saw her, one of her eyes was closed: that evening she grew worse; suddenly, early the next day she said, I can’t hear, I can’t see; then fell unconscious and died alone, unanointed, unfed.
‘It were not right ever to cease lamenting
It was like the parting of day from night. ’
During the year before her death, the only one of her life in which I knew her, she was visited by several strange visions. In the month of December, one night between sleeping and waking, she saw the gate of heaven shining out of the surrounding darkness with a multitude of gem-like colours, which like a kaleidoscope changed their shapes as they glittered, yet left the structure of the gate unchanged. This vision lasted for many minutes before it faded away. In the next month she experienced a vivid linking of the senses when some words, spoken by her husband, appeared to her mind’s eye before their sound reached her ears; they took the form of an iron grid interlaced with small ivy-leaves. In the month of June she saw, when in a dreamlike state, an image possessing both the force of reality and the charm of a picture: it was a maiden running, whom she called Atalanta, with dark hair streaming out behind in a point as her feet skimmed the tops of ilex-trees. Around her spread a snowy waste; behind her gray mountains were ranged against a sky faintly pink. Her filmy garments clung to her as she fled, her pale face straining forward, her eyes gazing outward persistently; one thinks of the old alchemical treatise called Atalanta Fugiens. The next vision or waking dream came to her about the same time, and concerned an appearance of the Magi moving in silhouette across a pale sky. In the same month, one hot afternoon as she lay resting, she saw me naked by her window in the guise of the goddess Saraswati holding the pose of the ‘Lotus-seat’, but with head turned over the left shoulder. This figure remained for several minutes, moving slightly like an animated statue. And nightly she would see four angelic beings round her bed, and had great joy in conversing with them, though in waking hours she kept no certain memory of their words. It were not right ever to cease lamenting.
For more than a year now I have had on my throat the mark of a vampire’s tooth. Here at my Uncle’s mansion, a bat flew in at my bedroom window, fluttered about a little and went out. Another night, some creature burst from the wall to the left of my bed and escaped by the window. I sensed rather than saw it, being only half-awakened, but it seemed to have the wings of a bat with a span of several feet. It were not right ever to cease lamenting.
When the ghost begins to quicken, as the poet says, confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent—where? My mind refuses to follow. But some time before these strange and tragic happenings, I myself on the borderland of sleep, once became aware of trees encircling a glen, and of mist drooping from a roof of boughs. Beyond them a wall, lying like a belt thrown down, with a black door of oak for a buckle, girdled a fold of ground with live stones, each one overspread with lichen. The wood of the door was carved with a garland of five apples, and three stone steps led up to it; I mounted these and the door opened. Within was the sloping orchard of Eden, red earth disguised as green; and beyond a tangle of apple-branches, the flames of hell rose with serene clamour; for in this garden the worm does not die. Under a tree with broad leaves a figure was standing; her hair was like steel wire red-hot, and one contour of her face and the breast-folds of her garment glowed. She was alone, and in her single and never-ending gesture was the peace of despair. It were not right ever to cease lamenting.
Now a negro was dancing, and the faster he danced, the wilder grew the hidden music. Suddenly as it grew louder still, his limbs began to expand and he could touch the eight corners of the vast room with head, finger or toe. His white
‘It were not right ever to cease lamenting
It was like the parting of day from night. ’
During the year before her death, the only one of her life in which I knew her, she was visited by several strange visions. In the month of December, one night between sleeping and waking, she saw the gate of heaven shining out of the surrounding darkness with a multitude of gem-like colours, which like a kaleidoscope changed their shapes as they glittered, yet left the structure of the gate unchanged. This vision lasted for many minutes before it faded away. In the next month she experienced a vivid linking of the senses when some words, spoken by her husband, appeared to her mind’s eye before their sound reached her ears; they took the form of an iron grid interlaced with small ivy-leaves. In the month of June she saw, when in a dreamlike state, an image possessing both the force of reality and the charm of a picture: it was a maiden running, whom she called Atalanta, with dark hair streaming out behind in a point as her feet skimmed the tops of ilex-trees. Around her spread a snowy waste; behind her gray mountains were ranged against a sky faintly pink. Her filmy garments clung to her as she fled, her pale face straining forward, her eyes gazing outward persistently; one thinks of the old alchemical treatise called Atalanta Fugiens. The next vision or waking dream came to her about the same time, and concerned an appearance of the Magi moving in silhouette across a pale sky. In the same month, one hot afternoon as she lay resting, she saw me naked by her window in the guise of the goddess Saraswati holding the pose of the ‘Lotus-seat’, but with head turned over the left shoulder. This figure remained for several minutes, moving slightly like an animated statue. And nightly she would see four angelic beings round her bed, and had great joy in conversing with them, though in waking hours she kept no certain memory of their words. It were not right ever to cease lamenting.
For more than a year now I have had on my throat the mark of a vampire’s tooth. Here at my Uncle’s mansion, a bat flew in at my bedroom window, fluttered about a little and went out. Another night, some creature burst from the wall to the left of my bed and escaped by the window. I sensed rather than saw it, being only half-awakened, but it seemed to have the wings of a bat with a span of several feet. It were not right ever to cease lamenting.
When the ghost begins to quicken, as the poet says, confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent—where? My mind refuses to follow. But some time before these strange and tragic happenings, I myself on the borderland of sleep, once became aware of trees encircling a glen, and of mist drooping from a roof of boughs. Beyond them a wall, lying like a belt thrown down, with a black door of oak for a buckle, girdled a fold of ground with live stones, each one overspread with lichen. The wood of the door was carved with a garland of five apples, and three stone steps led up to it; I mounted these and the door opened. Within was the sloping orchard of Eden, red earth disguised as green; and beyond a tangle of apple-branches, the flames of hell rose with serene clamour; for in this garden the worm does not die. Under a tree with broad leaves a figure was standing; her hair was like steel wire red-hot, and one contour of her face and the breast-folds of her garment glowed. She was alone, and in her single and never-ending gesture was the peace of despair. It were not right ever to cease lamenting.
Now a negro was dancing, and the faster he danced, the wilder grew the hidden music. Suddenly as it grew louder still, his limbs began to expand and he could touch the eight corners of the vast room with head, finger or toe. His white
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