{"id":19344,"date":"2025-02-07T20:34:14","date_gmt":"2025-02-08T00:34:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=19344"},"modified":"2025-02-16T05:07:26","modified_gmt":"2025-02-16T09:07:26","slug":"mary-shelley-the-dream","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/mary-shelley-the-dream\/19344\/","title":{"rendered":"Mary Shelley: The Dream"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis: In Mary Shelley’s The Dream<\/strong>, the young and beautiful Countess Constance de Villeneuve lives in solitude, grieving the loss of her father and brothers in the civil wars. Determined to enter a convent, her plans are challenged by the unexpected visit of the king and Gaspar de Vaudemont, an old love whose return awakens intense emotions in her heart. On a stormy night, Constance, seeking divine guidance, enters a sacred cave, where revelatory visions confront her with her love and destiny. In a struggle between duty and passion, Constance faces decisions that could change her life forever.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Mary<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Dream<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

By Mary Shelley
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The time of the occurrence of the little legend about to be narrated, was that of the commencement of the reign of Henry IV of France, whose accession and conversion, while they brought peace to the kingdom whose throne he ascended, were inadequate to heal the deep wounds mutually inflicted by the inimical parties. Private feuds, and the memory of mortal injuries, existed between those now apparently united; and often did the hands that had clasped each p other in seeming friendly greeting, involuntarily, as the grasp was released, clasp the dagger\u2019s hilt, as fitter spokesman to their passions than the words of courtesy that had just fallen from their lips. Many of the fiercer Catholics retreated to their distant provinces; and while they concealed in solitude their rankling discontent, not less keenly did they long for the day when they might show it openly. In a large and fortified ch\u00e2teau built on a rugged steep overlooking the Loire, not far from the town of Nantes, dwelt the last of her race, and the heiress of their fortunes, the young and beautiful Countess de Villeneuve. She had spent the preceding year in complete solitude in her secluded abode; and the mourning she wore for a father and two brothers, the victims of the civil wars, was a graceful and good reason why she did not appear at court, and mingle with its festivities. But the orphan countess inherited a high name and broad lands; and it was soon signified to her that the king, her guardian, desired that she should bestow them, together with her hand, upon some noble whose birth and accomplishments should entitle him to the gift. Constance, in reply, expressed her intention of taking vows, and retiring to a convent. The king earnestly and resolutely forbade this act, believing such an idea to be the result of sensibility overwrought by sorrow, and relying on the hope that, after a time, the genial spirit of youth would break through this cloud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A year passed, and still the countess persisted; and at last Henry, unwilling, to exercise compulsion, \u2014 desirous, too, of judging for himself of the motives that led one so beautiful, young, and gifted with fortune\u2019s favours, to desire to bury herself in a cloister, \u2014 announced his intention, now that the period of her mourning was expired, of visiting her ch\u00e2teau; and if he brought not with him, the monarch said, inducement sufficient to change her design, he would yield his consent to its fulfilment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Many a sad hour had Constance passed \u2014 many a day of tears, and many a night of restless misery. She had closed her gates against every visitant; and, like the Lady Olivia in \u2018Twelfth Night\u2019, vowed herself to loneliness and weeping. Mistress of herself, she easily silenced the entreaties and remonstrances of underlings, and nursed her grief as it had been the thing she loved. Yet it was too keen, too bitter, too burning, to be a favoured guest. In fact, Constance, young, ardent, and vivacious, battled with it, struggled and longed to cast it off; but all that was joyful in itself, or fair in outward show, only served to renew it; and she could best support the burden of her sorrow with patience, when, yielding to it, it oppressed but did not torture her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Constance had left the castle to wander in the neighbouring grounds. Lofty and extensive as were the apartments of her abode, she felt pent up within their walls, beneath their fretted roofs. The spreading uplands and the antique wood, associated to her with every dear recollection of her past life, enticed her to spend hours and days beneath their leafy coverts. The motion and change eternally working, as the wind stirred among the boughs, or the journeying sun rained its beams through them, soothed and called her out of that dull sorrow which clutched her heart with so unrelenting a pang beneath her castle roof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was one spot on the verge of the well-wooded park, one nook of ground, whence she could discern the country extended beyond, yet