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diff --git a/1852.txt b/1852.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70717ae --- /dev/null +++ b/1852.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10639 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucile, by Owen Meredith + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Lucile + +Author: Owen Meredith + +Posting Date: October 15, 2008 [EBook #1852] +Release Date: August, 1999 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCILE *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +LUCILE + +by Owen Meredith + + + + + "Why, let the stricken deer go weep. + The hart ungalled play: + For some must watch, while some must sleep; + Thus runs the world away." + + Hamlet. + + + + +DEDICATION. + +TO MY FATHER. + + +I dedicate to you a work, which is submitted to the public with a +diffidence and hesitation proportioned to the novelty of the effort +it represents. For in this poem I have abandoned those forms of +verse with which I had most familiarized my thoughts, and have +endeavored to follow a path on which I could discover no footprints +before me, either to guide or to warn. + +There is a moment of profound discouragement which succeeds to +prolonged effort; when, the labor which has become a habit having +ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, and +stand, with a feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, before the +abrupt and naked result. As regards myself, in the present +instance, the force of all such sensations is increased by the +circumstances to which I have referred. And in this moment of +discouragement and doubt, my heart instinctively turns to you, from +whom it has so often sought, from whom it has never failed to +receive, support. + +I do not inscribe to you this book because it contains anything +that is worthy of the beloved and honored name with which I thus +seek to associate it; nor yet because I would avail myself of a +vulgar pretext to display in public an affection that is best +honored by the silence which it renders sacred. + +Feelings only such as those with which, in days when there existed +for me no critic less gentle than yourself, I brought to you my +childish manuscripts; feelings only such as those which have, in +later years, associated with your heart all that has moved or +occupied my own,--lead me once more to seek assurance from the +grasp of that hand which has hitherto been my guide and comfort +through the life I owe to you. + +And as in childhood, when existence had no toil beyond the day's +simple lesson, no ambition beyond the neighboring approval of the +night, I brought to you the morning's task for the evening's +sanction, so now I bring to you this self-appointed taskwork of +maturer years; less confident indeed of your approval, but not less +confident of your love; and anxious only to realize your presence +between myself and the public, and to mingle with those severer +voices to whose final sentence I submit my work the beloved and +gracious accents of your own. + +OWEN MEREDITH. + + + + +LUCILE + + + + +PART I. + + + + +CANTO I. + + + I. + + + LETTER FROM THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE. + + + "I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told + You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old, + So long since you may have forgotten it now + (When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers to grow), + Your last words recorded a pledge--what you will-- + A promise--the time is now come to fulfil. + The letters I ask you, my lord, to return, + I desire to receive from your hand. You discern + My reasons, which, therefore, I need not explain. + The distance to Luchon is short. I remain + A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, perchance, + Will forego one brief page from the summer romance + Of her courtship, and spare you one day from your place + At her feet, in the light of her fair English face. + I desire nothing more, and trust you will feel + I desire nothing much. + "Your friend always, + "LUCILE." + + + II. + + + Now in May Fair, of course,--in the fair month of May-- + When life is abundant, and busy, and gay: + When the markets of London are noisy about + Young ladies, and strawberries,--"only just out;" + Fresh strawberries sold under all the house-eaves, + And young ladies on sale for the strawberry-leaves: + When cards, invitations, and three-cornered notes + Fly about like white butterflies--gay little motes + In the sunbeam of Fashion; and even Blue Books + Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as rooks; + And the postman (that Genius, indifferent and stern, + Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn, + Those lots which so often decide if our day + Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay) + Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or other + Than Cadmus, himself, put together, to bother + The heads of Hellenes;--I say, in the season + Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reason + Why, when quietly munching your dry toast and butter, + Your nerves should be suddenly thrown in a flutter + At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd + In a woman's handwriting, containing, half guess'd, + An odor of violets faint as the Spring, + And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring. + But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection, + When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with dejection; + Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease, + Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, + Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath, + A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath, + A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation, + Are all a man finds for his day's occupation, + The whole case, believe me, is totally changed, + And a letter may alter the plans we arranged + Over-night, for the slaughter of time--a wild beast, + Which, though classified yet by no naturalist, + Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, + And more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or the Bear. + + + III. + + + I marvel less, therefore, that, having already + Torn open this note, with a hand most unsteady, + Lord Alfred was startled. + The month is September; + Time, morning; the scene at Bigorre; (pray remember + These facts, gentle reader, because I intend + To fling all the unities by at the end.) + He walk'd to the window. The morning was chill: + The brown woods were crisp'd in the cold on the hill: + The sole thing abroad in the streets was the wind: + And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts in his mind, + Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing + Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleasing: + And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it, + To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) sigh'd + ..... "Confound it!" + + + IV. + + + What the thoughts were which led to this bad interjection, + Sir, or madam, I leave to your future detection; + For whatever they were, they were burst in upon, + As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin John. + + COUSIN JOHN. + + A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool! + + LORD ALFRED. + + Who? + + JOHN. + + The man who has anything better to do; + And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades + His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, + Which even a well-brought-up ape were above, + To travel about with a woman in love,-- + Unless she's in love with himself. + + ALFRED. + + Indeed! why + Are you here then, dear Jack? + + JOHN. + + Can't you guess it? + + ALFRED. + + Not I. + + JOHN. + + Because I HAVE nothing that's better to do. + I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you, + On the whole (I must own), than be bored by myself. + That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf-- + Your Will-o'-the-wisp--that has led you and me + Such a dance through these hills-- + + ALFRED. + + Who, Matilda? + + JOHN. + + Yes! she, + Of course! who but she could contrive so to keep + One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling asleep + For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four? + + ALFRED. + + What's the matter? + + JOHN. + + Why, she is--a matter, the more + I consider about it, the more it demands + An attention it does not deserve; and expands + Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline, + When possess'd by a fair face, and saucy Eighteen, + Is entitled to take in this very small star, + Already too crowded, as I think, by far. + You read Malthus and Sadler? + + ALFRED. + + Of course. + + JOHN. + + To what use, + When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse + Of one mere human creature's legitimate space + In this world? Mars, Apollo, Virorum! the case + Wholly passes my patience. + + ALFRED. + + My own is worse tried. + + JOHN. + + Yours, Alfred? + + ALFRED. + + Read this, if you doubt, and decide, + + JOHN (reading the letter). + + "I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told + You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old--" + What is this? + + ALFRED. + + Read it on to the end, and you'll know. + + JOHN (continues reading). + + "When we parted, your last words recorded a vow-- + What you will"... + Hang it! this smells all over, I swear, + Of adventurers and violets. Was it your hair + You promised a lock of? + + ALFRED. + + Read on. You'll discern. + + JOHN (continues). + + "Those letters I ask you, my lord, to return."... + Humph!... Letters!... the matter is worse than I guess'd; + I have my misgivings-- + + ALFRED. + + Well, read out the rest, + And advise. + + JOHN. + + Eh?... Where was I? + (continues.) + "Miss Darcy, perchance, + Will forego one brief page from the summer romance + Of her courtship."... + Egad! a romance, for my part, + I'd forego every page of, and not break my heart! + + ALFRED. + + Continue. + + JOHN (reading). + + "And spare you one day from your place + At her feet."... + Pray forgive me the passing grimace. + I wish you had MY place! + (reads) + "I trust you will feel + I desire nothing much. Your friend,". . . + Bless me! "Lucile?" + The Countess de Nevers? + + ALFRED. + + Yes. + + JOHN. + + What will you do? + + ALFRED. + + You ask me just what I would rather ask you. + + JOHN. + + You can't go. + + ALFRED + + I must. + + JOHN. + + And Matilda? + + ALFRED. + + Oh, that + You must manage! + + JOHN. + + Must I? I decline it, though, flat. + In an hour the horses will be at the door, + And Matilda is now in her habit. Before + I have finished my breakfast, of course I receive + A message for "dear Cousin John!"