Shorter novels, vol. 3 : $b Eighteenth centuryJohnson, Samuel
General
Shorter novels, vol. 3 : $b Eighteenth century
Johnson, Samuel
English fiction -- 18th century
At evening two fires were kindled on the brink of the lake, and the two
lovely bodies, taken from their biers, were carefully deposited upon a
bed of dried leaves within the same cabin. The dwarfs began to recite
the Koran, with their clear shrill voices; and Shaban and Sutlememe
stood at some distance, anxiously waiting the effects of the powder. At
length Nouronihar and Gulchenrouz faintly stretched out their arms; and,
gradually opening their eyes, began to survey, with looks of increasing
amazement, every object around them. They even attempted to rise; but,
for want of strength, fell back again. Sutlememe, on this, administered
a cordial, which the emir had taken care to provide.
Gulchenrouz, thoroughly aroused, sneezed out aloud; and, raising himself
with an effort that expressed his surprise, left the cabin and inhaled
the fresh air with the greatest avidity. “Yes,” said he, “I breathe
again! again do I exist! I hear sounds! I behold a firmament, spangled
over with stars!” Nouronihar, catching these beloved accents, extricated
herself from the leaves and ran to clasp Gulchenrouz to her bosom. The
first objects she remarked were their long cymars, their garlands of
flowers, and their naked feet: she hid her face in her hands to reflect.
The vision of the enchanted bath, the despair of her father, and, more
vividly than both, the majestic figure of Vathek, recurred to her
memory. She recollected, also, that herself and Gulchenrouz had been
sick and dying; but all these images bewildered her mind. Not knowing
where she was, she turned her eyes on all sides, as if to recognize the
surrounding scene. This singular lake, those flames reflected from its
glassy surface, the pale hues of its banks, the romantic cabins, the
bulrushes that sadly waved their drooping heads, the storks whose
melancholy cries blended with the shrill voices of the
dwarfs--everything conspired to persuade her that the angel of death had
opened the portal of some other world.
Gulchenrouz on his part, lost in wonder, clung to the neck of his
cousin. He believed himself in the region of phantoms, and was terrified
at the silence she preserved. At length addressing her: “Speak,” said
he; “where are we? Do you not see those spectres that are stirring the
burning coals? Are they Monker and Nekir who are come to throw us into
them? Does the fatal bridge cross this lake, whose solemn stillness
perhaps conceals from us an abyss, in which for whole ages we shall be
doomed incessantly to sink?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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