which was in itself thick set with tall umbrageous trees \u2014 a spot which she had forsworn, yet whither unconsciously her steps for ever tended, and where again for the twentieth time that day, she had unaware found herself. She sat upon a grassy mound, and looked wistfully on the flowers she had herself planted to adorn the verdurous recess \u2014 to her the temple of memory and love. She held the letter from the king which was the parent to her of so much despair. Dejection sat upon her features, and her gentle heart asked fate why, so young, unprotected, and forsaken, she should have to struggle with this new form of wretchedness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I but ask,\u2019 she thought, \u2018to live in my father\u2019s halls \u2014 in the spot familiar to my infancy \u2014 to water with my frequent tears the graves of those I loved; and here in these woods, where such a mad dream of happiness was mine, to celebrate for ever the obsequies of Hope!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A rustling among the boughs now met her ear \u2014 her heart beat quick \u2014 all again was still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Foolish girl!\u2019 she half muttered; \u2018dupe of thine own passionate fancy: because here we met; because seated here I have expected, and sounds like these have announced, his dear approach; so now every coney as it stirs, and every bird as it awakens silence, speaks of him. O Gaspar! \u2014 mine once \u2014 never again will this beloved spot be made glad by thee \u2014 never more!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again the bushes were stirred, and footsteps were heard in the brake. She rose; her heart beat high; it must be that silly Manon, with her impertinent entreaties for her to return. But the steps were firmer and slower than would be those of her waiting-woman; and now emerging from the shade, she too plainly discerned the intruder. He first impulse was to fly: but once again to see him \u2014 to hear his voice: \u2014 once again before she placed eternal vows between them, to stand together, and find the wide chasm filled which absence had made, could not injure the dead, and would soften the fatal sorrow that made her cheek so pale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And now he was before, her, the same beloved one with whom she had exchanged vows of constancy. He, like her, seemed sad; nor could she resist the imploring glance that entreated her for one moment to remain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I come, lady,\u2019 said the young knight, \u2018without a hope to bend your inflexible will. I come but once again to see you, and to bid you farewell before I depart for the Holy Land. I come to beseech you not to immure yourself in the dark cloister to avoid one as hateful as myself, \u2014 one you will never see more. Whether I die or live, France and I are parted for ever!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018That were fearful, were it true,\u2019 said Constance; \u2018but King Henry will never so lose his favourite cavalier. The throne you helped to build, you still will guard. Nay, as I ever had power over thought of thine, go not to Palestine.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018One word of yours could detain me \u2014 one smile \u2014 Constance\u2019 \u2014 and the youthful lover knelt before her; but her harsher purpose was recalled by the image once so dear and familiar, now so strange and so forbidden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Linger no longer here!\u2019 she cried. \u2018No smile, no word of mine will ever again be yours. Why are you here \u2014 here, where the spirits of the dead wander, and claiming these shades as their own, curse the false girl who permits their murderer to disturb their sacred repose?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018When love was young and you were kind,\u2019 replied the knight, \u2018you taught me to thread the intricacies of these woods you welcomed me to this dear spot, where once you vowed to be my own \u2014 even beneath these ancient trees.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018A wicked sin it was,\u2019 said Constance, \u2018to unbar my father\u2019s doors to the son of his enemy, and dearly is it punished!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young knight gained courage as she spoke; yet he dared not move, lest she, who, every instant, appeared ready to take flight, should be startled from her momentary tranquillity, but he slowly replied:\u2014\u2019Those were happy days, Constance, full of terror and deep joy, when evening brought me to your feet; and while hate and vengeance were as its atmosphere to yonder frowning castle, this leafy, starlit bower was the shrine of love.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Happy? \u2014 miserable days!\u2019 echoed Constance; \u2018when I imagined good could arise from failing in my duty, and that disobedience would be rewarded of God. Speak not of love, Gaspar! \u2014 a sea of blood divides us for ever! Approach me not! The dead and the beloved stand even now between us: their pale shadows warn me of my fault, and menace me for listening to their murderer.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018That am not I!