... I must leave + At the jeweller's the bracelet which YOU broke last night; + I must call for the music. "Dear Alfred is right: + The black shawl looks best: WILL I change it? Of course + I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. + Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows what; + WILL I see the dog-doctor?" Hang Beau! I will NOT. + + ALFRED. + + Tush, tush! this is serious. + + JOHN. + + It is. + + ALFRED. + + Very well, + You must think-- + + JOHN. + + What excuse will you make, tho'? + + ALFRED. + + Oh, tell + Mrs. Darcy that... lend me your wits, Jack!... The deuce! + Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's use? + Excuses are clothes which, when ask'd unawares, + Good Breeding to Naked Necessity spares, + You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt. + + JOHN. + + My dear fellow, + Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello. + + ALFRED. + + You joke. + + JOHN. + + I am serious. Why go to Luchon? + + ALFRED. + + Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear John. + Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire, + Before I extinguish forever the fire + Of youth and romance, in whose shadowy light + Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales, to excite + The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that dawn + Of my days where the twilights of life were first drawn + By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love; + In short, from the dead Past the gravestone to move; + Of the years long departed forever to take + One last look, one final farewell; to awake + The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, + And once more be, though but for an hour, Jack--a boy! + + JOHN. + + You had better go hang yourself. + + ALFRED. + + No! were it but + To make sure that the Past from the Future is shut, + It were worth the step back. Do you think we should live + With the living so lightly, and learn to survive + That wild moment in which to the grave and its gloom + We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of the tomb + Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for our sake? + If the dead could return or the corpses awake? + + JOHN. + + Nonsense! + + ALFRED. + + Not wholly. The man who gets up + A fill'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his cup, + Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness, goes + Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. + But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings, + And yet starved in the sight of luxurious things; + Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but half tasted; + Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune; who hath wasted + One part of life's grand possibilities:--friend, + That man will bear with him, be sure, to the end, + A blighted experience, a rancor within: + You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin. + + JOHN. + + I see you remember the cynical story + Of that wicked old piece Experience--a hoary + Lothario, whom dying, the priest by his bed + (Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led, + And observing, with no small amount of surprise, + Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes) + Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind: + "Well,... no,"... says Lothario, "I think not. I find, + On reviewing my life, which in most things was pleasant, + I never neglected, when once it was present, + An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, + I have naught to regret;"... and so, smiling, his soul + Took its flight from this world. + + ALFRED. + + Well, Regret or Remorse, + Which is best? + + JOHN. + + Why, Regret. + + ALFRED. + + No; Remorse, Jack, of course: + For the one is related, be sure, to the other. + Regret is a spiteful old maid: but her brother, + Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet + HAS been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang Regret! + + JOHN. + + Bref! you mean, then, to go? + + ALFRED. + + Bref! I do. + + JOHN. + + One word... stay! + Are you really in love with Matilda? + + ALFRED. + + Love, eh? + What a question! Of course. + + JOHN. + + WERE you really in love + With Madame de Nevers? + + ALFRED. + + What; Lucile? No, by Jove, + Never REALLY. + + JOHN. + + She's pretty? + + ALFRED. + + Decidedly so. + At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. + As soft, and as sallow as Autumn--with hair + Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge which the air + Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone + Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting sun. + Eyes--the wistful gazelle's; the fine foot of a fairy; + And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave,--white and airy; + A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows. + Something in her there was, set you thinking of those + Strange backgrounds of Raphael... that hectic and deep + Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep. + + JOHN. + + Coquette? + + ALFRED. + + Not at all. 'Twas her one fault. Not she! + I had loved her the better, had she less loved me. + The heart of a man's like that delicate weed + Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed, + Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract. + 'Tis a simile, trust me, if not new, exact. + + JOHN. + + Women change so. + + ALFRED. + + Of course. + + JOHN. + + And, unless rumor errs, + I believe, that last year, the Comtesse de Nevers* + Was at Baden the rage--held an absolute court + Of devoted adorers, and really made sport + Of her subjects. + + + * O Shakespeare! how couldst thou ask "What's in a name?" + 'Tis the devil's in it, when a bard has to frame + English rhymes for alliance with names that are French: + And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench + All too far on that license which critics refuse, + With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. + Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line, + 'Twixt my British-born verse and my French heroine, + Since, however auspiciously wedded they be, + There is many a pair that yet cannot agree, + Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, + Whom necessity, not inclination, unites. + + + ALFRED. + + Indeed! + + JOHN. + + When she broke off with you + Her engagement, her heart did not break with it? + + ALFRED. + + Pooh! + Pray would you have had her dress always in black, + And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack? + Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken. + + JOHN. + + Most likely. How was it? + + ALFRED. + + The tale is soon spoken. + She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next? + She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd. + I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. + If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry. + I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd. + At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. + She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. + I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason. + In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see, + Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she + By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. + She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, + With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, + The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse, + And declare myself uncomprehended. And so + We parted. The rest of the story you know. + + JOHN. + + No, indeed. + + ALFRED. + + Well, we parted. Of course we could not + Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. + You conceive it was awkward? Even Don Ferdinando + Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. + I think that I acted exceedingly well, + Considering the time when this rupture befell, + For Paris was charming just then. It deranged + All my plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed-- + Wrote for Naples, then vacant--obtain'd it--and so + Join'd my new post at once; but scarce reach'd it, when lo! + My first news from Paris informs me Lucile + Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. + I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet + Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret; + I ask to renew the engagement. + + JOHN. + + And she? + + ALFRED. + + Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be + Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing! + We each keep our letters... a portrait... a ring... + With a pledge to return them whenever the one + Or the other shall call for them back. + + JOHN. + + Pray go on. + + ALFRED. + + My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin + On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin + To supply the grim deficit found in our days, + When love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She obeys. + She goes out in the world; takes to dancing once more-- + A pleasure she rarely indulged in before. + I go back to my post, and collect (I must own + 'Tis a taste I had never before, my dear John) + Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho! now, Jack, + You know all. + + JOHN (after a pause). + + You are really resolved to go back? + + ALFRED. + + Eh, where? + + JOHN. + + To that worst of all places--the past. + You remember Lot's wife? + + ALFRED. + + 'Twas a promise when last + We parted. My honor is pledged to it. + + JOHN. + + Well, + What is it you wish me to do? + + ALFRED. + + You must tell + Matilda, I meant to have call'd--to leave word-- + To explain--but the time was so pressing-- + + JOHN. + + My lord, + Your lordship's obedient! I really can't do... + + ALFRED. + + You wish then to break off my marriage? + + JOHN. + + No, no! + But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take + These letters. + + ALFRED. + + Not see? would you have me, then, break + A promise my honor is pledged to? + + JOHN (humming). + + "Off, off + And away! said the stranger"... + + ALFRED. + + Oh, good! oh, you scoff! + + JOHN. + + At what, my dear Alfred? + + ALFRED. + + At all things! + JOHN. + Indeed? + + + ALFRED. + + Yes; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed: + That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you: I see + You have no feeling left in you, even for me! + At honor you jest; you are cold as a stone + To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have none; + You have lost faith in all things. You carry a blight + About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight + Of such callous indifference, who could be calm? + I must leave you at once, Jack, or else the last balm + That is left me in Gilead you'll turn into gall. + Heartless, cold, unconcern'd... + + JOHN. + + Have you done? Is that all? + Well, then, listen to me! I presume when you made + up your mind to propose to Miss Darcy, you weigh'd + All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains, + Ere you finally settled the point. What remains + But to stick to your choice? You want money: 'tis here. + A settled position: 'tis yours. A career: + You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich, + Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch + To be running away, on the eve of all this, + To a woman whom never for once did you miss + All these years since you left her? Who knows what may hap? + This letter--to ME--is a palpable trap. + The woman has changed since you knew her. Perchance + She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken romance. + When women begin to feel youth and their beauty + Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty + To let nothing else slip away unsecured + Which these, while they lasted, might once have procured. + Lucile's a coquette to the end of her fingers, + I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish lingers + To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover + To the feet he has left; let intrigue now recover + What truth could not keep. 