CHAPTER XVIII. DEAD OR ALIVE?

I went walking on, still facing the moon, who, not yet high, was staring

straight into the forest. I did not know what ailed her, but she

was dark and dented, like a battered disc of old copper, and looked

dispirited and weary. Not a cloud was nigh to keep her company, and the

stars were too bright for her. “Is this going to last for ever?” she

seemed to say. She was going one way and I was going the other, yet

through the wood we went a long way together. We did not commune much,

for my eyes were on the ground; but her disconsolate look was fixed on

me: I felt without seeing it. A long time we were together, I and the

moon, walking side by side, she the dull shine, and I the live shadow.

Something on the ground, under a spreading tree, caught my eye with its

whiteness, and I turned toward it. Vague as it was in the shadow of

the foliage, it suggested, as I drew nearer, a human body. “Another

skeleton!” I said to myself, kneeling and laying my hand upon it. A body

it was, however, and no skeleton, though as nearly one as body could

well be. It lay on its side, and was very cold--not cold like a stone,

but cold like that which was once alive, and is alive no more. The

closer I looked at it, the oftener I touched it, the less it seemed

possible it should be other than dead. For one bewildered moment, I

fancied it one of the wild dancers, a ghostly Cinderella, perhaps,

that had lost her way home, and perished in the strange night of an

out-of-door world! It was quite naked, and so worn that, even in the

shadow, I could, peering close, have counted without touching them,

every rib in its side. All its bones, indeed, were as visible as if

tight-covered with only a thin elastic leather. Its beautiful yet

terrible teeth, unseemly disclosed by the retracted lips, gleamed

ghastly through the dark. Its hair was longer than itself, thick and

very fine to the touch, and black as night.

It was the body of a tall, probably graceful woman.--How had she come

there? Not of herself, and already in such wasted condition, surely! Her

strength must have failed her; she had fallen, and lain there until she

died of hunger! But how, even so, could she be thus emaciated? And how

came she to be naked? Where were the savages to strip and leave her?

or what wild beasts would have taken her garments? That her body should

have been left was not wonderful!

I rose to my feet, stood, and considered. I must not, could not let her

lie exposed and forsaken! Natural reverence forbade it. Even the

garment of a woman claims respect; her body it were impossible to leave

uncovered! Irreverent eyes might look on it! Brutal claws might toss

it about! Years would pass ere the friendly rains washed it into the

soil!--But the ground was hard, almost solid with interlacing roots, and

I had but my bare hands!

At first it seemed plain that she had not long been dead: there was not

a sign of decay about her! But then what had the slow wasting of life

left of her to decay?

Could she be still alive? Might she not? What if she were! Things went

very strangely in this strange world! Even then there would be little

chance of bringing her back, but I must know she was dead before I

buried her!

As I left the forest-hall, I had spied in the doorway a bunch of ripe

grapes, and brought it with me, eating as I came: a few were yet left on

the stalk, and their juice might possibly revive her! Anyhow it was all

I had with which to attempt her rescue! The mouth was happily a little

open; but the head was in such an awkward position that, to move the

body, I passed my arm under the shoulder on which it lay, when I found

the pine-needles beneath it warm: she could not have been any time dead,

and MIGHT still be alive, though I could discern no motion of the heart,

or any indication that she breathed! One of her hands was clenched hard,

apparently inclosing something small. I squeezed a grape into her mouth,

but no swallowing followed.

To do for her all I could, I spread a thick layer of pine-needles and

dry leaves, laid one of my garments over it, warm from my body, lifted

her upon it, and covered her with my clothes and a great heap of leaves:

I would save the little warmth left in her, hoping an increase to it

when the sun came back. Then I tried another grape, but could perceive

no slightest movement of mouth or throat.

“Doubt,” I said to myself, “may be a poor encouragement to do anything,

but it is a bad reason for doing nothing.” So tight was the skin upon

her bones that I dared not use friction.

I crept into the heap of leaves, got as close to her as I could, and

took her in my arms. I had not much heat left in me, but what I had

I would share with her! Thus I spent what remained of the night,

sleepless, and longing for the sun. Her cold seemed to radiate into me,

but no heat to pass from me to her.

Had I fled from the beautiful sleepers, I thought, each on her “dim,

straight” silver couch, to lie alone with such a bedfellow! I had

refused a lovely privilege: I was given over to an awful duty! Beneath

the sad, slow-setting moon, I lay with the dead, and watched for the

dawn.

The darkness had given way, and the eastern horizon was growing dimly

clearer, when I caught sight of a motion rather than of anything

that moved--not far from me, and close to the ground. It was the low

undulating of a large snake, which passed me in an unswerving line.

