They are!—they are!—This
wild star—it is now three centuries since,
with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the
feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with
a few passionate sentences—into birth.
Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of
all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes
are the passions of the most turbulent and
unhallowed of hearts!
* * * *
*
[Greek: Mellonta sauta’]
These things are in the future.
Sophocles—’Antig.’
‘Una.’
“Born again?”
‘Monos.’
Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born
again.” These were the words upon whose
mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting
the explanations of the priesthood, until Death
itself resolved for me the secret.
‘Una.’
Death!
‘Monos.’
How strangely, sweet Una, you echo
my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in
your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You
are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty
of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I
spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts,
throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!
‘Una.’
Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all
feasts! How often, Monos, did we lose ourselves
in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto
it, “thus far, and no farther!” That
earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within
our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling
happy in its first upspringing that our happiness
would strengthen with its strength! Alas, as
it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that evil
hour which was hurrying to separate us forever!
Thus in time it became painful to love. Hate
would have been mercy then.
‘Monos’.
Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine,
mine forever now!
‘Una’.
But the memory of past sorrow, is it not
present joy? I have much to
say yet of the things which have been.
Above all, I burn to know the
incidents of your own passage through
the dark Valley and Shadow.
‘Monos’.
And when did the radiant Una ask anything
of her Monos in vain? I will
be minute in relating all, but at what
point shall the weird narrative
begin?
‘Una’.
At what point?
‘Monos’.
You have said.
‘Una’.
Monos, I comprehend you. In Death
we have both learned the propensity of man to define
the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence
with the moment of life’s cessation—but
commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever
having abandoned you, you sank into a breathless
and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
‘Monos’.
