The Lifted Veil. Джордж Элиот

read of such effects—in works of fiction at least.  Nay; in genuine biographies I had read of the subtilizing or exalting influence of some diseases on the mental powers.  Did not Novalis feel his inspiration intensified under the progress of consumption?

      When my mind had dwelt for some time on this blissful idea, it seemed to me that I might perhaps test it by an exertion of my will.  The vision had begun when my father was speaking of our going to Prague.  I did not for a moment believe it was really a representation of that city; I believed—I hoped it was a picture that my newly liberated genius had painted in fiery haste, with the colours snatched from lazy memory.  Suppose I were to fix my mind on some other place—Venice, for example, which was far more familiar to my imagination than Prague: perhaps the same sort of result would follow.  I concentrated my thoughts on Venice; I stimulated my imagination with poetic memories, and strove to feel myself present in Venice, as I had felt myself present in Prague.  But in vain.  I was only colouring the Canaletto engravings that hung in my old bedroom at home; the picture was a shifting one, my mind wandering uncertainly in search of more vivid images; I could see no accident of form or shadow without conscious labour after the necessary conditions.  It was all prosaic effort, not rapt passivity, such as I had experienced half an hour before.  I was discouraged; but I remembered that inspiration was fitful.

      For several days I was in a state of excited expectation, watching for a recurrence of my new gift.  I sent my thoughts ranging over my world of knowledge, in the hope that they would find some object which would send a reawakening vibration through my slumbering genius.  But no; my world remained as dim as ever, and that flash of strange light refused to come again, though I watched for it with palpitating eagerness.

      My father accompanied me every day in a drive, and a gradually lengthening walk as my powers of walking increased; and one evening he had agreed to come and fetch me at twelve the next day, that we might go together to select a musical box, and other purchases rigorously demanded of a rich Englishman visiting Geneva.  He was one of the most punctual of men and bankers, and I was always nervously anxious to be quite ready for him at the appointed time.  But, to my surprise, at a quarter past twelve he had not appeared.  I felt all the impatience of a convalescent who has nothing particular to do, and who has just taken a tonic in the prospect of immediate exercise that would carry off the stimulus.

      Unable to sit still and reserve my strength, I walked up and down the room, looking out on the current of the Rhone, just where it leaves the dark-blue lake; but thinking all the while of the possible causes that could detain my father.

      Suddenly I was conscious that my father was in the room, but not alone: there were two persons with him.  Strange!  I had heard no footstep, I had not seen the door open; but I saw my father, and at his right hand our neighbour Mrs. Filmore, whom I remembered very well, though I had not seen her for five years.  She was a commonplace middle-aged woman, in silk and cashmere; but the lady on the left of my father was not more than twenty, a tall, slim, willowy figure, with luxuriant blond hair, arranged in cunning braids and folds that looked almost too massive for the slight figure and the small-featured, thin-lipped face they crowned.  But the face had not a girlish expression: the features were sharp, the pale grey eyes at once acute, restless, and sarcastic.  They were fixed on me in half-smiling curiosity, and I felt a painful sensation as if a sharp wind were cutting me.  The pale-green dress, and the green leaves that seemed to form a border about her pale blond hair, made me think of a Water-Nixie—for my mind was full of German lyrics, and this pale, fatal-eyed woman, with the green weeds, looked like a birth from some cold sedgy stream, the daughter of an aged river.

      “Well, Latimer, you thought me long,” my father said . . .

      But while the last word was in my ears, the whole group vanished, and there was nothing between me and the Chinese printed folding-screen that stood before the door.  I was cold and trembling; I could only totter forward and throw myself on the sofa.  This strange new power had manifested itself again . . . But was it a power?  Might it not rather be a disease—a sort of intermittent delirium, concentrating my energy of brain into moments of unhealthy activity, and leaving my saner hours all the more barren?  I felt a dizzy sense of unreality in what my eye rested on; I grasped the bell convulsively, like one trying to free himself from nightmare, and rang it twice.  Pierre came with a look of alarm in his face.