\u2019 exclaimed the youth. \u2018Behold, Constance, we are each the last of our race. Death has dealt cruelly with us, and we are alone. It was not so when first we loved \u2014 when parent, kinsman, brother, nay, my own mother breathed curses on the house of Villeneuve; and in spite of all I blessed it. I saw thee, my lovely one, and blessed it. The God of peace planted love in our hearts, and with mystery and secrecy we met during many a summer night in the moonlit dells; and when daylight was abroad, in this sweet recess we fled to avoid its scrutiny, and here, even here, where now I kneel in supplication, we both knelt and made our vows. Shall they be broken?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Constance wept as her lover recalled the images of happy hours. \u2018Never,\u2019 she exclaimed, \u2018O never! Thou knowest, or wilt soon know, Gaspar, the faith and resolves of one who dare not be yours. Was it for us to talk of love and happiness, when war, and hate, and blood were raging around! The fleeting flowers our young hands strewed were trampled by the deadly encounter of mortal foes. By your father\u2019s hand mine died; and little boots it to know whether, as my brother swore, and you deny, your hand did or did not deal the blow that destroyed him. You fought among those by whom he died. Say no more \u2014 no other word: it is impiety towards the unreposing dead to hear you. Go, Gaspar; forget me. Under the chivalrous and gallant Henry your career may he glorious; and some fair girl will listen, as once I did, to your vows, and be made happy by them. Farewell! May the Virgin bless you! In my cell and cloister-home I will not forget the best Christian lesson \u2014 to pray for our enemies. Gaspar, farewell!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She glided hastily from the bower: with swift steps she threaded the glade and sought the castle. Once within the seclusion of her own apartment she gave way to the burst of grief that tore her gentle bosom like a tempest; for hers was that worst sorrow, which taints past joys, making wait upon the memory of bliss, and linking love and fancied guilt in such fearful society as that of the tyrant when he bound a living body to a corpse. Suddenly a thought darted into her mind. At first she rejected it as puerile and superstitious; but it would not be driven away. She called hastily for her attendant. \u2018Manon,\u2019 she said, \u2018didst thou ever sleep on St Catherine\u2019s couch?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manon crossed herself. \u2018Heaven forefend! None ever did, since I was born, but two: one fell into the Loire and was drowned; the other only looked upon the narrow bed, and turned to her own home without a word. It is an awful place; and if the votary have not led a pious and good life, woe betide the hour when she rests her head on the holy stone!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Constance crossed herself also. \u2018As for our lives, it is only through our Lord and the blessed saints that we can any of us hope for righteousness. I will sleep on that couch tomorrow night!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Dear, my lady! and the king arrives tomorrow.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018The more need that I resolve. It cannot be that misery so intense should dwell in any heart, and no cure be found. I had hoped to be the bringer of peace to our houses; and if the good work to be for me a crown of thorns Heaven shall direct me. I will rest tomorrow night on St Catherine\u2019s bed: and if, as I have heard, the saint deigns to direct her votaries in dreams, I will be guided by her; and, believing that I act according to the dictates of Heaven, I shall feel resigned even to the worst.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The king was on his way to Nantes from Paris, and he slept in this night at a castle but a few miles distant Before dawn a young cavalier was introduced into his chamber. The knight had a serious, nay, a sad aspect; and all beautiful as he was in feature and limb, looked wayworn and haggard. He stood silent in Henry\u2019s presence, who, alert and gay, turned his lively blue eyes upon his guest, saying gently, \u2018So thou foundest her obdurate, Gaspar?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I found her resolved on our mutual misery. Alas! my liege, it is not, credit me, the least of my grief, that Constance sacrifices her own happiness when she destroys mine.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And thou believest that she will say nay to the gaillard chevalier whom we ourselves present to her?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Oh, my liege, think not that thought! it cannot be. My heart deeply, most deeply, thanks you for your generous condescension. But she whom her lover\u2019s voice in solitude \u2014 whose entreaties, when memory and seclusion aided the spell \u2014 could not persuade, will resist even your majesty\u2019s commands. She is bent upon entering a cloister; and I, so please you, will now take my leave: \u2014 I am henceforth a soldier of the cross.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Gaspar,\u2019 said the monarch, \u2018I know woman better than thou. It is not by submission nor tearful plaints she is to be won. The death of her relatives naturally sits heavy at the young countess\u2019 heart; and nourishing in solitude her regret and her repentance, she fancies that Heaven itself forbids your union. Let the voice of the world reach her \u2014 the voice of earthly power and earthly kindness \u2014 the one commanding, the other pleading, and both finding response in her own heart \u2014 and by my say and the Holy Cross. she will be yours. Let our plan still hold. And now to horse: the morning wears, and the sun is risen.