'Twere a vengeance, no doubt-- + A triumph;--but why must YOU bring it about? + You are risking the substance of all that you schemed + To obtain; and for what? some mad dream you have dream'd. + + ALFRED. + + But there's nothing to risk. You exaggerate, Jack, + You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back. + + JOHN. + + Ay, but how?... discontented, unsettled, upset, + Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret. + Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough + To make your betroth'd break off all in a huff. + Three days, do you say? But in three days who knows + What may happen? I don't, nor do you, I suppose. + + + V. + + + Of all the good things in this good world around us, + The one most abundantly furnish'd and found us, + And which, for that reason, we least care about, + And can best spare our friends, is good counsel, no doubt. + But advice, when 'tis sought from a friend (though civility + May forbid to avow it), means mere liability + In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, + Which we deem that a true friend is bound to indorse. + A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a bore. + Thus, the better his cousin's advice was, the more + Alfred Vargrave with angry resentment opposed it. + And, having the worst of the contest, he closed it + With so firm a resolve his bad ground to maintain, + That, sadly perceiving resistance was vain, + And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack + Came to terms and assisted his cousin to pack + A slender valise (the one small condescension + Which his final remonstrance obtain'd), whose dimension + Excluded large outfits; and, cursing his stars, he + Shook hands with his friend and return'd to Miss Darcy. + + + VI. + + + Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turn'd, + Ere he lock'd up and quitted his chamber, discern'd + Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming bright + In what Virgil has call'd, "Youth's purpureal light" + (I like the expression, and can't find a better). + He sigh'd as he look'd at her. Did he regret her? + In her habit and hat, with her glad golden hair, + As airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air, + And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue eyes, + With her little impertinent look of surprise, + And her round youthful figure, and fair neck, below + The dark drooping feather, as radiant as snow,-- + I can only declare, that if I had the chance + Of passing three days in the exquisite glance + Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now petted + That fine English mare, I should much have regretted + Whatever might lose me one little half-hour + Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my power. + For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milky Way + Could turn into a woman, 'twould look, I dare say, + Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that day. + + + VII. + + + But, whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh + With which Alfred Vargrave now watched her ride by, + I can only affirm that, in watching her ride, + As he turned from the window he certainly sigh'd. + + + + +CANTO II. + + I. + + + LETTER FROM LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE TO THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS. + + BIGORRE, TUESDAY. + + + "Your note, Madam, reach'd me to-day, at Bigorre, + And commands (need I add?) my obedience. Before + The night I shall be at Luchon--where a line, + If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine, + Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive + My respects. + "Yours sincerely, + "A. VARGRAVE. + "I leave + In an hour." + + + II. + + + In an hour from the time he wrote this + Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss, + Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, and pursued, + In pursuing his course through the blue solitude, + The reflections that journey gave rise to. + And + (Because, without some such precaution, I fear + You might fail to distinguish, them each from the rest + Of the world they belong to; whose captives are drest, + As our convicts, precisely the same one and all, + While the coat cut for Peter is pass'd on to Paul) + I resolve, one by one, when I pick from the mass + The persons I want, as before you they pass, + To label them broadly in plain black and white + On the backs of them. Therefore whilst yet he's in sight, + I first label my hero. + + + III. + + + The age is gone o'er + When a man may in all things be all. We have more + Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt, + Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to; but out + Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when + Will a new LEONARDO arise on our ken? + He is gone with the age which begat him. Our own + Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone + To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close + In the palm of his hand. There were giants in those + Irreclaimable days; but in these days of ours, + In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. + Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more + Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed to explore; + And in life's lengthen'd alphabet what used to be + To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. + A Vanini is roasted alive for his pains, + But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains. + A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle + And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle, + Till a More or Lavater step into his place: + Then the world turns and makes an admiring grimace. + Once the men were so great and so few, they appear, + Through a distant Olympian atmosphere, + Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. + Now the men are so many and small, disengage + One man from the million to mark him, next moment + The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your comment; + And since we seek vainly (to praise in our songs) + 'Mid our fellows the size which to heroes belongs, + We take the whole age for a hero, in want + Of a better; and still, in its favor, descant + On the strength and the beauty which, failing to find + In any one man, we ascribe to mankind. + + + IV. + + + Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who achieve + So little, because of the much they conceive: + With irresolute finger he knock'd at each one + Of the doorways of life, and abided in none. + His course, by each star that would cross it, was set, + And whatever he did he was sure to regret. + That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old, + Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd gold, + To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, + Appear'd in one moment both golden and argent. + The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one, + May hope to achieve it before life be done; + But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes, + Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows + A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm + That crawls on in the dust to the definite term + Of its creeping existence, and sees nothing more + Than the path it pursues till its creeping be o'er, + In its limited vision, is happier far + Than the Half-Sage, whose course, fix'd by no friendly star + Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows + Each will still be as distant wherever he goes. + + + V. + + + Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable, + Indecisive yet keen, Alfred Vargrave seem'd able + To dazzle, but not to illumine mankind. + A vigorous, various, versatile mind; + A character wavering, fitful, uncertain, + As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous curtain, + Vague, flitting, but on it forever impressing + The shape of some substance at which you stand guessing: + When you said, "All is worthless and weak here," behold! + Into sight on a sudden there seem'd to unfold + Great outlines of strenuous truth in the man: + When you said, "This is genius," the outlines grew wan, + And his life, though in all things so gifted and skill'd, + Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fulfill'd. + + + VI. + + + In the budding of youth, ere wild winds can deflower + The shut leaves of man's life, round the germ of his power + Yet folded, his life had been earnest. Alas! + In that life one occasion, one moment, there was + When this earnestness might, with the life-sap of youth, + Lusty fruitage have borne in his manhood's full growth; + But it found him too soon, when his nature was still + The delicate toy of too pliant a will, + The boisterous wind of the world to resist, + Or the frost of the world's wintry wisdom. + He miss'd + That occasion, too rathe in its advent. + Since then, + He had made it a law, in his commerce with men, + That intensity in him, which only left sore + The heart it disturb'd, to repel and ignore. + And thus, as some Prince by his subjects deposed, + Whose strength he, by seeking to crush it, disclosed, + In resigning the power he lack'd power to support + Turns his back upon courts, with a sneer at the court, + In his converse this man for self-comfort appeal'd + To a cynic denial of all he conceal'd + In the instincts and feelings belied by his words. + Words, however, are things: and the man who accords + To his language the license to outrage his soul, + Is controll'd by the words he disdains to control. + And, therefore, he seem'd in the deeds of each day + The light code proclaim'd on his lips to obey; + And, the slave of each whim, follow'd wilfully aught + That perchance fool'd the fancy, or flatter'd the thought. + Yet, indeed, deep within him, the spirits of truth, + Vast, vague aspirations, the powers of his youth, + Lived and breathed, and made moan--stirr'd themselves--strove to start + Into deeds--though deposed, in that Hades, his heart. + Like those antique Theogonies ruin'd and hurl'd, + Under clefts of the hills, which, convulsing the world, + Heaved, in earthquake, their heads the rent caverns above, + To trouble at times in the light court of Jove + All its frivolous gods, with an undefined awe, + Of wrong'd rebel powers that own'd not their law. + For his sake, I am fain to believe that, if born + To some lowlier rank (from the world's languid scorn + Secured by the world's stern resistance) where strife, + Strife and toil, and not pleasure, gave purpose to life, + He possibly might have contrived to attain + Not eminence only, but worth. So, again, + Had he been of his own house the first-born, each gift + Of a mind many-gifted had gone to uplift + A great name by a name's greatest uses. + But there + He stood isolated, opposed, as it were, + To life's great realities; part of no plan; + And if ever a nobler and happier man + He might hope to become, that alone could be when + With all that is real in life and in men + What was real in him should have been reconciled; + When each influence now from experience exiled + Should have seized on his being, combined with his nature, + And form'd as by fusion, a new human creature: + As when those airy elements viewless to sight + (The amalgam of which, if our science be right, + The germ of this populous planet doth fold) + Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold! + Where a void seem'd before, there a substance appears, + From the fusion of forces whence issued the spheres! + + + VII. + + + But the permanent cause why his life fail'd and miss'd + The full value of life was,--where man should resist + The world, which man's genius is call'd to command, + He gave way, less from lack of the power to withstand, + Than from lack of the resolute will to retain + Those strongholds of life which the world strives to gain. + Let this character go in the old-fashion'd way, + With the moral thereof tightly tack'd to it. Say-- + "Let any man once show the world that he feels + Afraid of its bark, and 'twill fly at his heels: + Let him fearlessly face it, 'twill leave him alone: + But 'twill fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone." + + + VIII. + + + The moon of September, now half at the full, + Was unfolding from darkness and dreamland the lull + Of the quiet blue air, where the many-faced hills + Watch'd, well-pleased, their fair slaves, the light, foam-footed rills, + Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs of their courts, + And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports, + Lord Alfred (by this on his journeying far) + Was pensively puffing his Lopez cigar, + And brokenly humming an old opera strain, + And thinking, perchance, of those castles in Spain + Which that long rocky barrier hid from his sight; + When suddenly, out of the neighboring night, + A horseman emerged from a fold of the hill, + And so startled his steed that was winding at will + Up the thin dizzy strip of a pathway which