Presently appeared, making as it seemed for the same point, what I took

for a roebuck-doe and her calf. Again a while, and two creatures like

bear-cubs came, with three or four smaller ones behind them. The light

was now growing so rapidly that when, a few minutes after, a troop of

horses went trotting past, I could see that, although the largest of

them were no bigger than the smallest Shetland pony, they must yet be

full-grown, so perfect were they in form, and so much had they all the

ways and action of great horses. They were of many breeds. Some seemed

models of cart-horses, others of chargers, hunters, racers. Dwarf cattle

and small elephants followed.

“Why are the children not here!” I said to myself. “The moment I am free

of this poor woman, I must go back and fetch them!”

Where were the creatures going? What drew them? Was this an exodus, or

a morning habit? I must wait for the sun! Till he came I must not leave

the woman! I laid my hand on the body, and could not help thinking it

felt a trifle warmer. It might have gained a little of the heat I had

lost! it could hardly have generated any! What reason for hope there was

had not grown less!

The forehead of the day began to glow, and soon the sun came peering up,

as if to see for the first time what all this stir of a new world was

about. At sight of his great innocent splendour, I rose full of life,

strong against death. Removing the handkerchief I had put to protect the

mouth and eyes from the pine-needles, I looked anxiously to see whether

I had found a priceless jewel, or but its empty case.

The body lay motionless as when I found it. Then first, in the morning

light, I saw how drawn and hollow was the face, how sharp were the bones

under the skin, how every tooth shaped itself through the lips. The

human garment was indeed worn to its threads, but the bird of heaven

might yet be nestling within, might yet awake to motion and song!

But the sun was shining on her face! I re-arranged the handkerchief,

laid a few leaves lightly over it, and set out to follow the creatures.

Their main track was well beaten, and must have long been used--likewise

many of the tracks that, joining it from both sides, merged in, and

broadened it. The trees retreated as I went, and the grass grew thicker.

Presently the forest was gone, and a wide expanse of loveliest green

stretched away to the horizon. Through it, along the edge of the forest,

flowed a small river, and to this the track led. At sight of the water a

new though undefined hope sprang up in me. The stream looked everywhere

deep, and was full to the brim, but nowhere more than a few yards wide.

A bluish mist rose from it, vanishing as it rose. On the opposite side,

in the plentiful grass, many small animals were feeding. Apparently they

slept in the forest, and in the morning sought the plain, swimming the

river to reach it. I knelt and would have drunk, but the water was hot,

and had a strange metallic taste.

I leapt to my feet: here was the warmth I sought--the first necessity of

life! I sped back to my helpless charge.

Without well considering my solitude, no one will understand what seemed

to lie for me in the redemption of this woman from death. “Prove what

she may,” I thought with myself, “I shall at least be lonely no more!” I

had found myself such poor company that now first I seemed to know what

hope was. This blessed water would expel the cold death, and drown my

desolation!

I bore her to the stream. Tall as she was, I found her marvellously

light, her bones were so delicate, and so little covered them. I grew

yet more hopeful when I found her so far from stiff that I could carry

her on one arm, like a sleeping child, leaning against my shoulder. I

went softly, dreading even the wind of my motion, and glad there was no

other.

The water was too hot to lay her at once in it: the shock might scare

from her the yet fluttering life! I laid her on the bank, and dipping

one of my garments, began to bathe the pitiful form. So wasted was it

that, save from the plentifulness and blackness of the hair, it was

impossible even to conjecture whether she was young or old. Her eyelids

were just not shut, which made her look dead the more: there was a crack

in the clouds of her night, at which no sun shone through!

The longer I went on bathing the poor bones, the less grew my hope that

they would ever again be clothed with strength, that ever those eyelids

would lift, and a soul look out; still I kept bathing continuously,

allowing no part time to grow cold while I bathed another; and gradually

the body became so much warmer, that at last I ventured to submerge it:

I got into the stream and drew it in, holding the face above the water,

and letting the swift, steady current flow all about the rest. I noted,

but was able to conclude nothing from the fact, that, for all the heat,

the shut hand never relaxed its hold.

After about ten minutes, I lifted it out and laid it again on the bank,

dried it, and covered it as well as I could, then ran to the forest for

leaves.

The grass and soil were dry and warm; and when I returned I thought it

had scarcely lost any of the heat the water had given it. I spread the

leaves upon it, and ran for more--then for a third and a fourth freight.

I could now leave it and go to explore, in the hope of discovering

some shelter. I ran up the stream toward some rocky hills I saw in that

direction, which were not far off.

When I reached them, I found the river issuing full grown from a rock

at the bottom of one of them. To my fancy it seemed to have run down a

stair inside, an eager cataract, at every landing wild to get out, but

only at the foot finding a door of escape.