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The king arrived at the bishop\u2019s palace, and proceeded forthwith to mass in the cathedral. A sumptuous dinner succeeded, and it was afternoon before the monarch proceeded through the town beside the Loire to where, a little above Nantes, the Chateau Villeneuve was situated. The, young countess received him at the gate. Henry looked in vain for the cheek blanched by misery, the aspect of downcast despair which he had been taught to expect. Her cheek was flushed, her manner animated, her voice scarce tremulous. \u2018She loves him not,\u2019 thought Henry, or already her heart has consented.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A collation was prepared for the monarch; and after some little hesitation, arising from the cheerfulness of her mien, he mentioned the name of Gaspar. Constance blushed instead of turning pale, and replied very quickly, \u2018Tomorrow, good my liege; I ask for a respite but until tomorrow; \u2014 all will then be decided; \u2014 tomorrow I am vowed to God \u2014 or\u2019 \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She looked confused, and the king, at once surprised and pleased, said, \u2018Then you hate not young De Vaudemont; \u2014 you forgive him for the inimical blood that warms his veins.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018We are taught that we should forgive, that we should love our enemies,\u2019 the countess replied, with some trepidation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Now, by Saint Denis, that is a right welcome answer for the novice,\u2019 said the king, laughing. \u2018What ho! my faithful servingman, Don Apollo in disguise! come forward, and thank your lady for her love.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In such disguise as had concealed him from all, the cavalier had hung behind, and viewed with infinite surprise the demeanour and calm countenance of the lady. He could not hear her words: but was this even she whom he had seen trembling and weeping the evening before? this she whose very heart was torn by conflicting passion? \u2014 who saw the pale ghosts of parent and kinsman stand between her and the lover whom more than her life she adored? It was a riddle hard to solve. The king\u2019s call was in unison with his impatience, and he sprang forward. He was at her feet; while she, still passion-driven overwrought by the very calmness she had assumed, uttered one cry as she recognized him and sank senseless on the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All this was very unintelligible. Even when her attendants had brought her to life, another fit succeeded, and then passionate floods of tears; while the monarch, waiting in the hall, eyeing the half-eaten collation, and, humming some romance in commemoration of woman\u2019s waywardness, knew not how to reply to Vaudemont\u2019s look of bitter disappointment and anxiety. At length the countess\u2019 chief attendant came with an apology. \u2018Her lady was ill, very ill. The next day she would throw herself at the king\u2019s feet, at once to solicit his excuse, and to disclose her purpose.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Tomorrow \u2014 again tomorrow! Does tomorrow bear some charm, maiden?\u2019 said the king. \u2018Can you read us the riddle pretty one? What strange tale belongs to tomorrow, that all rests on its advent?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manon coloured, looked down, and hesitated. But Henry was no tyro in the art of enticing ladies\u2019 attendants to disclose their ladies\u2019 council. Manon was besides, frightened by the countess\u2019 scheme, on which she was still obstinately bent, so she was the more readily induced to betray it. To sleep in St Catherine\u2019s bed, to rest on a narrow ledge overhanging the deep rapid Loire, and if, as was most probable, the luckless dreamer escaped from falling into it, to take the disturbed visions that, such uneasy slumber might produce for the dictate of Heaven, was a madness of which even Henry himself could scarcely deem any woman capable. But could Constance, her whose beauty was so highly intellectual, and whom he had heard perpetually praised for her strength of mind and talents, could she be so strangely infatuated! And can passion play such freaks with us? \u2014 like death, levelling even the aristocracy of the soul, and bringing noble and peasant, the wise and foolish, under one thraldom? It was strange \u2014 yes she must have her way. That she hesitated in her decision was much; and it was to be hoped that St Catherine would play no ill-natured part. Should it be otherwise, a purpose to be swayed by a dream might be influenced by other waking thoughts. To the more material kind of danger some safeguard should be brought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is no feeling more awful than that which invades a weak human heart bent upon gratifying its ungovernable impulses in contradiction to the dictates of conscience. Forbidden pleasures are said to be the most agreeable; \u2014 it may be so to rude natures, to those who love to