led + O'er the mountain--the reins on its neck, and its head + Hanging lazily forward--that, but for a hand + Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar command, + Both rider and horse might have been in a trice + Hurl'd horribly over the grim precipice. + + + IX. + + + As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided, + And the oath with which nothing can find unprovided + A thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded, + Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow did + Now and then) his erectness; and looking, not ruder + Than such inroad would warrant, survey'd the intruder, + Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glory + My hero, and finished abruptly this story. + + + X. + + + The stranger, a man of his own age or less, + Well mounted, and simple though rich in his dress, + Wore his beard and mustache in the fashion of France. + His face, which was pale, gather'd force from the glance + Of a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes. + With a gest of apology, touch'd with surprise, + He lifted his hat, bow'd and courteously made + Some excuse in such well-cadenced French as betray'd, + At the first word he spoke, the Parisian. + + + XI. + + + I swear + I have wander'd about in the world everywhere; + From many strange mouths have heard many strange tongues; + Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and my lungs; + Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own; + In many a language groaned many a groan; + And have often had reason to curse those wild fellows + Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd jealous, + Making human audacity stumble and stammer + When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of Grammar. + But the language of languages dearest to me + Is that in which once, O ma toute cherie, + When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for hours, + You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers, + And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame + Through my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'd + Je t'aime. + + + XII. + + + The Italians have voices like peacocks; the Spanish + Smell, I fancy, of garlic; the Swedish and Danish + Have something too Runic, too rough and unshod, in + Their accents for mouths not descended from Odin; + German gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheezing + And coughing; and Russian is nothing but sneezing; + But, by Belus and Babel! I never have heard, + And I never shall hear (I well know it), one word + Of that delicate idiom of Paris without + Feeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt, + By the wild way in which my heart inwardly flutter'd + That my heart's native tongue to my heart had been utter'd + And whene'er I hear French spoken as I approve + I feel myself quietly falling in love. + + + XIII. + + + Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeased + By a something, an accent, a cadence, which pleased + His ear with that pledge of good breeding which tells + At once of the world in whose fellowship dwells + The speaker that owns it, was glad to remark + In the horseman a man one might meet after dark + Without fear. + And thus, not disagreeably impress'd, + As it seem'd, with each other, the two men abreast + Rode on slowly a moment. + + + XIV. + + + STRANGER. + + I see, Sir, you are + A smoker. Allow me! + + ALFRED. + + Pray take a cigar. + + STRANGER. + + Many thanks!... Such cigars are a luxury here. + Do you go to Luchon? + + ALFRED. + + Yes; and you? + + STRANGER. + + Yes. I fear, + Since our road is the same, that our journey must be + Somewhat closer than is our acquaintance. You see + How narrow the path is. I'm tempted to ask + Your permission to finish (no difficult task!) + The cigar you have given me (really a prize!) + In your company. + + ALFRED. + + Charm'd, Sir, to find your road lies + In the way of my own inclinations! Indeed + The dream of your nation I find in this weed. + In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows + That makes all men brothers that use it... who knows? + That blaze which erewhile from the Boulevart out-broke, + It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir,--in smoke. + Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write) + Have done more in their way human kind to unite, + Perchance, than ten Prudhons. + + STRANGER. + + Yes. Ah, what a scene! + + ALFRED. + + Humph! Nature is here too pretentious. Her mien + Is too haughty. One likes to be coax'd, not compell'd, + To the notice such beauty resents if withheld. + She seems to be saying too plainly, "Admire me!" + And I answer, "Yes, madam, I do: but you tire me." + + STRANGER. + + That sunset, just now though... + + ALFRED. + + A very old trick! + One would think that the sun by this time must be sick + Of blushing at what, by this time, he must know + Too well to be shocked by--this world. + + STRANGER. + + Ah, 'tis so + With us all. 'Tis the sinner that best knew the world + At Twenty, whose lip is, at sixty, most curl'd + With disdain of its follies. You stay at Luchon? + + ALFRED. + + A day or two only. + + STRANGER. + + The season is done. + + + ALFRED. + + Already? + + STRANGER. + + 'Twas shorter this year than the last. + Folly soon wears her shoes out. She dances so fast + We are all of us tired. + + ALFRED. + + You know the place well? + + STRANGER. + + I have been there two seasons. + + ALFRED. + + Pray who is the Belle + Of the Baths at this moment? + + STRANGER. + + The same who has been + The belle of all places in which she is seen; + The belle of all Paris last winter; last spring + The belle of all Baden. + + ALFRED. + + An uncommon thing! + + STRANGER. + + Sir, an uncommon beauty!... I rather should say + An uncommon character. Truly, each day + One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers, + But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers. + + ALFRED. + + Madame de Nevers! + + STRANGER. + + Do you know her? + + ALFRED. + + I know + Or, rather, I knew her--a long time ago. + I almost forget... + + STRANGER. + + What a wit! what a grace + In her language! her movements! what play in her face! + And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal! + + ALFRED. + + You speak like a lover. + + STRANGER. + + I speak as I feel, + But not like a lover. What interests me so + In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know, + To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation, + The name we men give to an hour's admiration, + A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes, + A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs. + + ALFRED. + + Yes, I quite comprehend. But this sadness--this shade + Which you speak of?... it almost would make me afraid + Your gay countrymen, Sir, less adroit must have grown, + Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own + I found in them terrible rivals,--if yet + They have all lack'd the skill to console this regret + (If regret be the word I should use), or fulfil + This desire (if desire be the word), which seems still + To endure unappeased. For I take it for granted, + From all that you say, that the will was not wanted. + + + XV. + + + The stranger replied, not without irritation: + "I have heard that an Englishman--one of your nation + I presume--and if so, I must beg you, indeed, + To excuse the contempt which I..." + + ALFRED. + + Pray, Sir, proceed + With your tale. My compatriot, what was his crime? + + STRANGER. + + Oh, nothing! His folly was not so sublime + As to merit that term. If I blamed him just now, + It was not for the sin, but the silliness. + + ALFRED. + + How? + + STRANGER. + + I own I hate Botany. Still,... admit, + Although I myself have no passion for it, + And do not understand, yet I cannot despise + The cold man of science, who walks with his eyes + All alert through a garden of flowers, and strips + The lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red lips, + With a ruthless dissection; since he, I suppose, + Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief he does. + But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uproots + The exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots, + For a boy's brutal pastime, and only because + He knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and haws,-- + One would wish, for the sake of each nursling so nipp'd, + To catch the young rascal and have him well whipp'd! + + ALFRED. + + Some compatriot of mine, do I then understand, + With a cold Northern heart, and a rude English hand, + Has injured your Rosebud of France? + + STRANGER. + + Sir, I know + But little, or nothing. Yet some faces show + The last act of a tragedy in their regard: + Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not hard + To divine, more or less, what the plot may have been, + And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene. + And whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile, + With its pensive and passionless languor, I feel + That some feeling hath burnt there... burnt out, and burnt up + Health and hope. So you feel when you gaze down the cup + Of extinguish'd volcanoes: you judge of the fire + Once there, by the ravage you see;--the desire, + By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense + Of a moral, immovable, mute impotence. + + ALFRED. + + Humph!... I see you have finished, at last, your cigar; + Can I offer another? + + STRANGER. + + No, thank you. We are + Not two miles from Luchon. + + ALFRED. + + You know the road well? + + STRANGER. + + I have often been over it. + + + XVI. + + + Here a pause fell + On their converse. Still musingly on, side by side, + In the moonlight, the two men continued to ride + Down the dim mountain pathway. But each for the rest + Of their journey, although they still rode on abreast, + Continued to follow in silence the train + Of the different feelings that haunted his brain; + And each, as though roused from a deep revery, + Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to see + Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths, + The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths, + With the lamps twinkling through them--the quaint wooden roofs-- + The little white houses. + The clatter of hoofs, + And the music of wandering bands, up the walls + Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals + Reached them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking of whips, + And here and there, faintly, through serpentine slips + Of verdant rose-gardens deep-sheltered with screens + Of airy acacias and dark evergreens, + They could mark the white dresses and catch the light songs + Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs, + Led by Laughter and Love through the old eventide + Down the dream-haunted valley, or up the hillside. + + + XVII. + + + At length, at the door of the inn l'HERISSON, + Pray go there, if ever you go to Luchon! + The two horsemen, well pleased to have reached it, alighted + And exchanged their last greetings. + The Frenchman invited + Lord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined. + He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined + In his own rooms that night. + With an unquiet eye + He watched his companion depart; nor knew why, + Beyond all accountable reason or measure, + He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure. + "The fellow's good looking," he murmur'd at last, + "And yet not a coxcomb." Some ghost of the past + Vex'd him still. + "If he love her," he thought, "let him win her." + Then he turn'd to the future--and order'd his dinner. + + + XVIII. + + + O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth, + Blessed hour of our dinners! + The land of his birth; + The face of his first love; the bills that he owes; + The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes; + The sermon he heard when to church he