Falkland, Book 4.Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
General
Falkland, Book 4.
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Fiction
For weeks he knew nothing of this earth--he was encompassed with the
spectres of a terrible dream. All was confusion, darkness, horror--a
series and a change of torture! At one time he was hurried through the
heavens in the womb of a fiery star, girt above and below and around with
unextinguishable but unconsuming flames. Wherever he trod, as he
wandered through his vast and blazing prison, the molten fire was his
footing, and the breath of fire was his air. Flowers, and trees, and
hills were in that world as in ours, but wrought from one lurid and
intolerable light; and, scattered around, rose gigantic palaces and domes
of the living flame, like the mansions of the city of Hell. With every
moment there passed to and fro shadowy forms, on whose countenances was
engraven unutterable anguish; but not a shriek, not a groan, rung through
the red air; for the doomed, who fed and inhabited the flames, were
forbidden the consolation of voice. Above there sat, fixed and black,
a solid and impenetrable cloud-Night frozen into substance; and from the
midst there hung a banner of a pale and sickly flame, on which was
written "For Ever." A river rushed rapidly beside him. He stooped to
slake the agony of his thirst--the waves were waves of fire; and, as he
started from the burning draught, he longed to shriek aloud, and could
not. Then he cast his despairing eyes above for mercy; and saw on the
livid and motionless banner "For Ever."
A change came o'er the spirit of his dream
He was suddenly borne up on the winds and storms to the oceans of an
eternal winter. He fell stunned and unstruggling upon the ebbless and
sluggish waves. Slowly and heavily they rose over him as he sank: then
came the lengthened and suffocating torture of that drowning death--the
impotent and convulsive contest with the closing waters--the gurgle, the
choking, the bursting of the pent breath, the flutter of the heart, its
agony, and its stillness. He recovered. He was a thousand fathoms
beneath the sea, chained to a rock round which the heavy waters rose as a
wall. He felt his own flesh rot and decay, perishing from his limbs
piece by piece; and he saw the coral banks, which it requires a thousand
ages to form, rise slowly from their slimy bed; and spread atom by atom,
till they became a shelter for the leviathan: their growth, was his only
record of eternity; and ever and ever, around and above him, came vast
and misshapen things--the wonders of the secret deeps; and the sea-
serpent, the huge chimera of the north, made its resting-place by his
side, glaring upon him with a livid and death-like eye, wan, yet burning
as an expiring seta. But over all, in every change, in every moment of
that immortality, there was present one pale and motionless countenance,
never turning from his own. The fiends of hell, the monsters of the
hidden ocean, had no horror so awful as _the human face of the dead whom
he had loved_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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