struggle, combat, and contest; who find happiness in a fray, and joy in the conflict of passion. But softer and sweeter was the gentle spirit of Constance; and love and duty contending crushed and tortured her poor heart. To commit her conduct to the inspirations of religion, or, if it was so to be named, of superstition, was a blessed relief. The very perils that threatened her undertaking gave zest to it; \u2014 to dare for his sake was happiness; \u2014 the very difficulty of the way that led to the completion of her wishes at once gratified her love and distracted her thoughts from her despair. Or if it was decreed that she must sacrifice all, the risk of danger and of death were of trifling import in comparison with the anguish which would then be her portion for ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The night threatened to be stormy, the raging wind shook the casements, and the trees waved their huge shadowy arms, as giants might in fantastic dance and mortal broil. Constance and Manon, unattended, quitted the chateau by a postern, and began to descend the hillside. The moon had not yet risen; and though the way was familiar to both, Manon tottered and trembled; while the countess, drawing her silken cloak around her, walked with a firm step down the steep. They came to the river\u2019s side, where a small boat was moored, and one man was in waiting. Constance stepped lightly in, and then aided her fearful companion. In a few moments they were in the middle of the stream. The warm, tempestuous, animating, equinoctial wind swept over them. For the first time since her mourning, a thrill of pleasure swelled the bosom of Constance. She hailed the emotion with double joy. It cannot be, she thought, that Heaven will forbid me to love one so brave, so generous, and so good as the noble Gaspar. Another I can never love; I shall die if divided from him; and this heart, these limbs, so alive with glowing sensation, are they already predestined to an early grave? Oh no! life speaks aloud within them: I shall live to love. Do not all things love? \u2014 the winds as they whisper to the rushing waters? the waters as they kiss the flowery banks, and speed to mingle with the sea? Heaven and earth are sustained by, and live through, love; and shall Constance alone, whose heart has ever been a deep, gushing, overflowing well of true affection, be compelled to set a stone upon the fount to lock it up for ever?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

These thoughts bade fair for pleasant dreams; and perhaps the countess, an adept in the blind god\u2019s lore, therefore indulged them the more readily. But as thus she was engrossed by soft emotions, Manon caught her arm:\u2014\u2019Lady, look,\u2019 she cried; \u2018it comes yet the oars have no sound. Now the Virgin shield us! Would we were at home!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A dark boat glided by them. Four rowers, habited in black cloaks, pulled at oars which, as Manon said, gave no sound; another sat at the helm: like the rest, his person was veiled in a dark mantle, but he wore no cap; and though his face was turned from them, Constance recognized her lover. \u2018Gaspar,\u2019 she cried aloud, \u2018dost thou live?\u2019 \u2014 but the figure in the boat neither turned its head nor replied, and quickly it was lost. in the shadowy waters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How changed now was the fair countess\u2019 reverie! Already Heaven had begun its spell, and unearthly forms were around, as she strained her eyes through the gloom. Now she saw and now she lost view of the bark that occasioned her terror; and now it seemed that another was there, which held the spirits of the dead; and her father waved to her from shore, and her brothers frowned on her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Meanwhile they neared the landing. Her bark was moored in a little cove, and Constance stood upon the bank. Now she trembled, and half yielded to Manon\u2019s entreaty to return; till the unwise suivante mentioned the king\u2019s and De Vaudemont\u2019s name, and spoke of the answer to be given tomorrow. What answer, if she turned back from her intent?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She now hurried forward up the broken ground of the bank, and then along its edge, till they came to a bill which abruptly hung over the tide. A small chapel stood near. With trembling fingers the countess drew forth the key and unlocked its door. They entered. It was dark \u2014 save that a little lamp, flickering in the wind, showed an uncertain light from before the figure of Saint Catherine. The two women knelt; they prayed; and then rising, with a cheerful accent the countess bade her attendant good-night. She unlocked a little low iron door. It opened on a narrow cavern. The roar of waters was heard beyond. \u2018Thou mayest not follow, my poor Manon,\u2019 said Constance,\u2014\u2019nor dost thou much desire: \u2014 this adventure is for me alone.