“My countryman! and in this spot! It is not often that the English penetrate into places where no ostentatious celebrity dwells to sate curiosity and flatter pride. My countryman: it is well, and perhaps fortunate. Yes,” he said, after a second pause, “yes; it were indeed a boon, had the earth a fountain for the wounds which fester and the disease which consumes the heart.”
“The earth has oblivion, Father, if not a cure.”
“It is false!” cried the Hermit, passionately, and starting wildly from his seat; “the earth has no oblivion. The grave,—is that forgetfulness? No, no: there is no grave for the soul! The deeds pass; the flesh corrupts: but the memory passes not, and withers not. From age to age, from world to world, through eternity, throughout creation, it is perpetuated; and immortality,—a curse,—a hell!”
Surprised by the vehemence of the Hermit, I was still more startled by the agonizing and ghastly expression of his face.
“My Father,” said I, “pardon me if I have pressed upon a sore. I also have that within which, did a stranger touch it, would thrill my whole frame with torture, and I would fain ask from your holy, soothing, and pious comfort, something of alleviation or of fortitude.”
The Hermit drew near to me; he laid his thin hand upon my arm, and looked long and wistfully in my face. It was then that a suspicion crept through me which after observation proved to be true, that the wanderings of those dark eyes and the meaning of that blanched brow were tinctured with insanity.
“Brother and fellow man,” said he, mournfully, “hast thou in truth suffered? and dost thou still smart at the remembrance? We are friends then. If thou hast suffered as much as I have, I will fall down and do homage to thee as a superior; for pain has its ranks, and I think at times that none ever climbed the height that I have done. Yet you look not like one who has had nights of delirium, and days in which the heart lay in the breast, as a corpse endowed with consciousness might lie in the grave, feeling the worm gnaw it, and the decay corrupt, and yet incapable of resistance or of motion. Your cheek is thin, but firm; your eye is haughty and bright; you have the air of one who has lived with men, and struggled and not been vanquished in the struggle. Suffered! No, man, no,—you have not suffered!”
“My Father, it is not in the countenance that Fate graves her records. I have, it is true, contended with my fellows; and if wealth and honour be the premium, not in vain: but I have not contended against Sorrow with a like success; and I stand before you, a being who, if passion be a tormentor and the death of the loved a loss, has borne that which the most wretched will not envy.”
Again a fearful change came over the face of the recluse: he grasped my arm more vehemently, “You speak my own sorrows; you utter my own curse; I will see you again; you may do my last will better than yon monks. Can I trust you? If you have in truth known misfortune, I will! I will! yea, even to the outpouring—merciful, merciful God, what would I say,—what would I reveal!”
Suddenly changing his voice, he released me, and said, touching his forehead with a meaning gesture and a quiet smile, “You say you are my rival in pain. Have you ever known the rage and despair of the heart mount here? It is a wonderful thing to be calm as I am now, when that rising makes itself felt in fire and torture!”