the
grass for roods around. Then for a moment, far off in heavens, there
would be a rift, or a thinning of the clouds, and the sunbeams, striking
like lightning through their ranks, would illumine the pale blue mist,
the slanting rain, the gaunt black boles and branches, glittering with
wet, casting a momentary glory over the ocean-like tumult of nature.

In the condition I was in, with a relaxed body and dejected mind, this
tempestuous period, which would have only afforded fresh delight to a
person in perfect health, had no charm for my spirit; but, on the
contrary, it only served to intensify my gloom. And yet day after day it
drew me forth, although in my weakness I shivered in the rough gale, and
shrank from the touch of the big cold drops the clouds flung down on me.
It fascinated me, like the sight of armies contending in battle, or of
some tragic action from which the spectator cannot withdraw his gaze.
For I had become infected with strange fancies, so persistent and somber
that they were like superstitions. It seemed to me that not I but nature
had changed, that the familiar light had passed like a kindly expression
from her countenance, which was now charged with an awful menacing gloom
that frightened my soul. Sometimes, when straying alone, like an unquiet
ghost among the leafless trees, when a deeper shadow swept over the
earth, I would pause, pale with apprehension, listening to the many
dirge-like sounds of the forest, ever prophesying evil, until in my
trepidation I would start and tremble, and look to this side and to
that, as if considering which way to fly from some unimaginable calamity
coming, I knew not from where, to wreck my life for ever.

This bright day was better suited to my complaint. The sun shone as in
spring; not a stain appeared on the crystal vault of heaven; everywhere
the unfailing grass gave rest to the eye with its verdure; and a light
wind blew fresh and bracing in my face, making my pulses beat faster,
although feebly still. Remembering my happy wood-cutting days, before my
trouble had come to me, I got my ax and started to walk to the wood;
then seeing Yoletta watching my departure from the terrace, I waved my
hand to her. Before I had gone far, however, she came running to me,
full of anxiety, to warn me that I was not yet strong enough for such
work. I assured her that I had no intention of working hard and tiring
myself, then continued my walk, while she returned to attend on her
mother.

The day was so bright with sunshine that it inspired me with a kind of
passing gladness, and I began to hum snatches of old half-remembered
songs. They were songs of departing summer, tinged with melancholy, and
suggested other verses not meant for singing, which I began repeating.

"Rich flowers have perished on the silent earth--
Blossoms of valley and of wood that gave
A fragrance to the winds."

And again:

"The blithesome birds have sought a sunnier shore;
They lingered till the cold cold winds went in
And withered their green homes."

And these also were fragments, breathing only of sadness, which made me
resolve to dismiss poetry from my mind and think of nothing at all. I
tried to interest myself in a flight of buzzard-like hawks, soaring in
wide circles at an immense height above me. Gazing up into that far blue
vault, under which they moved so serenely, and which seemed so infinite,
I remembered how often in former days, when gazing up into such a sky, I
had breathed a prayer to the Unseen Spirit; but now I recalled the words
the father of the house had spoken to me, and the prayer died unformed
in my heart, and a strange feeling of orphanhood saddened me, and
brought my eyes to earth again.

Half-way to the wood, on an open reach where there were no trees or
bushes, I came on a great company of storks, half a thousand of them at
least, apparently resting on their travels, for they were all standing
motionless, with necks drawn in, as if dozing. They were very stately,
handsome birds, clear gray in color, with a black collar on the neck,
and red beak and legs. My approach did not disturb them until I was
within twenty yards of the nearest--for they were scattered over an acre
of ground; then they rose with a loud, rustling noise of wings, only to
settle again at a short distance off.

Incredible numbers of birds, chiefly waterfowl, had appeared in the
neighborhood since the beginning of the wet, boisterous weather; the
river too was filled with these new visitors, and I was told that most
of them were passengers driven from distant northern regions, which they
made their summer home, and were now flying south in search of a warmer
climate.

All this movement in the feathered world had, during my troubled days,
brought me as little pleasure as the other changes going on about me:
those winged armies ever hurrying by in broken detachments, wailing and
clanging by day and by night in the clouds, white with their own terror,
or black-plumed like messengers of doom, to my distempered fancy only
added a fresh element of fear to a nature racked with disorders, and
full of tremendous signs and omens.

The interest with which I now remarked these pilgrim storks seemed to me
a pleasant symptom of a return to a saner state of mind, and before
continuing my walk I wished that Yoletta had been there with me to see
them and tell me their history; for she was curious about such matters,
and had a most wonderful affection for the whole feathered race. She had
her favorites among the birds at different seasons, and the kind she
most esteemed now had been arriving for over a month, their numbers
increasing day by day until the woods and fields were alive with their
flocks.

