felt no
actual pain, but only unutterable
weariness of body and
soul, when feet and legs were numb so that I knew not whether I
trod on dry hot rock or in slime, was the fancy that I was
already dead, so far as the body was concerned--had perhaps been
dead for days--that only the unconquerable will survived to
compel the dead flesh to do its work.
Whether it really was will--more
potent than the bark of barks
and wiser than the physicians--or merely the vis medicatrix with
which nature helps our
weakness even when the will is suspended,
that saved me I cannot say; but it is certain that I gradually
recovered health,
physical and
mental, and finally reached the
coast
comparatively well, although my mind was still in a gloomy,
desponding state when I first walked the streets of Georgetown,
in rags, half-starved and penniless.
But even when well, long after the discovery that my flesh was
not only alive, but that it was of an
exceedingly tough quality,
the idea born during the darkest period of my
pilgrimage, that
die I must, persisted in my mind. I had lived through that which
would have killed most men--lived only to accomplish the one
remaining purpose of my life. Now it was
accomplished; the
sacred ashes brought so far, with such
infinite labour, through
so many and such great perils, were safe and would mix with mine
at last. There was nothing more in life to make me love it or
keep me prisoner in its weary chains. This
prospect of near
death faded in time; love of life returned, and the earth had
recovered its
everlastingfreshness and beauty; only that feeling
about Rima's ashes did not fade or change, and is as strong now
as it was then. Say that it is morbid--call it
superstition if
you like; but there it is, the most powerful
motive I have known,
always in all things to be taken into account--a
philosophy of
life to be made to fit it. Or take it as a
symbol, since that
may come to be one with the thing
symbolized. In those darkest
days in the forest I had her as a visitor--a Rima of the mind,
whose words when she spoke reflected my
despair. Yet even then I
was not entirely without hope. Heaven itself, she said, could
not undo that which I had done; and she also said that if I
forgave myself, Heaven would say no word, nor would she. That is
my
philosophy still: prayers, austerities, good works--they avail
nothing, and there is no intercession, and outside of the soul
there is no
forgiveness in heaven or earth for sin. Nevertheless
there is a way, which every soul can find out for itself--even
the most
rebellious, the most darkened with crime and tormented
by
remorse. In that way I have walked; and, self-forgiven and
self-absolved, I know that if she were to return once more and
appear to me--even here where her ashes are--I know that her
divine eyes would no longer refuse to look into mine, since the
sorrow which seemed
eternal and would have slain me to see would
not now be in them.
End