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was hardly fair to leave the trembling servant in the chapel alone, who had neither hope nor fear, nor love, nor grief to beguile her; but, in those days, esquires and waiting-women often played the part of subalterns in the army, gaming knocks and no fame. Besides, Manon was safe in holy ground. The countess meanwhile pursued her way groping in the dark through the narrow tortuous passage. At length what seemed light to her long darkened sense gleamed on her. She reached an open cavern in the overhanging hill\u2019s side, looking over the rushing tide beneath. She looked out upon the night. The waters of the Loire were speeding, as since that day have they ever sped \u2014 changeful, yet the same; the heavens were thickly veiled with clouds, and the wind in the trees was as mournful and ill-omened as if it rushed round a murderer\u2019s tomb. Constance shuddered a little, and looked upon her, bed, \u2014 a narrow ledge of earth and a grown stone bordering on the very verge of the precipice. She doffed her mantle, \u2014 such was one of the conditions of the spell; \u2014 she bowed her head, and loosened the tresses of her dark hair; she bared her feet; and thus, fully prepared for suffering to the utmost the chill influence of the cold night, she stretched herself on the narrow couch that scarce afforded room for her repose, and whence, if she moved in sleep, she must he precipitated into the cold waters below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At first it seemed to her as if she never should sleep again. No great wonder that exposure to the blast and her perilous position should forbid her eyelids to close. At length she fell into a reverie so soft and soothing that she wished even to watch; and then by degrees her senses became confused; and now she was on St Catherine\u2019s bed \u2014 the Loire rushing beneath, and the wild wind sweeping by \u2014 and now \u2014 oh whither? \u2014 and what dreams did the saint send, to drive her to despair, or to bid her be blest for ever?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Beneath the rugged hill, upon the dark tide, another watched, who feared a thousand things, and scarce dared hope. He had meant to precede the lady on her way, but when he found that he had outstayed his time, with muffled oars and breathless haste he had shot by the bark that contained his Constance, nor even turned at her voice, fearful to incur her blame, and her commands to return. He had seen her emerge from the passage, and shuddered as she leant over the cliff. He saw her step forth, clad as she was in white, and could mark her as she lay on the edge beetling above. What a vigil did the lovers keep! \u2014 she given up to visionary thoughts, he knowing \u2014 and the consciousness thrilled his bosom with strange emotion \u2014 that love, and love for him, had led her to that perilous couch; and that while angers surrounded her in every shape, she was alive only to a small still voice that whispered to her heart the dream which was to decide their destinies. She slept perhaps \u2014 but he waked rid watched; and night wore away, as now praying, now entranced by alternating hope and fear, he sat in his boat, his eyes fixed on the white garb of the slumberer above.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Morning \u2014 was it morning that struggled in the clouds? Would morning ever come to waken her? And had she slept? and what dreams of weal or woe had peopled her sleep? Gaspar grew impatient. He commanded his boatmen still to wait, and he sprang forward, intent on clambering the precipice. In vain they urged the danger, nay, the impossibility of the attempt; he clung to the rugged face of the hill, and found footing where it would seem no footing was. The acclivity, indeed, was not high; the dangers of St Catherine\u2019s bed arising from the likelihood that any one who slept on so narrow a couch would be precipitated into the waters beneath. Up the steep ascent Gaspar continued to toil, and at last reached the roots of a tree that grew near the summit. Aided by its branches, he made good his stand at the very extremity of the ledge, near the pillow on which lay the uncovered head of his beloved. Her hands were folded on her bosom; her dark hair fell round her throat and pillowed her cheek; her face was serene: sleep was there in all its innocence and in all its helplessness; every wilder emotion was hushed, and her bosom heaved in regular breathing. He could see her heart beat as it lifted her fair hands crossed above. No statue hewn of marble in monumental effigy was ever half so fair; and within that surpassing form dwelt a soul true, tender, self-devoted, and affectionate as ever warmed a human breast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With what deep passion did Gaspar gaze, gathering hope from the placidity of her angel countenance! A smile wreathed her lips, and he too involuntarily smiled, as he hailed the happy omen; when suddenly her cheek was flushed, her bosom heaved, a tear stole from her dark lashes, and then a whole shower fell, as starting up she cried, \u2018No! \u2014 he shall not die! \u2014 I will unloose his chains! \u2014 I will save him!