This kind was named the cloud-bird, on account of its starling-like
habit of wheeling about over its feeding-ground, the birds throwing
themselves into masses, then scattering and gathering again many times,
so that when viewed at a distance a large flock had the appearance of a
cloud, growing dark and thin alternately, and continually changing its
form. It was somewhat larger than a starling, with a freer flight, and
had a richer plumage, its color being deep glossy blue, or blue-black,
and underneath bright chestnut. When close at hand and in the bright
sunshine, the aerial gambols of a flock were beautiful to witness, as
the birds wheeled about and displayed in turn, as if moved by one
impulse, first the rich blue, then the bright chestnut surfaces to the
eye. The charming effect was increased by the bell-like, chirping notes
they all uttered together, and as they swept round or doubled in the air
at intervals came these tempests of melodious sound--a most perfect
expression of wild jubilant bird-life. Yoletta, discoursing in the most
delightful way about her loved cloud-birds, had told me that they spent
the summer season in great solitary marshes, where they built their
nests in the rushes; but with cold weather they flew abroad, and at such
times seemed always to prefer the neighborhood of man, remaining in
great flocks near the house until the next spring. On this bright sunny
morning I was amazed at the multitudes I saw during my walk: yet it was
not strange that birds were so abundant, considering that there were no
longer any savages on the earth, with nothing to amuse their vacant
minds except killing the feathered creatures with their bows and arrows,
and no innumerable company of squaws clamorous for trophies--unchristian
women of the woods with painted faces, insolence in their eyes, and for
ornaments the feathered skins torn from slain birds on their heads.

When I at length arrived at the wood, I went to that spot where I had
felled the large tree on the occasion of my last and disastrous visit,
and where Yoletta, newly released from confinement, had found me. There
lay the rough-barked giant exactly as I had left it, and once more I
began to hack at the large branches; but my feeble strokes seemed to
make little impression, and becoming tired in a very short time, I
concluded that I was not yet equal to such work, and sat myself down to
rest. I remembered how, when sitting on that very spot, I had heard a
slight rustling of the withered leaves, and looking up beheld Yoletta
coming swiftly towards me with outstretched arms, and her face shining
with joy. Perhaps she would come again to me to-day: yes, she would
surely come when I wished for her so much; for she had followed me out
to try to dissuade me from going to the woods, and would be anxiously
thinking about me; and she could spare an hour from the sick-room now.
The trees and bushes would prevent me from seeing her approach, but I
should hear her, as I had heard her before. I sat motionless, scarcely
breathing, straining my sense to catch the first faint sound of her
light, swift step; and every time a small bird, hopping along the
ground, rustled a withered leaf, I started up to greet and embrace her.
But she did not come; and at last, sick at heart with hope deferred, I
covered my face with my hands, and, weak with misery, cried like a
disappointed child.

Presently something touched me, and, removing my hands from my face, I
saw that great silver-gray dog which had come to Yoletta's call when I
fainted, sitting before me with his chin resting on my knees. No doubt
he remembered that last wood-cutting day very well, and had come to take
care of me now.

"Welcome, dear old friend!" said I; and in my craving for sympathy of
some kind I put my arms over him, and pressed my face against his. Then
I sat up again, and gazed into the pair of clear brown eyes watching my
face so gravely.

"Look here, old fellow," said I, talking audibly to him for want of
something in human shape to address, "you didn't lick my face just now
when you might have done so with impunity; and when I speak to you, you
don't wag that beautiful bushy tail which serves you for ornament. This
reminds me that you are not like the dogs I used to know--the dogs that
talked with their tails, caressed with their tongues, and were never
over-clean or well-behaved. Where are they now--collies, rat-worrying
terriers, hounds, spaniels, pointers, retrievers--dogs rough and dogs
smooth; big brute boarhounds, St. Bernard's, mastiffs, nearly or quite
as big as you are, but not so slender, silky-haired, and sharp-nosed,
and without your refined expression of keenness without cunning. And
after these canine noblemen of the old _regime_, whither has
vanished the countless rabble of mongrels, curs, and pariah dogs; and
last of all--being more degenerate--the corpulent, blear-eyed, wheezy
pet dogs of a hundred breeds? They are all dead, no doubt: they have
been dead so long that I daresay nature extracted all the valuable salts
that were contained in their flesh and bones thousands of years ago, and
used it for better things--raindrops, froth of the sea, flowers and
fruit, and blades of grass. Yet there was not a beast in all that crew
of which its master or mistress was not ready to affirm that it could do
everything but talk! No one says that of you, my gentle guardian; for
dog-worship, with all the ten thousand fungoid cults that sprang up and
flourished exceedingly in the muddy marsh of man's intellect, has
withered quite away, and left no seed. Yet in intelligence you are, I
fancy, somewhat ahead of your far-off progenitors: long use has also
given you something like a conscience. You are a good, sensible beast,
that's all. You love and serve your master, according to your lights;
night and day, you, with your fellows, guard his flocks and herds, his
house and fields. Into his sacred house, however, you do not intrude
your comely countenance, knowing your place."