last went; + The money he borrow'd, the money he spent;-- + All of these things, a man, I believe, may forget, + And not be the worse for forgetting; but yet + Never, never, oh never! earth's luckiest sinner + Hath unpunish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner! + Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach, + Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some ache + Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease, + As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. + + + XIX. + + + We may live without poetry, music, and art: + We may live without conscience, and live without heart; + We may live without friends; we may live without books; + But civilized man cannot live without cooks. + He may live without books,--what is knowledge but grieving? + He may live without hope,--what is hope but deceiving? + He may live without love,--what is passion but pining? + But where is the man that can live without dining? + + + XX. + + + Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note + From Lucile. + "Your last letter has reach'd me," she wrote. + "This evening, alas! I must go to the ball, + And shall not be at home till too late for your call; + But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at One + You will find me at home, and will find me alone. + Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord, + For the honor with which you adhere to your word. + Yes, I thank you, Lord Alfred! To-morrow then. + "L." + + XXI. + + + I find myself terribly puzzled to tell + The feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung down + This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own + That I think he, himself, could have hardly explain'd + Those feelings exactly. + "Yes, yes," as he drain'd + The glass down, he mutter'd, "Jack's right, after all. + The coquette!" + "Does milord mean to go to the ball?" + Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd. + "Perhaps. I don't know. + You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go." + + + XXII. + + + Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs, + When season'd by love, which no rancor disturbs, + And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life, + Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife! + But if, out of humor, and hungry, alone, + A man should sit down to a dinner, each one + Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil + With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil, + The chances are ten against one, I must own, + He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down. + And if any reader this fact to dispute is + Disposed, I say... "Allium edat cicutis + Nocentius!" + Over the fruit and the wine + Undisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine. + Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set, + And languidly lighted his small cigarette. + The window was open. The warm air without + Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were about. + In the gloom he sat gloomy. + + + XXIII. + + + Gay sounds from below + Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, + And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenues + The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes and by twos, + The idlers of Luchon were strolling at will, + As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill, + Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er + His late travelling companion, now passing before + The inn, at the window of which he still sat, + In full toilet,--boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat, + Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove, + As he turned down the avenue. + Watching above, + From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'd + To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd, + To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd, + By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd, + That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the hall, + Was a person of rank or of fashion; for all + Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopped with and chatter'd, + Walk'd on with a look which implied... "I feel flatter'd!" + + + XXIV. + + + His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom. + + + XXV. + + + Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. + He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen + Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin; + He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile: + He had thought about many things; thought a great deal + Of himself, of his past life, his future, his present: + He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor crescent; + Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so sour! + He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and power: + Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, and + A poet's asylum in some distant land: + Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no doubt, + In particular; also he had thought much about + His digestion, his debts, and his dinner: and last, + He thought that the night would be stupidly pass'd + If he thought any more of such matters at all: + So he rose and resolved to set out for the ball. + + + XXVI. + + + I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet, + That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet, + Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the nonce + Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once. + I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, + Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one. + And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, + When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'd fast, + He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door, + The church clock strike Twelve. + + + XXVII. + + + The last waltz was just o'er. + The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. + A crowd block'd the door: and a buzz and a mutter + Went about in the room as a young man, whose face + Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, + But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and warm + Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm + Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, + Left the ballroom. + + + XXVIII. + + + The hubbub of comment and praise + Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd. + "Ma foi!" + Said a Frenchman beside him,... "That lucky Luvois + Has obtained all the gifts of the gods... rank and wealth, + And good looks, and then such inexhaustible health! + He that hath shall have more; and this truth, I surmise, + Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyes + Of la charmante Lucile more distinguish'd than all, + He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball." + "Is it true," asked a lady aggressively fat, + Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat + By another that look'd like a needle, all steel + And tenuity--"Luvois will marry Lucile?" + The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, + As though it were bent upon driving a stitch + Through somebody's character. + "Madam," replied, + Interposing, a young man who sat by their side, + And was languidly fanning his face with his hat, + "I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that, + If Luvois has proposed, the Comtesse has refused." + The fat and thin ladies were highly amused. + "Refused!... what! a young Duke, not thirty, my dear, + With at least half a million (what is it?) a year!" + "That may be," said a third; "yet I know some time since + Castelmar was refused, though as rich, and a Prince. + But Luvois, who was never before in his life + In love with a woman who was not a wife, + Is now certainly serious." + + + XXIX. + + + The music once more + Recommenced. + + + XXX. + + + Said Lord Alfred, "This ball is a bore!" + And return'd to the inn, somewhat worse than before. + + + XXXI. + + + There, whilst musing he lean'd the dark valley above, + Through the warm land were wand'ring the spirits of love. + A soft breeze in the white window drapery stirr'd; + In the blossom'd acacia the lone cricket chirr'd; + The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night, + And the moon on the mountain was dreaming in light. + Repose, and yet rapture! that pensive wild nature + Impregnate with passion in each breathing feature! + A stone's throw from thence, through the large lime-trees peep'd + In a garden of roses, a white chalet, steep'd + In the moonbeams. The windows oped down to the lawn; + The casements were open; the curtains were drawn; + Lights stream'd from the inside; and with them the sound + Of music and song. In the garden, around + A table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set, + Half a dozen young men and young women were met. + Light, laughter, and voices, and music all stream'd + Through the quiet-leaved limes. At the window there seem'd + For one moment the outline, familiar and fair, + Of a white dress, white neck, and soft dusky hair, + Which Lord Alfred remember'd... a moment or so + It hover'd, then pass'd into shadow; and slow + The soft notes, from a tender piano upflung, + Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus sung:-- + + + "Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth! + The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free, + And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth + 'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the sea. + + "And this ship is a world. She is freighted with souls, + She is freighted with merchandise: proudly she sails + With the Labor that stores, and the Will that controls + The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. + + "From the gardens of Pleasure where reddens the rose, + And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, + Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, + Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear! + + "Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard, + Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight, + O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird; + 'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. + + "And that bird, bright and bold as a poet's desire, + Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her birth. + There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire, + And her plumage hath never been sullied by earth. + + "And the mariners greet her; there's song on each lip, + For that bird of good omen, and joy in each eye. + And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the ship, + Together go forth over ocean and sky. + + "Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardens flee, + And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown + The ship is alone on a desert of sea, + And the bird in a desert of sky is alone. + + "In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air, + Down that desert of waters--tremendous in wrath-- + The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair, + And cleaves, thro' the waves of the ocean, his path. + + "And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the wave, + Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales; + And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, + Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. + + "Lo! a wonder, which never before hath been heard, + For it never before hath been given to sight; + On the ship bath descended the Paradise Bird, + The Paradise Bird, never known to alight! + + "The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lip + Had a song for the omen that gladden'd each eye; + The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship + From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky. + + "But the mariners heed not the bird any more. + They are felling the masts--they are cutting the sails; + Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er + Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. + + "Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold; + And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey; + And who heeds the bird? 