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came to tell my father Mr。 Filmore was waiting for him； and that my father
hurried out of the room。 No； it was not a dream； was itthe thought was
full of tremulous exultationwas it the poet's nature in me； hitherto only a
troubled yearning sensibility； now manifesting itself suddenly as
spontaneous creation？ Surely it was in this way that Homer saw the
plain of Troy； that Dante saw the abodes of the departed； that Milton saw
the earthward flight of the Tempter。 Was it that my illness had wrought
some happy change in my organizationgiven a firmer tension to my
nervescarried off some dull obstruction？ I had often read of such
effectsin works of fiction at least。 Nay； in genuine biographies I had
read of the subtilizing or exalting influence of some diseases on the mental
powers。 Did not Novalis feel his inspiration intensified under the
progress of consumption？
When my mind had dwelt for some time on this blissful idea； it
seemed to me that I might perhaps test it by an exertion of my will。 The
vision had begun when my father was speaking of our going to Prague。 I
did not for a moment believe it was really a representation of that city； I
believedI hoped it was a picture that my newly liberated genius had
painted in fiery haste； with the colours snatched from lazy memory。
Suppose I were to fix my mind on some other placeVenice； for example；
which was far more familiar to my imagination than Prague： perhaps the
same sort of result would follow。 I concentrated my thoughts on Venice；
I stimulated my imagination with poetic memories； and strove to feel
myself present in Venice； as I had felt myself present in Prague。 But in
vain。 I was only colouring the Canaletto engravings that hung in my old
bedroom at home； the picture was a shifting one； my mind wandering
uncertainly in search of more vivid images； I could see no accident of
form or shadow without conscious labour after the necessary conditions。
It was all prosaic effort； not rapt passivity； such as I had experienced half
an hour before。 I was discouraged； but I remembered that inspiration
was fitful。
For several days I was in a state of excited expectation； watching for a
recurrence of my new gift。 I sent my thoughts ranging over my world of
knowledge； in the hope that they would find some object which would
send a reawakening vibration through my slumbering genius。 But no； my
world remained as dim as ever； and that flash of strange light refused to
e again； though I watched for it with palpitating eagerness。
My father acpanied me every day in a drive； and a gradually
lengthening walk as my powers of walking increased； and one evening he
had agreed to e and fetch me at twelve the next day； that we might go
together to select a musical box； and other purchases rigorously demanded
of a rich Englishman visiting Geneva。 He was one of the most punctual
of men and bankers； and I was always nervously anxious to be quite ready
for him at the appointed time。 But； to my surprise； at a quarter past twelve
he had not appeared。 I felt all the impatience of a convalescent who has
nothing particular to do； and who has just taken a tonic in the prospect of
immediate exercise that would carry off the stimulus。
Unable to sit still and reserve my strength； I walked up and down the
room； looking out on the current of the Rhone； just where it leaves the
dark…blue lake； but thinking all the while of the possible causes that could
detain my father。
Suddenly I was conscious that my father was in the room； but not
alone： there were two persons with him。 Strange！ I had heard no
footstep； I had not seen the door open； but I saw my father； and at his right
hand our neighbour Mrs。 Filmore； whom I remembered very well； though
I had not seen her for five years。 She was a monplace middle…aged
woman； in silk and cashmere； but the lady on the left of my father was not
more than twenty； a tall； slim； willowy figure； with luxuriant blond hair；
arranged in cunning braids and folds that looked almost too massive for
the slight figure and the small…featured； thin…lipped face they crowned。
But the face had not a girlish expression： the features were sharp； the
pale grey eyes at once acute； restless； and sarcastic。 They were fixed on
me in half…smiling curiosity； and I felt a painful sensation as if a sharp
wind were cutting me。 The pale…green dress； and the green leaves that
seemed to form a border about her pale blond hair； made me think of a
Water…Nixiefor my mind was full of German lyrics； and this pale； fatal…
eyed woman； with the green weeds； looked like a birth from some cold
sedgy stream； the daughter of an aged river。
〃Well； Latimer； you thought me long；〃 my father said 。 。 。
But while the last word was in my ears； the whole group vanished； and
there was nothing between me and the Chinese printed folding… screen that
stood before the door。 I was cold and trembling； I could only totter
forward and throw myself on the sofa。 This strange new power had
manifested itself again 。 。 。 But WAS it a power？ Might it not rather be a
diseasea sort of intermittent delirium； concentrating my energy of brain
into moments of unhealthy activity； and leaving my saner hours all the
more barren？ I felt a dizzy sense of unreality in what my eye rested on； I
grasped the bell convulsively； like one trying to free himself from
nightmare； and rang it twice。 Pierre came with a look of alarm in his
face。
〃Monsieur ne se trouve pas bien？〃 he said anxiously。
〃I'm tired of waiting； Pierre；〃 I said； as distinctly and emphatically as I
could； like a man determined to be sober in spite of wine； 〃I'm afraid
something has happened to my fatherhe's usually so punctual。 Run to
the Hotel des Bergues and see if he is there。〃
Pierre left the room at once； with a soothing 〃Bien； Monsieur〃； and I
felt the better for this scene of simple； waking prose。 Seeking to calm
myself still further； I went into my bedroom； adjoining the salon； and
opened a case of eau…de…Cologne； took out a bottle； went through the
process of taking