Section 3
Everywhere the awakening came with the sunrise. We awakened to thegladness of the morning; we walked dazzled in a light that was joy.Everywhere that was so. It was always morning. It was morningbecause, until the direct rays of the sun touched it, the changingnitrogen of our atmosphere did not pass into its permanent phase,and the sleepers lay as they had fallen. In its intermediatestate the air hung inert, incapable of producing either revival orstupefaction, no longer green, but not yet changed to thegas that now lives in us. . . .
To every one, I think, came some parallel to the mental states Ihave already sought to describe--a wonder, an impression of joyfulnovelty. There was also very commonly a certain confusion of theintelligence, a difficulty in self-recognition. I remember clearlyas I sat on my stile that presently I had the clearest doubts ofmy own identity and fell into the oddest metaphysical questionings."If this be I," I said, "then how is it I am no longer madly seekingNettie? Nettie is now the remotest thing--and all my wrongs. Whyhave I suddenly passed out of all that passion? Why doesnot the thought of Verrall quicken my pulses?" . . .
I was only one of many millions who that morning had the same doubts. Isuppose one knows one's self for one's self when one returns fromsleep or insensibility by the familiarity of one's bodily sensations,and that morning all our most intimate bodily sensations werechanged. The intimate chemical processes of life were changed, itsnervous metaboly. For the fluctuating, uncertain, passion-darkenedthought and feeling of the old time came steady, full-bodied,wholesome processes. Touch was different, sight was different, soundand all the senses were subtler; had it not been that our thoughtwas steadier and fuller, I believe great multitudes of men wouldhave gone mad. But, as it was, we understood. The dominant impressionI would convey in this account of the Change is one of enormousrelease, of a vast substantial exaltation. There was an effect, asit were, of light-headedness that was also clear-headedness, andthe alteration in one's bodily sensations, instead of producing themental obfuscation, the loss of identity that was a common mentaltrouble under former conditions, gave simply a new detachment fromthe tumid passions and entanglements of the personal life.
In this story of my bitter, restricted youth that I have beentelling you, I have sought constantly to convey the narrowness, theintensity, the confusion, muddle, and dusty heat of the old world.It was quite clear to me, within an hour of my awakening, that allthat was, in some mysterious way, over and done. That, too, was thecommon experience. Men stood up; they took the new air into theirlungs--a deep long breath, and the past fell from them; they couldforgive, they could disregard, they could attempt. . . . And itwas no new thing, no miracle that sets aside the former order ofthe world. It was a change in material conditions, a change in theatmosphere, that at one bound had released them. Some of them ithad released to death. . . . Indeed, man himself had changed notat all. We knew before the Change, the meanest knew, by glowingmoments in ourselves and others, by histories and music and beautifulthings, by heroic instances and splendid stories, how fine mankindcould be, how fine almost any human being could upon occasion be;but the poison in the air, its poverty in all the nobler elementswhich made such moments rare and remarkable--all that has changed.The air was changed, and the Spirit of Man that had drowsed andslumbered and dreamt dull and evil things, awakened, and stood withwonder-clean eyes, refreshed, looking again on life.