There is—or there was, now many years ago,
and a few years also it was still extant—a
chamber, which when I think of, it seems to me like
entering a deep recess of my own consciousness, a deep
cave of my nature; so much have I thought of it and
its inmate, through a considerable period of my life.
After I had seen it long in fancy, then I saw it in
reality, with my waking eyes; and questioned with myself
whether I was really awake.
Not that it was a picturesque or stately chamber;
not in the least. It was dim, dim as a melancholy
mood; so dim, to come to particulars, that, till you
were accustomed to that twilight medium, the print
of a book looked all blurred; a pin was an indistinguishable
object; the face of your familiar friend, or your
dearest beloved one, would be unrecognizable across
it, and the figures, so warm and radiant with life
and heart, would seem like the faint gray shadows of
our thoughts, brooding in age over youthful images
of joy and love. Nevertheless, the chamber, though
so difficult to see across, was small. You detected
that it was within very narrow boundaries, though you
could not precisely see them; only you felt yourself
shut in, compressed, impeded, in the deep centre of
something; and you longed for a breath of fresh air.
Some articles of furniture there seemed to be; but
in this dim medium, to which we are unaccustomed,
it is not well to try to make out what they were,
or anything else—now at least—about
the chamber. Only one thing; small as the light
was, it was rather wonderful how there came to be
any; for no windows were apparent; no communication
with the outward day. [Endnote: 1.]
Looking into this chamber, in fancy it is some time
before we who come out of the broad sunny daylight
of the world discover that it has an inmate.
Yes, there is some one within, but where? We know
it; but do not precisely see him, only a presence
is impressed upon us. It is in that corner; no,
not there; only a heap of darkness and an old antique
coffer, that, as we look closely at it, seems to be
made of carved wood. Ah! he is in that other
dim corner; and now that we steal close to him, we
see him; a young man, pale, flung upon a sort of mattress-couch.
He seems in alarm at something or other. He trembles,
he listens, as if for voices. It must be a great
peril, indeed, that can haunt him thus and make him
feel afraid in such a seclusion as you feel this to
be; but there he is, tremulous, and so pale that really
his face is almost visible in the gloomy twilight.
How came he here? Who is he? What does he
tremble at? In this duskiness we cannot tell.
Only that he is a young man, in a state of nervous
excitement and alarm, looking about him, starting
to his feet, sometimes standing and staring about
him.
Has he been living here? Apparently not; for
see, he has a pair of long riding-boots on, coming
up to the knees; they are splashed with mud, as if
he had ridden hastily through foul ways; the spurs
are on the heel. A riding-dress upon him.
Ha! is that blood upon the hand which he clasps to
his forehead.