'Save the silk and the gold!' + And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away! + + "Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more + Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven-- + To be 'whelmed in the storm, or above it to soar, + And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven! + + "And the ship rides the waters and weathers the gales: + From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. + All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, + Save a child sitting lonely, who misses--the bird!" + + + + +CANTO III. + + I. + + + With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod! + For my road is a rough one: flint, stubble, and clod, + Blue clay, and black quagmire, brambles no few, + And I gallop up-hill, now. + + There's terror that's true + In that tale of a youth who, one night at a revel, + Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by some devil, + Follow'd ever one mask through the mad masquerade, + Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('tis said), + He unmasked, with a kiss, the strange lady, and stood + Face to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood. + In this Mask of the Passions, call'd Life, there's no human + Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman, + But, when faced and unmask'd, it will leave us at last + Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. + For truth is appalling and eldrich, as seen + By this world's artificial lamplights and we screen + From our sight the strange vision that troubles our life. + Alas! why is Genius forever at strife + With the world, which, despite the world's self, it ennobles? + Why is it that Genius perplexes and troubles + And offends the effete life it comes to renew? + 'Tis the terror of truth! 'tis that Genius is true! + + + II. + + + Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) + Was a woman of genius: whose genius, indeed, + With her life was at war. Once, but once, in that life + The chance had been hers to escape from this strife + In herself; finding peace in the life of another + From the passionate wants she, in hers, failed to smother. + But the chance fell too soon, when the crude restless power + Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower, + Only wearied the man it yet haunted and thrall'd; + And that moment, once lost, had been never recall'd. + Yet it left her heart sore: and, to shelter her heart + From approach, she then sought, in that delicate art + Of concealment, those thousand adroit strategies + Of feminine wit, which repel while they please, + A weapon, at once, and a shield to conceal + And defend all that women can earnestly feel. + Thus, striving her instincts to hide and repress, + She felt frighten'd at times by her very success: + She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the stars: + Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel bars + If they keep us behind prison windows: impassion'd + Her heart rose and burst the light cage she had fashion'd + Out of glittering trifles around it. + + Unknown + To herself, all her instincts, without hesitation, + Embraced the idea of self-immolation. + The strong spirit in her, had her life been but blended + With some man's whose heart had her own comprehended, + All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly thrown. + For him she had struggled and striven alone; + For him had aspired; in him had transfused + All the gladness and grace of her nature; and used + For him only the spells of its delicate power: + Like the ministering fairy that brings from her bower + To some maze all the treasures, whose use the fond elf, + More enrich'd by her love, disregards for herself. + But standing apart, as she ever had done, + And her genius, which needed a vent, finding none + In the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's power, + She unconsciously made it her bulwark and tower, + And built in it her refuge, whence lightly she hurl'd + Her contempt at the fashions and forms of the world. + + And the permanent cause why she now miss'd and fail'd + That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd, + Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place + Say--the world and the woman opposed face to face, + Where the woman must yield, she, refusing to stir, + Offended the world, which in turn wounded her. + + As before, in the old-fashion'd manner, I fit + To this character, also, its moral: to wit, + Say--the world is a nettle; disturb it, it stings: + Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two things, + If you would not be stung, it behoves you to settle + Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle; + For she could not; nor would she avoid it: she tried + With the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside, + And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thing + To trample the world without feeling its sting. + + + III. + + + One lodges but simply at Luchon; yet, thanks + To the season that changes forever the banks + Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light cloud + O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud + Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring down + The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering town, + And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar, + And the blue-bells that purple the dapple-gray scaur, + One sees with each month of the many-faced year + A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. + The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de Nevers + Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs, + In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road, + Yet withdrawn from its noise: 'twas a peaceful abode. + And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like hoods + Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resinous woods. + The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended + The steep garden paths, every odor had blended + Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes, + With the balms floated down from the dark wooded slopes: + A light breeze at the window was playing about, + And the white curtains floated, now in, and now out. + The house was all hush'd when he rang at the door, + Which was open'd to him in a moment, or more, + By an old nodding negress, whose sable head shined + In the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind, + 'Neath the snowy foulard which about it was wound. + + + IV. + + + Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. + He remembered the nurse of Lucile. The old dame, + Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when he came, + With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore, + To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's door. + The old woman had fondled Lucile on her knee + When she left, as an infant, far over the sea, + In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown, + To pine, a pale flow'ret, in great Paris town. + She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast, when she read + The letter that told her, her father was dead. + An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, + Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses + Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. + He had wander'd the world through, by land and by sea, + And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, + Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill + To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave + Her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, and cast by the wave + On his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'd + His command: often baffled, he ever prevail'd, + In his combat with fate: to-day flatter'd and fed + By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread + The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came + Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name. + He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France, + And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Freelance, + Had wander'd in search of it, over the world + Into India. + + But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd + His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile + Of a Rajah (whose court he controll'd for a while, + And whose council he prompted and govern'd by stealth); + Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, + Who died giving birth to this daughter, before + He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. + His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance + Had secured her a home with his sister in France, + A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lucile + Neither felt, nor affected, the wish to conceal + The half-Eastern blood, which appear'd to bequeath + (Reveal'd now and then, though but rarely, beneath + That outward repose that concealed it in her) + A something half wild to her strange character. + The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken-hearted, + At the door of a convent in Paris had parted. + But later, once more, with her mistress she tarried, + When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been married + To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died, + With no claim on her tears--she had wept as a bride. + Said Lord Alfred, "Your mistress expects me." + + The crone + Oped the drawing-room door, and there left him alone. + + + V. + + + O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace + Rested silence and perfume. No sound reach'd the place. + In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shade + Of the heaving acacias, through which the breeze play'd. + O'er the smooth wooden floor, polished dark as a glass, + Fragrant white Indian matting allowed you to pass. + In light olive baskets, by window and door, + Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding the floor, + Rich wild flowers pluck'd by Lucile from the hill, + Seem'd the room with their passionate presence to fill: + Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed; + The deep belladonna its vermeil disclosed; + And the frail saponaire, and the tender blue-bell, + And the purple valerian,--each child of the fell + And the solitude flourish'd, fed fair from the source + Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his course + Where the chamois and izard, with delicate hoof, + Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence aloof. + + + VI. + + + Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed, + That you stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. Half unclosed + In the light slept the flowers; all was pure and at rest; + All peaceful; all modest; all seem'd self-possess'd, + And aware of the silence. No vestige nor trace + Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the place. + He stood by the window. A cloud pass'd the sun. + A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one. + Just then Lucile enter'd the room, undiscern'd + By Lord Alfred, whose face to the window was turned, + In a strange revery. + The time was, when Lucile, + In beholding that man, could not help but reveal + The rapture, the fear, which wrench'd out every nerve + In the heart of the girl from the woman's reserve. + And now--she gazed at him, calm, smiling,--perchance + Indifferent. + + + VII. + + + Indifferently turning his glance, + Alfred Vargrave encounter'd that gaze unaware. + O'er a bodice snow-white stream'd her soft dusky hair: + A rose-bud half blown in her hand; in her eyes + A half-pensive smile. + + A sharp cry of surprise + Escaped from his lips: some unknown agitation. + An invincible trouble, a strange palpitation, + Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit; + Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it. + That wit so complacent and docile, that ever + Lightly came at the call of the lightest endeavor, + Ready coin'd, and availably current as gold, + Which, secure of its value, so fluently roll'd + In free circulation from hand on to hand + For the usage of all, at a moment's command; + For once it rebell'd, it was mute and unstirr'd, + And he looked at Lucile without speaking a word. + + + VIII. + + + Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the face + On whose features he gazed had no more than a trace + Of the face his remembrance had imaged for years. + Yes! the face he remember'd was faded with tears: + Grief had famish'd the figure, and dimmed the dark eyes, + And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with sighs, + And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquetterie + Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be + Something dear to the lips that so warmly caress + Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress, + In the careless toilet of Lucile--then too sad + To care aught to her changeable beauty to add-- + Lord Alfred had never admired before! + Alas! