And the cheeks—there
      were the roses as in her noon of life—yes, these might indeed be
      the fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tremaine. And the chin,
      with its dimples, as in health, might it not be hers?—but had she
      then grown taller since her malady? What inexpressible madness
      seized me with that thought? One bound, and I had reached her
      feet! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head,
      unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it, and
      there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber,
      huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; _it was blacker than
      the raven wings of the midnight!_ And now slowly opened the eyes
      of the figure which stood before me. “Here then, at least,” I
      shrieked aloud, “can I never—can I never be mistaken—these are
      the full, and the black, and the wild eyes—of my lost love—of the
      Lady—of the LADY LIGEIA.”




MORELLA


     Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single. —PLATO—_Sympos_. With a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my
      friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years
      ago, my soul from our first meeting, burned with fires it had
      never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter
      and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I
      could in no manner define their unusual meaning or regulate their
      vague intensity. Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the
      altar; and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She,
      however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone
      rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness
      to dream. Morella’s erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents
      were of no common order—her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt
      this, and, in many matters, became her pupil. I soon, however,
      found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she
      placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are
      usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature. These, for what reason I could not imagine, were her favourite
      and constant study—and that in process of time they became my
      own, should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence
      of habit and example. In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My
      convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by
      the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read to
      be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds
      or in my thoughts. Persuaded of this, I abandoned myself
      implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with an
      unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies. And
      then—then, when, poring over forbidden pages, I felt a forbidden
      spirit enkindling within me—would Morella place her cold hand
      upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some
      low, singular words, whose strange meaning burned themselves in
      upon my memory. And then, hour after hour, would I linger by her
      side, and dwell upon the music of her voice, until at length its
      melody was tainted with terror, and there fell a shadow upon my
      soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too
      unearthly tones. And thus, joy suddenly faded into horror, and
      the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became
      Ge-Henna. It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those
      disquisitions which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned,
      formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of
      Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed
      theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the
      unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood. The
      wild Pantheism of Fichte; the modified Paliggenedia of the
      Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged
      by Schelling, were generally the points of discussion presenting
      the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That identity
      which is termed personal, Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to
      consist in the saneness of rational being. And since by person we
      understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there
      is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this
      which makes us all to be that which we call _ourselves_—thereby
      distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our
      personal identity. But the _principium indivduationis_, the
      notion of that identity _which at death is or is not lost
      forever_—was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense
      interest; not more from the perplexing and exciting nature of its
      consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which
      Morella mentioned them. But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my
      wife’s manner oppressed me as a spell. I could no longer bear the
      touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical
      language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all
      this, but did not upbraid; she seemed conscious of my weakness or
      my folly, and, smiling, called it Fate. She seemed, also,
      conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation
      of my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature. Yet
      was she woman, and pined away daily. In time the crimson spot
      settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale
      forehead became prominent; and one instant my nature melted into
      pity, but in, next I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and then
      my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness of one who
      gazes downward into some dreary and unfathomable abyss. Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming
      desire for the moment of Morella’s decease? I did; but the
      fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days—for
      many weeks and irksome months, until my tortured nerves obtained
      the mastery over my mind, and I grew furious through delay, and,
      with the heart of a fiend, cursed the days and the hours and the
      bitter moments, which seemed to lengthen and lengthen as her
      gentle life declined—like shadows in the dying of the day. But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in heaven,
      Morella called me to her bedside. There was a dim mist over all
      the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich
      October leaves of the forest, a rainbow from the firmament had
      surely fallen. “It is a day of days,” she said, as I approached; “a day of all
      days either to live or die.