Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, Mors ubi dira fuit
vita salusque patent.
I was sick—sick unto death with
that
long
agony;
and
when they
at length unbound me, and I was permitted
to sit, I felt that my senses were
leaving me. The sentence—the dread sentence of
death—was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my
ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of revolution—perhaps
from its association in fancy with the
burr
of a mill
wheel.
This
only
for
a brief
period; for presently I
heard
no more. Yet, for a while, I saw;
but
with
how
terrible an exaggeration! I
saw the lips of the black-robed judges.
They appeared to
me white—whiter than the sheet upon which I trace these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin
with
the
intensity of their expression of firmness—of immoveable resolution—of stern
contempt of human torture.
I saw that
the decrees of what
to me was
Fate, were still
issuing from those lips.
I saw them writhe with
a deadly locution.
I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I
saw, too,
for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly
imperceptible waving of
the sable draperies which en- wrapped the walls of the
apartment. And
then
my
vision
fell upon the seven tall
candles upon the table.
At first they wore the
aspect of charity, and
seemed white
and
slender angels
who
would save
me; but then, all at once,
there came
a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre
in my frame thrill as if I had
touched the wire of a galvanic battery,
while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads
of flame, and I saw
that
from
them
there
would be no help.
And
then
there
stole into
my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet
rest there must be in the grave.
The thought came gently and
stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my spirit came
at length properly to
feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges
vanished, as if magically, from before me; the tall candles sank into nothingness;
their
flames
went
out
utterly; the blackness of darkness super-
vened; all sensations appeared swallowed
up in a mad rushing descent as of the
soul
into
Hades. Then
silence,
and
stillness, night
were
the universe.
I had swooned; but
still will not say that
all of consciousness was
lost. What
of it there
remained I will not attempt
to
define, or even
to describe;
yet
all
was
not
lost.
In
the
deepest slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon—no! In death—no! even in the grave all is not lost.
Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we
break the gossamer web of some
dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. In the return to life from
the swoon there are two stages; first, that of the sense of mental or
spiritual; secondly, that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon reaching the second stage,
we
could
recall
the
impressions of the first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of
the
gulf
beyond. And
that
gulf is—what?
How at least shall we distinguish its
shadows from
those
of the tomb?
But if the impressions of
what I have termed the first stage, are not, at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do
they not come unbidden, while
we marvel whence they come? He who
has never swooned, is
not he who finds strange palaces
and
wildly familiar faces in coals that glow; is not he who
beholds floating in
mid-air the sad visions that the many
may
not view; is not he who
ponders over
the perfume of
some novel flower—is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence which has never before
arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest struggles to regather some token
of the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul
had lapsed, there have
been
moments when
I
have
dreamed of success; there have
been
brief,
very
brief
periods when I have conjured up
remembrances which
the lucid reason of
a later epoch
assures me
could
have
had reference only
to
that
condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows of
memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore
me
in silence down—down—still down—till
a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea
of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also of a vague horror at
my heart, on account of that heart's unnatural
stillness. Then comes
a sense of
sudden motion- lessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!) had outrun, in their
descent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After
this
I call to mind flatness
and dampness; and
then
all is madness—the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.
Very suddenly there
came back to my soul motion and sound—the tumultuous motion
of the heart,
and,
in my ears, the sound of
its beating. Then a pause in
which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then
the
mere
consciousness of
existence, without thought—a
condition which lasted
long.
Then, very suddenly, thought,
and shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to
comprehend my true state.
Then
a strong desire to lapse into
insensibility. Then a rushing revival of
soul and a
successful effort
to move. And now a full memory of
the trial, of the judges, of the sable
draperies, of the sentence, of
the sickness, of the swoon. Then
entire
forgetfulness of
all that followed; of all that a later
day
and
much
earnestness of endeavor have enabled me
vaguely to recall.
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that
I lay upon my back, unbound. I
reached out my hand, and
it fell heavily upon something
damp and hard. There
I suffered it
to remain for many minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I longed, yet dared not to employ my
vision. I dreaded the first glance
at objects
around me. It was not that I feared to look
upon things
horrible, but
that
I grew aghast lest there should be
nothing to see. At length, with
a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst
thoughts, then,
were
confirmed. The blackness of
eternal night encompassed me. I struggled for breath.
The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I still lay
quietly, and made effort to exercise my
reason. I brought to
mind
the inquisitorial proceedings, and at- tempted from
that
point
to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed; and it appeared to
me that a very long
interval of time had since
elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself
actually dead.
Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and
in what state was I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished
usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had
been held on the very night
of the day of my trial. Had
I been remanded to my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place for many months? This I at once saw could not
be. Victims had been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as
all the condemned cells at Toledo,
had
stone
floors,
and
light was
not
altogether excluded.
A fearful idea
now
suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my heart, and for
a
brief period, I
once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once
started to my feet, trembling convulsively in every fibre.
I thrust my arms wildly above
and
around me
in all directions. I felt nothing; yet dreaded to
move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of a tomb. Perspiration burst from every
pore,
and
stood
in cold big beads upon my
forehead. The agony of suspense grew
at length intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms extended, and my
eyes
straining from
their
sockets,
in the hope of catching some faint ray of light.
I proceeded for many paces; but still all was
blackness and
vacancy. I breathed
more
freely.
It seemed evident
that mine was not, at least, the most hideous of
fates.
