The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 21Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 21
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
When the cries had ceased, there came a scraping at the door, by which I
knew Felipe was without; and Olalla went and spoke to him--I know not
what. With that exception, she stayed close beside me, now kneeling by
my bed and fervently praying, now sitting with her eyes upon mine. So
then, for these six hours I drank in her beauty, and silently perused
the story in her face. I saw the golden coin hover on her breaths; I saw
her eyes darken and brighten, and still speak no language but that of an
unfathomable kindness; I saw the faultless face, and, through the robe,
the lines of the faultless body. Night came at last, and in the growing
darkness of the chamber the sight of her slowly melted; but even then
the touch of her smooth hand lingered in mine and talked with me. To lie
thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the beloved, is to
re-awake to love from whatever shock of disillusion. I reasoned with
myself; and I shut my eyes on horrors, and again I was very bold to
accept the worst. What mattered it, if that imperious sentiment
survived; if her eyes still beckoned and attached me; if now, even as
before, every fibre of my dull body yearned and turned to her? Late on
in the night some strength revived in me, and I spoke:--
"Olalla," I said, "nothing matters; I ask nothing; I am content; I love
you."
She knelt down a while and prayed, and I devoutly respected her
devotions. The moon had begun to shine in upon one side of each of the
three windows, and make a misty clearness in the room, by which I saw
her indistinctly. When she re-arose she made the sign of the cross.
"It is for me to speak," she said, "and for you to listen. I know; you
can but guess. I prayed, how I prayed for you to leave this place. I
begged it of you, and I know you would have granted me even this; or if
not, oh let me think so!"
"I love you," I said.
"And yet you have lived in the world," she said; after a pause, "you are
a man and wise; and I am but a child. Forgive me, if I seem to teach,
who am as ignorant as the trees of the mountain; but those who learn
much do but skim the face of knowledge; they seize the laws, they
conceive the dignity of the design--the horror of the living fact fades
from their memory. It is we who sit at home with evil who remember, I
think, and are warned and pity. Go, rather, go now, and keep me in mind.
So I shall have a life in the cherished places of your memory; a life as
much my own as that which I lead in this body."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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