The Ghost Feeler (6 page)

Her gaze lost itself in the ethereal remoteness of the mountains.

‘How beautiful! How satisfying!' she murmured. ‘Perhaps now I shall really know what it is to live.'

As she spoke she felt a sudden thickening of her heartbeats, and looking up she was aware that before her stood the Spirit of Life.

‘Have you never really known what it is to live?' the Spirit of Life asked her.

‘I have never known', she replied, ‘that fullness of life which we all feel ourselves capable of knowing; though my life has not been without scattered hints of it, like the scent of earth which comes to one sometimes far out at sea.'

‘And what do you call the fullness of life?' the Spirit asked again.

‘Oh, I can't tell you, if you don't know,' she said, almost reproachfully. ‘Many words are supposed to define it – love and sympathy are those in commonest use, but I am not even sure that they are the right ones, and so few people really know what they mean.'

‘You were married,' said the Spirit, ‘yet you did not find the fullness of life in your marriage?'

‘Oh, dear, no,' she replied, with an indulgent scorn, ‘my marriage was a very incomplete affair.'

‘And yet you were fond of your husband?'

‘You have hit upon the exact word; I was fond of him, yes, just as I was fond of my grandmother, and the house that I was born in, and my old nurse. Oh, I was fond of him, and we were counted a very happy couple. But I have sometimes thought that a woman's nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawingroom, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes.'

‘And your husband', asked the Spirit, after a pause, ‘never got beyond the family sitting-room?'

‘Never,' she returned, impatiently; ‘and the worst of it was that he was quite content to remain there. He thought it perfectly beautiful, and sometimes, when he was admiring its commonplace furniture, insignificant as the chairs and tables of a hotel parlour, I felt like crying out to him: “Fool, will you never guess that close at hand are rooms full of treasures and wonders, such as the eye of man hath not seen, rooms that no step has crossed, but that might be yours to live in, could you but find the handle of the door?”'

‘Then,' the Spirit continued, ‘those moments of which you lately spoke, which seemed to come to you like scattered hints of the fullness of life, were not shared with your husband?'

‘Oh, no – never. He was different. His boots creaked, and he always slammed the door when he went out, and he never read anything but railway novels and the sporting advertisements in the papers – and – and, in short, we never understood each other in the least.'

‘To what influence, then, did you owe those exquisite sensations?'

‘I can hardly tell. Sometimes to the perfume of a flower; sometimes to a verse of Dante or of Shakespeare; sometimes to a picture or a sunset, or to one of those calm days at sea, when one seems to be lying in the hollow of a blue pearl; sometimes, but rarely, to a word spoken by someone who chanced to give utterance, at the right moment, to what I felt but could not express.'

‘Someone whom you loved?' asked the Spirit.

‘I never loved anyone, in that way,' she said, rather sadly, ‘nor was I thinking of any one person when I spoke, but of two or three who, by touching for an instant upon a certain chord of my being, had called forth a single note of that strange melody which seemed sleeping in my soul. It has seldom happened, however, that I have owed such feelings to people; and no one ever gave me a moment of such happiness as it was my lot to feel one evening in the Church of Or San Michele, in Florence.'

‘Tell me about it,' said the Spirit.

‘It was near sunset on a rainy spring afternoon in Easter week. The clouds had vanished, dispersed by a sudden wind, and as we entered the church the fiery panes of the high windows shone out like lamps through the dusk. A priest was at the high altar, his white cope a livid spot in the incense-laden obscurity, the light of the candles flickering up and down like fireflies about his head; a few people knelt near by. We stole behind them and sat down on a bench close to the tabernacle of Orcagna.

‘Strange to say, though Florence was not new to me, I had never been in the church before; and in that magical light I saw for the first time the inlaid steps, the fluted columns, the sculptured bas-reliefs and canopy of the marvellous shrine. The marble, worn and mellowed by the subtle hand of time, took on an unspeakable rosy hue, suggestive in some remote way of the honey-coloured columns of the Parthenon, but more mystic, more complex, a colour not bom of the sun's inveterate kiss, but made up of cryptal twilight, and the flame of candles upon martyrs' tombs, and gleams of sunset through symbolic panes of chrysoprase and ruby; such a light as illumines the missals in the library of Siena, or burns like a hidden fire through the Madonna of Gian Bellini in the Church of the Redeemer, at Venice; the light of the Middle Ages, richer, more solemn, more significant than the limpid sunshine of Greece.

‘The church was silent, but for the wail of the priest and the occasional scraping of a chair against the floor, and as I sat there, bathed in that light, absorbed in rapt contemplation of the marble miracle which rose before me, cunningly wrought as a casket of ivory and enriched with jewel-like incrustations and tarnished gleams of gold, I felt myself borne onward along a mighty current, whose source seemed to be in the very beginning of things, and whose tremendous waters gathered as they went all the mingled streams of human passion and endeavor. Life in all its varied manifestations of beauty and strangeness seemed weaving a rhythmical dance around me as I moved, and wherever the spirit of man had passed I knew that my foot had once been familiar.

