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- 4042
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
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- 4006
- text
- unidentifiableness, that owned no earthly kith or kin. Yet was this
feeling entirely lonesome, and orphan-like. Fain, then, for one moment,
would he have recalled the thousand sweet illusions of Life; tho'
purchased at the price of Life's Truth; so that once more he might not
feel himself driven out an infant Ishmael into the desert, with no
maternal Hagar to accompany and comfort him.
Still, were these emotions without prejudice to his own love for his
mother, and without the slightest bitterness respecting her; and, least
of all, there was no shallow disdain toward her of superior virtue. He
too plainly saw, that not his mother had made his mother; but the
Infinite Haughtiness had first fashioned her; and then the haughty world
had further molded her; nor had a haughty Ritual omitted to finish her.
Wonderful, indeed, we repeat it, was the electrical insight which Pierre
now had into the character of his mother, for not even the vivid
recalling of her lavish love for him could suffice to gainsay his sudden
persuasion. Love me she doth, thought Pierre, but how? Loveth she me
with the love past all understanding? that love, which in the loved
one's behalf, would still calmly confront all hate? whose most
triumphing hymn, triumphs only by swelling above all opposing taunts and
despite?--Loving mother, here have I a loved, but world-infamous sister
to own;--and if thou lovest me, mother, thy love will love her, too, and
in the proudest drawing-room take her so much the more proudly by the
hand.--And as Pierre thus in fancy led Isabel before his mother; and in
fancy led her away, and felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth,
with her transfixing look of incredulous, scornful horror; then Pierre's
enthusiastic heart sunk in and in, and caved clean away in him, as he so
poignantly felt his first feeling of the dreary heart-vacancies of the
conventional life. Oh heartless, proud, ice-gilded world, how I hate
thee, he thought, that thy tyrannous, insatiate grasp, thus now in my
bitterest need--thus doth rob me even of my mother; thus doth make me
now doubly an orphan, without a green grave to bedew. My tears,--could
I weep them,--must now be wept in the desolate places; now to me is it,
as though both father and mother had gone on distant voyages, and,
returning, died in unknown seas.
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