It did not fill the opening whence it rushed, and I crept through into a

little cave, where I learned that, instead of hurrying tumultuously down

a stair, it rose quietly from the ground at the back like the base of

a large column, and ran along one side, nearly filling a deep, rather

narrow channel. I considered the place, and saw that, if I could find

a few fallen boughs long enough to lie across the channel, and large

enough to bear a little weight without bending much, I might, with

smaller branches and plenty of leaves, make upon them a comfortable

couch, which the stream under would keep constantly warm. Then I ran

back to see how my charge fared.

She was lying as I had left her. The heat had not brought her to life,

but neither had it developed anything to check farther hope. I got a few

boulders out of the channel, and arranged them at her feet and on both

sides of her.

Running again to the wood, I had not to search long ere I found some

small boughs fit for my purpose--mostly of beech, their dry yellow

leaves yet clinging to them. With these I had soon laid the floor of a

bridge-bed over the torrent. I crossed the boughs with smaller branches,

interlaced these with twigs, and buried all deep in leaves and dry moss.

When thus at length, after not a few journeys to the forest, I had

completed a warm, dry, soft couch, I took the body once more, and set

out with it for the cave. It was so light that now and then as I went

I almost feared lest, when I laid it down, I should find it a skeleton

after all; and when at last I did lay it gently on the pathless bridge,

it was a greater relief to part with that fancy than with the weight.

Once more I covered the body with a thick layer of leaves; and trying

again to feed her with a grape, found to my joy that I could open the

mouth a little farther. The grape, indeed, lay in it unheeded, but I

hoped some of the juice might find its way down.

After an hour or two on the couch, she was no longer cold. The warmth of

the brook had interpenetrated her frame--truly it was but a frame!--and

she was warm to the touch;--not, probably, with the warmth of life, but

with a warmth which rendered it more possible, if she were alive, that

she might live. I had read of one in a trance lying motionless for

weeks!

In that cave, day after day, night after night, seven long days and

nights, I sat or lay, now waking now sleeping, but always watching.

Every morning I went out and bathed in the hot stream, and every morning

felt thereupon as if I had eaten and drunk--which experience gave me

courage to lay her in it also every day. Once as I did so, a shadow of

discoloration on her left side gave me a terrible shock, but the next

morning it had vanished, and I continued the treatment--every morning,

after her bath, putting a fresh grape in her mouth.

I too ate of the grapes and other berries I found in the forest; but I

believed that, with my daily bath in that river, I could have done very

well without eating at all.

Every time I slept, I dreamed of finding a wounded angel, who, unable to

fly, remained with me until at last she loved me and would not leave me;

and every time I woke, it was to see, instead of an angel-visage with

lustrous eyes, the white, motionless, wasted face upon the couch. But

Adam himself, when first he saw her asleep, could not have looked more

anxiously for Eve’s awaking than I watched for this woman’s. Adam knew

nothing of himself, perhaps nothing of his need of another self; I, an

alien from my fellows, had learned to love what I had lost! Were this

one wasted shred of womanhood to disappear, I should have nothing in me

but a consuming hunger after life! I forgot even the Little Ones: things

were not amiss with them! here lay what might wake and be a woman! might

actually open eyes, and look out of them upon me!

Now first I knew what solitude meant--now that I gazed on one who

neither saw nor heard, neither moved nor spoke. I saw now that a man

alone is but a being that may become a man--that he is but a need, and

therefore a possibility. To be enough for himself, a being must be

an eternal, self-existent worm! So superbly constituted, so simply

complicate is man; he rises from and stands upon such a pedestal of

lower physical organisms and spiritual structures, that no atmosphere

will comfort or nourish his life, less divine than that offered by other

souls; nowhere but in other lives can he breathe. Only by the reflex of

other lives can he ripen his specialty, develop the idea of himself,

the individuality that distinguishes him from every other. Were all men

alike, each would still have an individuality, secured by his personal

consciousness, but there would be small reason why there should be more

than two or three such; while, for the development of the differences

which make a large and lofty unity possible, and which alone can

make millions into a church, an endless and measureless influence and

reaction are indispensable. A man to be perfect--complete, that is,

in having reached the spiritual condition of persistent and universal

growth, which is the mode wherein he inherits the infinitude of his

Father--must have the education of a world of fellow-men. Save for the

hope of the dawn of life in the form beside me, I should have fled for

fellowship to the beasts that grazed and did not speak. Better to go

about with them--infinitely better--than to live alone! But with the

faintest prospect of a woman to my friend, I, poorest of creatures, was

yet a possible man!