‘As I gazed, the mediæval bosses of the tabernacle of Orcagna seemed to melt and flow into their primal forms, so that the folded lotus of the Nile and the Greek acanthus were braided with the runic knots and fish-tailed monsters of the North, and all the plastic terror and beauty born of man's hand from the Ganges to the Baltic quivered and mingled in Orcagna's apotheosis of Mary. And so the river bore me on, past the alien face of antique civilizations and the familiar wonders of Greece, till I swam upon the fiercely rushing tide of the Middle Ages, with its swirling eddies of passion, its heaven-reflecting pools of poetry and art; I heard the rhythmic blow of the craftsmen's hammers in the goldsmiths' workshops and on the walls of churches, the party-cries of armed factions in the narrow streets, the organ-roll of Dante's verse, the crackle of the faggots around Arnold of Brescia, the twitter of the swallows to which St Francis preached, the laughter of the ladies listening on the hillside to the quips of the Decameron, while plague-struck Florence howled beneath them – all this and much more I heard, joined in strange unison with voices earlier and more remote, fierce, passionate, or tender, yet subdued to such awful harmony that I thought of the song that the morning stars sang together and felt as though it were sounding in my ears. My heart beat to suffocation, the tears burned my lids, the joy, the mystery of it seemed too intolerable to be borne. I could not understand even then the words of the song; but I knew that if there had been someone at my side who could have heard it with me, we might have found the key to it together.

‘I turned to my husband, who was sitting beside me in an attitude of patient dejection, gazing into the bottom of his hat; but at that moment he rose, and stretching his stiffened legs, said, mildly: “Hadn't we better be going? There doesn't seem to be much to see here, and you know the table d'hote dinner is at half-past six o'clock.”'

Her recital ended, there was an interval of silence; then the Spirit of Life said: ‘There is a compensation in store for such needs as you have expressed.'

‘Oh, then you
do
understand?' she exclaimed. ‘Tell me what compensation, I entreat you!'

‘It is ordained', the Spirit answered, ‘that every soul which seeks in vain on earth for a kindred soul to whom it can lay bare its inmost being shall find that soul here and be united to it for eternity.'

A glad cry broke from her lips.

‘Ah, shall I find him at last?' she cried, exultant.

‘He is here,' said the Spirit of Life.

She looked up and saw that a man stood near whose soul (for in that unwonted light she seemed to see his soul more clearly than his face) drew her towards him with an invincible force.

‘Are you really he?' she murmured.

‘I am he,' he answered.

She laid her hand in his and drew him towards the parapet which overhung the valley.

‘Shall we go down together,' she asked him, ‘into that marvellous country; shall we see it together, as if with the selfsame eyes, and tell each other in the same words all that we think and feel?'

‘So', he replied, ‘have I hoped and dreamed.'

‘What?' she asked, with rising joy. ‘Then you, too, have looked for me?'

‘All my life.'

‘How wonderful! And did you never, never find anyone in the other world who understood you?'

‘Not wholly – not as you and I understand each other.'

‘Then you feel it, too? Oh, I am happy,' she sighed.

They stood, hand in hand, looking down over the parapet upon the shimmering landscape which stretched forth beneath them into sapphirine space, and the Spirit of Life, who kept watch near the threshold, heard now and then a floating fragment of their talk blown backwards like the stray swallows which the wind sometimes separates from their migratory tribe.

‘Did you never feel at sunset —'

‘Ah, yes; but I never heard anyone else say so. Did you?'

‘Do you remember that line in the third canto of the “Inferno”?'

‘Ah, that line – my favourite always. Is it possible —'

‘You know the stooping Victory in the frieze of the Nike Apteros?'

‘You mean the one who is tying her sandal? Then you have noticed, too, that all Botticelli and Mantegna are dormant in those flying folds of her drapery?'

‘After a storm in autumn have you never seen —'

‘Yes, it is curious how certain flowers suggest certain painters – the perfume of the carnation, Leonardo; that of the rose, Titian; the tuberose, Crivelli —'

‘I never supposed that anyone else had noticed it.'

‘Have you never thought —'

‘Oh, yes, often and often; but I never dreamed that anyone else had.'

‘But surely you must have felt —'

‘Oh, yes, yes; and you, too —'

‘How beautiful! How strange —'

Their voices rose and fell, like the murmur of two fountains answering each other across a garden full of flowers. At length, with a certain tender impatience, he turned to her and said: ‘Love, why should we linger here? All eternity lies before us. Let us go down into that beautiful country together and make a home for ourselves on some blue hill above the shining river.'

As he spoke, the hand she had forgotten in his was suddenly withdrawn, and he felt that a cloud was passing over the radiance of her soul.

‘A home,' she repeated, slowly, ‘a home for you and me to live in for all eternity?'

‘Why not, love? Am I not the soul that yours has sought?'

‘Y-yes – yes, I know – but, don't you see, home would not be like home to me, unless —'

‘Unless?' he wonderingly repeated.

She did not answer, but she thought to herself, with an impulse of whimsical inconsistency, ‘Unless you slammed the door and wore creaking boots.'

But he had recovered his hold upon her hand, and by imperceptible degrees was leading her towards the shining steps which descended to the valley.

‘Come, O my soul's soul,' he passionately implored; ‘why delay a moment? Surely you feel, as I do, that eternity itself is too short to hold such bliss as ours. It seems to me that I can see our home already. Have I not always seen it in my dreams? It is white, love, is it not, with polished columns, and a sculptured cornice against the blue? Groves of laurel and oleander and thickets of roses surround it; but from the terrace where we walk at sunset, the eye looks out over woodlands and cool meadows where, deep-bowered under ancient boughs, a stream goes delicately towards the river. Indoors our favourite pictures hang upon the walls and the rooms are lined with books. Think, dear, at last we shall have time to read them all. With which shall we begin? Come, help me to choose. Shall it be “Faust” or the
Vita Nuova
, the “Tempest” or “Les Caprices de Marianne,” or the thirty-first canto of the
Paradise
, or “Epipsychidion” or “Lycidas”? Tell me, dear, which one?'