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore, + Had neglected herself, never heeding, or thinking + (While the blossom and bloom of her beauty were shrinking) + That sorrow can beautify only the heart-- + Not the face--of a woman; and can but impart + Its endearment to one that has suffer'd. In truth + Grief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth loves gay youth. + + + IX. + + + The woman that now met, unshrinking his gaze, + Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous haze + Of that soft second summer, more ripe than the first, + Which returns when the bud to the blossom hath burst + In despite of the stormiest April. Lucile + Had acquired that matchless unconscious appeal + To the homage which none but a churl would withhold-- + That caressing and exquisite grace--never bold, + Ever present--which just a few women possess. + From a healthful repose, undisturb'd by the stress + Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn + A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. + Her figure, though slight, had revived everywhere + The luxurious proportions of youth; and her hair-- + Once shorn as an offering to passionate love-- + Now floated or rested redundant above + Her airy pure forehead and throat; gather'd loose + Under which, by one violet knot, the profuse + Milk-white folds of a cool modest garment reposed, + Rippled faint by the breast they half hid, half disclosed, + And her simple attire thus in all things reveal'd + The fine art which so artfully all things conceal'd. + + + X. + + + Lord Alfred, who never conceived that Lucile + Could have look'd so enchanting, felt tempted to kneel + At her feet, and her pardon with passion implore; + But the calm smile that met him sufficed to restore + The pride and the bitterness needed to meet + The occasion with dignity due and discreet. + + + XI. + + + "Madam,"--thus he began with a voice reassured,-- + "You see that your latest command has secured + My immediate obedience--presuming I may + Consider my freedom restored from this day."-- + "I had thought," said Lucile, with a smile gay yet sad, + "That your freedom from me not a fetter has had. + Indeed!... in my chains have you rested till now? + I had not so flattered myself, I avow!" + "For Heaven's sake, Madam," Lord Alfred replied, + "Do not jest! has the moment no sadness?" he sigh'd. + "'Tis an ancient tradition," she answer'd, "a tale + Often told--a position too sure to prevail + In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote, + When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet remote, + Wherein of necessity each would recall + From the other the poor foolish records of all + Those emotions, whose pain, when recorded, seem'd bliss, + Should we write as we wrote? But one thinks not of this! + At Twenty (who does not at Twenty?) we write + Believing eternal the frail vows we plight; + And we smile with a confident pity, above + The vulgar results of all poor human love: + For we deem, with that vanity common to youth, + Because what we feel in our bosoms, in truth, + Is novel to us--that 'tis novel to earth, + And will prove the exception, in durance and worth, + To the great law to which all on earth must incline. + The error was noble, the vanity fine! + Shall we blame it because we survive it? ah, no; + 'Twas the youth of our youth, my lord, is it not so?" + + + XII. + + + Lord Alfred was mute. He remember'd her yet + A child--the weak sport of each moment's regret, + Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life, + The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the strife + And the tumult of passion; the tremulous toy + Of each transient emotion of grief or of joy. + But to watch her pronounce the death-warrant of all + The illusions of life--lift, unflinching, the pall + From the bier of the dead Past--that woman so fair, + And so young, yet her own self-survivor; who there + Traced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold! + 'Twas a picture that pain'd his self-love to behold. + He himself knew--none better--the things to be said + Upon subjects like this. Yet he bow'd down his head: + And as thus, with a trouble he could not command, + He paused, crumpling the letters he held in his hand, + "You know me enough," she continued, "or what + I would say is, you yet recollect (do you not, + Lord Alfred?) enough of my nature, to know + That these pledges of what was perhaps long ago + A foolish affection, I do not recall + From those motives of prudence which actuate all + Or most women when their love ceases. Indeed, + If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need + But remind you that ten years these letters have rested + Unreclaim'd in your hands." A reproach seem'd suggested + By these words. To meet it, Lord Alfred look'd up + (His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cup + With a look of profound connoisseurship--a smile + Of singular interest and care, all this while.) + He look'd up, and look'd long in the face of Lucile, + To mark if that face by a sign would reveal + At the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous pain. + He look'd keenly and long, yet he look'd there in vain. + "You are generous, Madam," he murmur'd at last, + And into his voice a light irony pass'd. + He had look'd for reproaches, and fully arranged + His forces. But straightway the enemy changed + The position. + + + XIII. + + + "Come!" gayly Lucile interposed, + With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness disclosed + Some depth in her nature he never had known, + While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, + "Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain + Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in vain. + From me not a single reproach can you hear. + I have sinn'd to myself--to the world--nay, I fear + To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, indeed, + Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed + Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, + But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires; + And rather than seek to allure, for her sake, + His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake + Of impossible destinies, use all her art + That his place in the world find its place in her heart. + I, alas!--I perceived not this truth till too late; + I tormented your youth, I have darken'd your fate. + Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake + Of its long expiation!" + + + XIV. + + + Lord Alfred, awake, + Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In that seat + Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet + His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some change, + As surprising and all unexpected as strange, + To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was sought. + All the world's foolish pride in that moment was naught; + He felt all his plausible theories posed; + And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed + In the pathos of all he had witness'd, his head + He bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully said, + As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'Twas a hand + White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. + The hand of a woman is often, in youth, + Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless, in truth; + Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, + Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-line in the palm? + + + XV. + + + The more that he look'd, that he listen'd, the more + He discover'd perfections unnoticed before. + Less salient than once, less poetic, perchance, + This woman who thus had survived the romance + That had made him its hero, and breathed him its sighs, + Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his eyes. + Together they talk'd of the years since when last + They parted, contrasting the present, the past. + Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. Lucile + Question'd much, with the interest a sister might feel, + Of Lord Alfred's new life,--of Miss Darcy--her face, + Her temper, accomplishments--pausing to trace + The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. + Of herself, she recounted with humor and wit + Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands + She had seen, and the books she had read, and the hands + She had shaken. + In all that she said there appear'd + An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd + The temple of reason, with ever a touch + Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much + As their gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals bear, + Through the blooms of a garland the point of a spear. + But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this, + To that soul, whose experience had paralyzed bliss, + A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd, + A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind, + Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint + And serene as the halo encircling a saint. + + + XVI. + + + Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. + To each novel sensation spontaneously + He abandon'd himself with that ardor so strange + Which belongs to a mind grown accustom'd to change. + He sought, with well-practised and delicate art, + To surprise from Lucile the true state of her heart; + But his efforts were vain, and the woman, as ever, + More adroit than the man, baffled every endeavor. + When he deem'd he had touch'd on some chord in her being, + At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever fleeing + As ever he near it advanced, when he thought + To have seized, and proceeded to analyze aught + Of the moral existence, the absolute soul, + Light as vapor the phantom escaped his control. + + + XVII. + + + From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard. + In the passage without a quick footstep there stirr'd; + At the door knock'd the negress, and thrust in her head, + "The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd," she said, + "And insisted"-- + "The Duke!" cried Lucile (as she spoke, + The Duke's step, approaching, a light echo woke). + "Say I do not receive till the evening. Explain," + As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again, + "I have business of private importance." + There came + O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that name, + An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd + To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd + On her face an indefinite look of confusion. + On his mind instantaneously flash'd the