Part 9

I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So, too, had I said many a time,--I would investigate whatever was strange, doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I did,--lie there fascinated.

Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some supernatural power. It was something more than a light,--it was a film, a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and partly by this influence upon me.

I would have hastened from the room, screamed for help, or cried “murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to martial music of the dead.

I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by which I was led.

When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to it, but never at any time another just like it.

As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!--a supernatural spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever before or since seen.

As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first look awkward.

Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present, but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move; as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions.

What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed, it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and clumsiness had now worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and--wonderful to relate!--as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read, _Happy Days of Yore!_

Could it be possible?--was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God alone knows!

Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by the hand of my old chum, were the words, _Memories of the Past_. Here was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend.

_Happy Days of Yore_,--_Memories of the Past_. How was I to solve the mystery of the weaving of these words and fathom their intended meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why this mysterious writing?

As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I fell into this meditation.

It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing, or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that--mystery of mysteries!--the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.--

Oh those happy days of yore Will come back to me no more! Ah no more, no more for aye!-- They have fled with time away, And my heart is sad and lone As I dream forevermore, With a heaving sigh and groan, Of those happy days of yore.

Most wonderful!--wonderful not in the words so much, for they were simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light.

As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision of the second and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.--

Oh how sweet those days of boyhood, Oh how dear those happy hours When I rambled through the forests ’Mong the birds and trees and flowers! Life lay smiling all before me, No regrets, no cares behind; All the earth seemed bright with beauty, Life was freedom unconfined. I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight Scattered wide its golden beams, Thinking not that I should ever Miss its light or prize its gleams.

Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one really was present; the other existing in another place, and only _psychologically_ present to me. This latter fact, shown in all that follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I have ever met--except one!--nor have I ever yet found sage or savant able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh, and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it.

My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.--

Oh those days of sweetest thought! Oh those days with rapture fraught! Had I known when but a child What great blessings round me smiled, With a wild, exulting leap I’d have struck on wisdom’s door; Piled up knowledge heap on heap In those happy days of yore.

Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters, that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to listen to the other richer and deeper melody.--

Ah, those days are gone forever; Time has wafted them away; Happiness now seems a phantom Of a joyous yesterday. If I could but live them over, All those careless, happy hours, Start again in life’s fair morning O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers, Not a moment would be wasted Chasing bubbles in the air-- I would seek the pearls of knowledge, And the gems of wisdom wear.

Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties, and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for both wrote (I can’t help saying they _wrote_) as rapidly as slow music goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider had already begun the third stanza.--

Could I live again those days That I spent in idle plays And could know of learning’s worth, I’d not waste my time in mirth;-- I would climb the hill of fame And on wisdom’s wings would soar Till I caught the beacon flame In those happy days of yore.

I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as they were completed. And now from the second I heard.--

Had I known of wisdom’s power In those days with pleasure fraught, From the mines of truth and beauty Golden trophies I’d have brought. All the lore of bygone ages From my books I would have learned; O’er the bards I would have pondered Tho’ my lamp till morning burned; All the broad empire of Nature With its wealth of laws divine Should have shown to me the beauty Of Omnipotent design.

While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the heart-felt words.--

Oh, my heart grows weak and faint, And it sighs in sad complaint As it dreams its dreams of woe Of the silent long ago. And a pain is at my heart, Not alone for wisdom’s lore, For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart In those happy days of yore.

What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit in these similar words.--

I’d have read that revelation Traced by our Creator’s hand Over all our glorious planet, In the sky and sea and land. High and bright the lamp of knowledge Shone for all who’d seek its light; Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it In the glare of pleasures bright! Oft upon the dreary mountain Have my weary footsteps strayed:-- But ’tis not for wisdom only That my vain regrets are made.

So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words. Ah yes! to the first, listen!--

_She_ was like a radiant rose That with sweetness overflows. Her bright eyes were darkest blue And her hair a golden hue. She was lovely as the day, And within her breast she bore Heart as light and bright and gay As those happy days of yore.

Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other.--

In those days of idle dreaming, Ere life’s toils I’d entered in, Fancy framed for me an image Of the one I’d woo and win. It was in an idle romance My ideal played a part; But that image, framed in fancy, Soon was graven on my heart, And I said, “That maiden only Of my ideal’s charms complete Shall have power to lead me captive And to bring me to her feet.”

Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart, the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of harmony?

Once more!--To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.--

We were playmates, she and I, In that happy time gone by: Oft we’d walk the meadows over Hunting for the four-leaved clover As we’d seen the lovers do; We the woods would oft explore Where the fragrant flowers grew In those happy days of yore.

And then to the second, the same image, lifting upward and away, above the clover-blooms and forest-flowers of sweet memory, comes like the peace of a benediction; and the words weave to quicker though to still sad notes.--

Time passed on and boyish fancies Were by youth’s bright hopes replaced; Gay companions were around me,-- Every pleasure we embraced. And among those friends and schoolmates, There was one surpassing fair: Light her heart and light her footstep, Blue her eyes and gold her hair. Then her pure and gentle spirit Shone abroad like smiles from heaven.-- Ah, such divine gifts of beauty Seldom are to mortals given.

The first one had now finished two pages; the second, three. How much more they would weave I neither knew nor thought. I was too much fascinated by the weirdness and reality of it all to think of anything but the two stories that were being thus wonderfully--thus psychologically though not supernaturally--revealed to me in beauty by ugly spiders that wrought together; each, I knew, unconscious of the other. This fact of each being unconscious of the words, thoughts, and music of the other, and the fact that the web of one was woven into characters to represent my handwriting, while that of the other was the illuminated work of my old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no one else can even approach. No, not even if the same situation should present itself to him, and the spiders should be actually before him, as their work, robbed of all these fascinating features, now is.

Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was only when the first had woven the following whole page of manuscript that I turned to the other.--

Oft when twilight slowly crept Over hill and vale that slept, We would wander side by side In the golden eventide By the school-house on the hill Where so oft we’d been before, Or beside the water-mill In those happy days of yore.

Oh those days,--sweet, happy days! Ever round my mind there plays Fitful Fancy’s dear delight, Bringing back the time so bright When we wandered hand in hand To the little country store, And the mystic future planned In those happy days of yore.

New years came as old ones went; Childhood’s years at last were spent; We from friends to lovers grew And nor pain nor sorrow knew. Oh how fondly did I dream Folding close my fond Lenore As we sailed adown life’s stream In those happy days of yore!

Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then glided to the top of the page and waited for me to remove the leaf, while I read and half aloud chanted from the illuminated page of the other this master-melody:--

When she came, ’twas like the sunbeam Shedding gladness o’er the lea; When she’d gone, ’twas like the ceasing Of enchanting melody. Oft when daily tasks were over, She and I together strolled From the hamlet to the seaside Where the restless billows rolled. Hours and hours we’d wander, gathering Treasures from the shifting sand As each ebbing tide receding Left its wonders on the strand.

Long we’d watch the stately vessels Riding proudly o’er the foam, Some for distant countries steering, Some returning--bound for home. Then we’d seek the peaceful harbor Where our little sail-boat lay, And while skimming o’er the waters Laugh and sing the hours away. Then at twilight, when all nature Save the sea was hushed and still, We would turn our footsteps homeward To the hamlet on the hill.

So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet turn away, but listened rather than read, as the musician continued on the next page; for he had finished this, and the harmony continued unbroken.

And that image framed in boyhood Of the one I’d woo and win, Ah, my ideal!--I had found her In my darling Evylyn. But the dim, uncertain future!-- Oh that we could raise the veil And by gazing down the valley Know what fortune would prevail; Whether joy or blinding sorrow, Gladness or unending woe, Should forever be our portion While we linger here below.

Two short summers I had known her, Years that seemed like one bright day; But at last the spell was broken, And my gladness fled away: Duty called me from that hamlet Where youth’s happy days were spent Out into the great, free, wide world, And with brightest hopes I went. Ah, that parting by the seaside One bright evening in the spring By the dear old friendly ocean-- There I gave the engagement ring.

Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger interrupted the music, and reminded me that I had not removed the completed page of the first harmony-breathing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the billows of subdued music swept through the room to the perfect time of the weaver’s words in portentous minstrelsy.--

In the bright and merry spring, Then I gave the engagement ring; And in sweet and holy bliss Sealed our vow with Love’s own kiss. Heart and hope and thought were one As we walked as heretofore Where the brooklet used to run In those happy days of yore.

But the future none can tell And, or weal or woe, ’tis well; For, if it were otherwise, When the mystic veil should rise And reveal what is to come, Happiness would be no more;-- Hearts would call to hearts but dumb In those happy days of yore.

Could we gaze on life’s emprise, Frozen tears would dim our eyes; Rippling laughs on lips would freeze As the future’s death-cold breeze Chilled the life of loving hearts; Happy days would come no more, And we’d sigh with fitful starts For those happy days of yore.

Here I noticed the striking difference (the only difference throughout the two poems) between the wishes of the two, both passionately and beautifully put, and paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But only a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting symphony to wait longer. Already the poet in spider’s form that was the more delicate, beautiful, and pathetic was continuing.--

In a distant western city Far away from that loved spot, I began the strife in earnest, Not complaining of my lot; For in two years from our parting I’d return and claim my own. So I worked and dreamed and waited, Cheered by that one thought alone. Fortune smiled on my endeavors, And each week a message brought From that one beside the seashore Who was ever in my thought.

But at last the darkness gathered,-- Clouds as dark as Ethiop’s land. One dark day there came a letter Written by a stranger’s hand. Evylyn, it said, was drooping, Drooping, fading very fast; Though she would admit no danger, Her short life would soon be past. Many months, the message stated, She had faded day by day; Yet to me each cherished letter Had been cheerful, bright, and gay.

I found myself so in sympathy with the two spiders--or poets and musicians, rather, in spider form--that I pitied them deeply, and--shall I say?--loved them. The first melodist continued more mournfully, and to slower, sad, and muffled music.--

All the spring and summer long Did I list the seraph-song. But when autumn came around With a sighing, mournful sound, My sweet blossom faded fast; And my radiant, fond Lenore Yielded to the chilling blast In those autumn days of yore!

As the flowers fade and die ’Neath the cold and cloudless sky, So my Darling drooped and died! And my dear intended bride With a long and last farewell Crossed the silent waters o’er While we tolled her funeral knell In those parting days of yore!

In the deepest dearth of night When the starry dome was bright, Came the angels round her bed; And they numbered with the dead My angelic, radiant Love Whom the seraphs named Lenore, Wafting here away above,-- Saddest, saddest days of yore!

I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling; but the plaintiveness of the music and the mournfulness of the simple words made me forget the mysterious bard that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed my head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for both the afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. As I did so, the threnodic notes, as if dying away in the echoing distance of the blue dome above, thus came from the heart of the other minne-singer.--

With an aching heart I started For her home beside the sea, Once again to see my Darling Ere Death snatched his prize from me. But a cruel fate hung o’er me; Ere I reached that eastern home, Her angelic soul was wafted Far beyond the starlit dome. Through the distant shining portals, Breathing of eternal love, Passed my Evylyn, my treasure, To the brighter world above.