"What, then, happened to earth, and how long did that undreaming slumber
last from which I woke to find things so altered? I do not know, nor
does it matter very much. I only know that there has been a sort of
mighty Savonarola bonfire, in which most of the things once valued have
been consumed to ashes--politics, religions, systems of philosophy, isms
and ologies of all descriptions; schools, churches, prisons, poorhouses;
stimulants and tobacco; kings and parliaments; cannon with its hostile
roar, and pianos that thundered peacefully; history, the press, vice,
political economy, money, and a million things more--all consumed like
so much worthless hay and stubble. This being so, why am I not
overwhelmed at the thought of it? In that feverish, full age--so full,
and yet, my God, how empty!--in the wilderness of every man's soul, was
not a voice heard crying out, prophesying the end? I know that a thought
sometimes came to me, passing through my brain like lightning through
the foliage of a tree; and in the quick, blighting fire of that
intolerable thought, all hopes, beliefs, dreams, and schemes seemed
instantaneously to shrivel up and turn to ashes, and drop from me, and
leave me naked and desolate. Sometimes it came when I read a book of
philosophy; or listened on a still, hot Sunday to a dull preacher--they
were mostly dull--prosing away to a sleepy, fashionable congregation
about Daniel in the lions' den, or some other equally remote matter; or
when I walked in crowded thoroughfares; or when I heard some great
politician out of office--out in the cold, like a miserable working-man
with no work to do--hurling anathemas at an iniquitous government; and
sometimes also when I lay awake in the silent watches of the night. A
little while, the thought said, and all this will be no more; for we
have not found out the secret of happiness, and all our toil and effort
is misdirected; and those who are seeking for a mechanical equivalent of
consciousness, and those who are going about doing good, are alike
wasting their lives; and on all our hopes, beliefs, dreams, theories,
and enthusiasms, 'Passing away' is written plainly as the _Mene, mene,
tekel, upharsin_ seen by Belshazzar on the wall of his palace in
Babylon."

"That withering thought never comes to me now. 'Passing away' is not
written on the earth, which is still God's green footstool; the grass
was not greener nor the flowers sweeter when man was first made out of
clay, and the breath of life breathed into his nostrils. And the human
family and race--outcome of all that dead, unimaginable past--this also
appears to have the stamp of everlastingness on it; and in its tranquil
power and majesty resembles some vast mountain that lifts its head above
the clouds, and has its granite roots deep down in the world's center. A
feeling of awe is in me when I gaze on it; but it is vain to ask myself
now whether the vanished past, with its manifold troubles and transitory
delights, was preferable to this unchanging peaceful present. I care for
nothing but Yoletta; and if the old world was consumed to ashes that she
might be created, I am pleased that it was so consumed; for nobler than
all perished hopes and ambitions is the hope that I may one day wear
that bright, consummate flower on my bosom."

"I have only one trouble now--a wolf that follows me everywhere, always
threatening to rend me to pieces with its black jaws. Not you, old
friend--a great, gaunt, man-eating, metaphorical wolf, far more terrible
than that beast of the ancients which came to the poor man's door. In
the darkness its eyes, glowing like coals, are ever watching me, and
even in the bright daylight its shadowy form is ever near me, stealing
from bush to bush, or from room to room, always dogging my footsteps.
Will it ever vanish, like a mere phantom--a wolf of the brain--or will
it come nearer and more near, to spring upon and rend me at the last? If
they could only clothe my mind as they have my body, to make me like
themselves with no canker at my heart, ever contented and calmly glad!
But nothing comes from taking thought. I am sick of thought--I hate it!
Away with it! I shall go and look for Yoletta, since she does not come
to me. Good-by, old friend, you have been well-behaved and listened with
considerable patience to a long discourse. It will benefit you about as
much as I have been benefited by many a lecture and many a sermon I was
compelled to listen to in the old vanished days."

Bestowing another caress on him I got up and went back to the house,
thinking sadly as I walked that the bright weather had not yet greatly
improved my spirits.

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