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by Edgar Allan Poe

Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single. - Platon, the Symposium

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 for ever, 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

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. It is a fair day for the sons of earth and
life -- ah, more fair for the daughters of heaven and death!"

I kissed her forehead, and she continued:

"I am dying, yet shall I live."


"The days have never been when thou couldst love me -- but her whom
in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore."


"I repeat I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that affection --
ah, how little! -- which thou didst feel for me, Morella. And when my
spirit departs shall the child live -- thy child and mine, Morella's.
But thy days shall be days of sorrow -- that sorrow which is the most
lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees.
For the hours of thy happiness are over and joy is not gathered twice
in a life, as the roses of Paestum twice in a year. Thou shalt no
longer, then, play the Teian with time, but, being ignorant of the
myrtle and the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on
the earth, as do the Moslemin at Mecca."

"Morella!" I cried, "Morella! how knowest thou this?" but she turned
away her face upon the pillow and a slight tremor coming over her
limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.

Yet, as she had foretold, her child, to which in dying she had given
birth, which breathed not until the mother breathed no more, her
child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in stature and
intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed,
and I loved her with a love more fervent than I had believed it
possible to feel for any denizen of earth.

But, ere long the heaven of this pure affection became darkened, and
gloom, and horror, and grief swept over it in clouds. I said the
child grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange, indeed,
was her rapid increase in bodily size, but terrible, oh! terrible
were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the
development of her mental being. Could it be otherwise, when I daily
discovered in the conceptions of the child the adult powers and
faculties of the woman? when the lessons of experience fell from the
lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I
found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye? When, I say,
all this beeame evident to my appalled senses, when I could no longer
hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which
trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at that suspicions, of a
nature fearful and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my
thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories
of the entombed Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a
being whom destiny compelled me to adore, and in the rigorous
seclusion of my home, watched with an agonizing anxiety over all
which concerned the beloved.

And as years rolled away, and I gazed day after day upon her holy,
and mild, and eloquent face, and poured over her maturing form, day
after day did I discover new points of resemblance in the child to
her mother, the melancholy and the dead. And hourly grew darker these
shadows of similitude, and more full, and more definite, and more
perplexing, and more hideously terrible in their aspect. For that her
smile was like her mother's I could bear; but then I shuddered at its
too perfect identity, that her eyes were like Morella's I could
endure; but then they, too, often looked down into the depths of my
soul with Morella's own intense and bewildering meaning. And in the
contour of the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair,
and in the wan fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the
sad musical tones of her speech, and above all -- oh, above all, in
the phrases and expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and
the living, I found food for consuming thought and horror, for a worm
that would not die.

Thus passed away two lustra of her life, and as yet my daughter
remained nameless upon the earth. "My child," and "my love," were the
designations usually prompted by a father's affection, and the rigid
seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. Morella's name
died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the
daughter, it was impossible to speak. Indeed, during the brief period
of her existence, the latter had received no impressions from the
outward world, save such as might have been afforded by the narrow
limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism
presented to my mind, in its unnerved and agitated condition, a
present deliverance from the terrors of my destiny. And at the
baptismal font I hesitated for a name. And many titles of the wise
and beautiful, of old and modern times, of my own and foreign lands,
came thronging to my lips, with many, many fair titles of the gentle,
and the happy, and the good. What prompted me then to disturb the
memory of the buried dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound,
which in its very recollection was wont to make ebb the purple blood
in torrents from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the
recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence
of the night, I whispered within the ears of the holy man the
syllables -- Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of
my child, and overspread them with hues of death, as starting at that
scarcely audible sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the earth to
heaven, and falling prostrate on the black slabs of our ancestral
vault, responded -- "I am here!"

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few simple sounds
within my ear, and thence like molten lead rolled hissingly into my
brain. Years -- years may pass away, but the memory of that epoch
never. Nor was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine -- but
the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept
no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my fate faded from
heaven, and therefore the earth grew dark, and its figures passed by
me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only --
Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my
ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore -- Morella. But
she died; and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed
with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the
channel where I laid the second. -- Morella.

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