\u2019 Gaspar\u2019s hand was there. He caught her light form ready to fall from the perilous couch. She opened her eyes and beheld her lover, who had watched over her dream of fate, and who had saved her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manon also had slept well, dreaming or not, and was startled in the morning to find that she waked surrounded by a crowd. The little desolate chapel was hung with tapestry, the altar adorned with golden chalices \u2014 the priest was chanting mass to a goodly array of kneeling knights. Manon saw that King Henry was there; and she looked for another whom she found not, when the iron door of the cavern passage opened, and Gaspar de Vaudemont entered from it, leading the fair form of Constance; who, in her white robes and dark dishevelled hair, with a face in which smiles and blushes contended with deeper emotion, approached the altar, and, kneeling with her lover, pronounced the vows that united them for ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was long before the happy Gaspar could win from his lady the secret of her dream. In spite of the happiness she now enjoyed, she had suffered too much not to look back even with terror to those days when she thought love a crime, and every event connected with them wore an awful aspect. \u2018Many a vision,\u2019 she said, \u2018she had that fearful night. She had seen the spirits of her father and brothers in Paradise; she had beheld Gaspar victoriously combating among the infidels; she had beheld him in King Henry\u2019s court, favoured and beloved; and she herself \u2014 now pining in a cloister, now a bride, now grateful to Heaven for the full measure of bliss presented to her, now weeping away her sad days \u2014 till suddenly she thought herself in Paynim land; and the saint herself, St Catherine, guiding her unseen through the city of the infidels. She entered a palace, and beheld the miscreants rejoicing in victory; and then, descending to the dungeons beneath, they groped their way through damp vaults, and low, mildewed passages, to one cell, darker more frightful than the rest. On the floor lay one with soiled tattered garments, with unkempt locks and wild, matted beard. His cheek was worn and thin; his eyes had lost their fire; his form was a mere skeleton; the chains hung loosely on the fleshless bones.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And was it my appearance in that attractive state and winning costume that softened the hard heart of Constance?\u2019 asked Gaspar, smiling at this painting of what would never be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Even so,\u2019 replied Constance; \u2018for my heart whispered me that this was my doing; and who could recall the life that waned in your pulses \u2014 who restore, save the destroyer? My heart never warmed to my living, happy knight as then it did to his wasted image as it lay, in the visions of night, at my feet. A veil fell from my eyes; a darkness was dispelled from before me. Methought I then knew for the first time what life and what death was. I was bid believe that to make the living happy was not to injure the dead; and I felt how wicked and how vain was that false philosophy which placed virtue and good in hatred, and unkindness. You should not die; I would loosen your chains and save you, and bid you live for love. I sprang forward, and the death I deprecated for you would, in my presumption, have been mine, \u2014 then, when first I felt the real value of life, \u2014 but that your arm was there to save me, your dear voice to bid me be blest for evermore.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In Mary Shelley’s The Dream, the young and beautiful Countess Constance de Villeneuve lives in solitude, grieving the loss of her father and brothers in the civil wars. Determined to enter a convent, her plans are challenged by the unexpected visit of the king and Gaspar de Vaudemont, an old love whose return awakens intense emotions in her heart. On a stormy night, Constance, seeking divine guidance, enters a sacred cave, where revelatory visions confront her with her love and destiny. In a struggle between duty and passion, Constance faces decisions that could change her life forever.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":14405,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[584,606,582,772],"class_list":["post-19344","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-great-britain","tag-mary-shelley-en","tag-romance-en","tag-united-kingdom","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":584,"label":"Great Britain"},{"value":606,"label":"Mary Shelley"},{"value":582,"label":"Romance"},{"value":772,"label":"United Kingdom"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/06\/Mary-Shelley-El-sueno2.jpg",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":584,"name":"Great Britain","slug":"great-britain","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":584,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":49,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":606,"name":"Mary Shelley","slug":"mary-shelley-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":606,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":9,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":582,"name":"Romance","slug":"romance-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":582,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":772,"name":"United Kingdom","slug":"united-kingdom","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":772,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":92,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19344","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19344"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19344\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14405"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19344"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19344"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19344"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}