She revealed
to him, in the secret recesses of his soul, a wound still gaping though
quiescent, and she made it bleed again, but only to heal it with balm
that was doubly sweet. She re-awakened the dragon that slumbered within
him, till he felt once more the terrible grip of its claws, and then she
slew it once for all and buried it deep in his heart never to rise
again. No corner of his being but lay open to the great Consolatrix.
But at times, under the continuous dominion of this influence, under the
persistent tyranny of this fascination, the convalescent was conscious
of a sort of bewilderment and fear, as if both the dominion and
fascination were insupportable to his weak state. The incessant colloquy
between him and the sea gave him a vague sense of prostration, as if the
sublime language were beyond his restricted powers, so eager to grasp
the meaning of the incomprehensible.
But this period of visions, of abstractions, of pure contemplativeness
was of short duration. By degrees, he began to resume his attitude of
self-consciousness, to recover the sensation of his personality, to
return to his original frame of mind. One day at the hour of high noon,
the vast and terrible silence when all life seems suspended, a sudden
glimpse into his own heart revealed shuddering abysses, inextinguishable
desires, ineffaceable memories, accumulations of suffering and
regret--all the wretchedness he had gone through, all the inevitable
scars of his vices, all the results of his passions.
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