conclusion + That his presence had caused it. + He said, with a sneer + Which he could not repress, "Let not ME interfere + With the claims on your time, lady! when you are free + From more pleasant engagements, allow me to see + And to wait on you later." + The words were not said + Ere he wish'd to recall them. He bitterly read + The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye. + Inclining her head as in haughty reply, + More reproachful perchance than all utter'd rebuke, + She said merely, resuming her seat, "Tell the Duke + He may enter." + And vex'd with his own words and hers, + Alfred Vargrave bow'd low to Lucile de Nevers, + Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. Before + His shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door. + + + XVIII. + + + When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, + Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to himself. With dull tone + Of importance, through cities of rose and carnation, + Went the bee on his business from station to station. + The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around; + Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to sound + On his sore angry sense. He stood grieving the hot + Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirr'd from the spot. + The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, perplex'd, + And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded and vex'd. + He had not yet given the letters. Again + He must visit Lucile. He resolved to remain + Where he was till the Duke went. In short, he would stay, + Were it only to know when the Duke went away. + But just as he form'd this resolve, he perceived + Approaching towards him, between the thick-leaved + And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke. + Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for some nook + Whence he might, unobserved, from the garden retreat. + They had not yet seen him. The sound of their feet + And their voices had warn'd him in time. They were walking + Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) was talking + With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance + That they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. No chance + Of escape save in instant concealment! Deep-dipp'd + In thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he slipp'd, + Saved from sight, as in front of that ambush they pass'd, + Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last + They paused, and sat down on a bench in the shade, + So close that he could not but hear what they said. + + + XIX. + + + LUCILE. + + Duke, I scarcely conceive... + + LUVOIS. + + Ah! forgive!... I desired + So deeply to see you to-day. You retired + So early last night from the ball... this whole week + I have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied... speak, + Speak, Lucile, and forgive me!... I know that I am + A rash fool--but I love you! I love you, Madame. + More than language can say! Do not deem, O Lucile, + That the love I no longer have strength to conceal + Is a passing caprice! It is strange to my nature, + It has made me, unknown to myself, a new creature. + I implore you to sanction and save the new life + Which I lay at your feet with this prayer--Be my wife + Stoop, and raise me! + Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain + The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain + With which he had heard this. As though to some wind + The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behind + The two thus in converse were suddenly stirr'd. + The sound half betrayed him. They started. He heard + The low voice of Lucile; but so faint was its tone + That her answer escaped him. + Luvois hurried on, + As though in remonstrance with what had been spoken. + "Nay, I know it, Lucile! but your heart was not broken + By the trial in which all its fibres were proved. + Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need to be loved. + You mistake your own feelings. I fear you mistake + What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make + Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your heart + May have suffer'd of yore, this can only impart + A pity profound to the love which I feel. + Hush! hush! I know all. Tell me nothing, Lucile." + "You know all, Duke?" she said; "well then, know that, in truth, + I have learn'd from the rude lesson taught to my youth + From my own heart to shelter my life; to mistrust + The heart of another. We are what we must, + And not what we would be. I know that one hour + Assures not another. The will and the power + Are diverse." + "O madam!" he answer'd, "you fence + With a feeling you know to be true and intense. + 'Tis not MY life, Lucile, that I plead for alone: + If your nature I know, 'tis no less for your own. + That nature will prey on itself; it was made + To influence others. Consider," he said, + "That genius craves power--what scope for it here? + Gifts less noble to ME give command of that sphere + In which genius IS power. Such gifts you despise? + But you do not disdain what such gifts realize! + I offer you, Lady, a name not unknown-- + A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown-- + All my life at your feet I lay down--at your feet + A heart which for you, and you only, can beat." + + LUCILE. + + That heart, Duke, that life--I respect both. The name + And position you offer, and all that you claim + In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel + To deserve what, in turn, I now ask you-- + + LUVOIS. + + Lucile! + + LUCILE. + + I ask you to leave me-- + + LUVOIS. + + You do not reject? + + LUCILE. + + I ask you to leave me the time to reflect. + + LUVOIS. + + You ask me? + + LUCILE. + + --The time to reflect. + + LUVOIS. + + Say--One word! + May I hope? + The reply of Lucile was not heard + By Lord Alfred; for just then she rose, and moved on. + The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and was gone. + + + XX. + + + Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And when + Alfred Vargrave reel'd forth to the sunlight again, + He just saw the white robe of the woman recede + As she entered the house. + Scarcely conscious indeed + Of his steps, he too follow'd, and enter'd. + + + XXI. + + + He enter'd + Unnoticed; Lucile never stirr'd: so concentred + And wholly absorb'd in her thoughts she appear'd. + Her back to the window was turn'd. As he near'd + The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected. + Her dark eyes were fix'd on the ground. Pale, dejected, + And lost in profound meditation she seem'd. + Softly, silently, over her droop'd shoulders stream'd + The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm + And surprise which escaped her, as now on her arm + Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold + And clammy as death, all too cruelly told + How far he had been from her thoughts. + + + XXII. + + + All his cheek + Was disturb'd with the effort it cost him to speak. + "It was not my fault. I have heard all," he said. + "Now the letters--and farewell, Lucile! When you wed + May--" + The sentence broke short, like a weapon that snaps + When the weight of a man is upon it. + "Perhaps," + Said Lucile (her sole answer reveal'd in the flush + Of quick color which up to her brow seem'd to rush + In reply to those few broken words), "this farewell + Is our last, Alfred Vargrave, in life. Who can tell? + Let us part without bitterness. Here are your letters. + Be assured I retain you no more in my fetters!"-- + She laughed, as she said this, a little sad laugh, + And stretched out her hand with the letters. And half + Wroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to trust + His own powers of restraint, in his bosom he thrust + The packet she gave, with a short angry sigh, + Bow'd his head, and departed without a reply. + + + XXIII. + + + And Lucile was alone. And the men of the world + Were gone back to the world. And the world's self was furl'd + Far away from the heart of the woman. Her hand + Droop'd, and from it, unloosed from their frail silken band, + Fell those early love-letters, strewn, scatter'd, and shed + At her feet--life's lost blossoms! Dejected, her head + On her bosom was bow'd. Her gaze vaguely stray'd o'er + Those strewn records of passionate moments no more. + From each page to her sight leapt some words that belied + The composure with which she that day had denied + Every claim on her heart to those poor perish'd years. + They avenged themselves now, and she burst into tears. + + + + +CANTO IV. + + I. + + + LETTER FROM COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED. + + "BIGORRE, THURSDAY. + "Time up, you rascal! Come back, or be hang'd. + Matilda grows peevish. Her mother harangued + For a whole hour this morning about you. The deuce! + What on earth can I say to you?--nothing's of use. + And the blame of the whole of your shocking behavior + Falls on ME, sir! Come back,--do you hear?--or I leave your + Affairs, and, abjure you forever. Come back + To your anxious betroth'd; and perplexed + "COUSIN JACK." + + + II. + + + Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from John + To increase his impatience to fly from Luchon. + All the place was now fraught with sensations of pain + Which, whilst in it, he strove to escape from in vain. + A wild instinct warn'd him to fly from a place + Where he felt that some fatal event, swift of pace, + Was approaching his life. In despite his endeavor + To think of Matilda, her image forever + Was effaced from his fancy by that of Lucile. + From the ground which he stood on he felt himself reel. + Scared, alarm'd by those feelings to which, on the day + Just before, all his heart had so soon given way, + When he caught, with a strange sense of fear, for assistance, + And what was, till then, the great fact in existence, + 'Twas a phantom he grasp'd. + + + III. + + + Having sent for his guide, + He order'd his horse, and determin'd to ride + Back forthwith to Bigorre. + Then, the guide, who well knew + Every haunt of those hills, said the wild lake of Oo + Lay a league from Luchon; and suggested a track + By the lake to Bigorre, which, transversing the back + Of the mountain, avoided a circuit between + Two long valleys; and thinking, "Perchance change of scene + May create change of thought," Alfred Vargrave agreed, + Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full speed. + + + IV. + + + His guide rode beside him. + The king of the guides! + The gallant Bernard! ever boldly he rides, + Ever gayly he sings! For to him, from of old, + The hills have confided their secrets, and told + Where the white partridge lies, and the cock o' the woods; + Where the izard flits fine through the cold solitudes; + Where the bear lurks perdu; and the lynx on his prey + At nightfall descends, when the mountains are gray; + Where the sassafras blooms, and the bluebell is born, + And the wild rhododendron first reddens at morn; + Where the source of the waters is fine as a thread; + How the storm on the wild Maladetta is spread; + Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie asleep, + Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts leap; + And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the vales + Have whisper'd to him all their thousand love-tales; + He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leap'd with the boys; + Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys + An existence untroubled by envy or strife, + While he feeds on the dews and the juices of life. + And so lightly he sings, and so gayly he rides, + For BERNARD LE SAUTEUR is the king of all guides! + + + V. + + + But Bernard found, that day, neither song not love-tale, + Nor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail + To arouse from his deep and profound revery + Him that silent beside him rode fast as could be. + + + VI. + + + Ascending the mountain they slacken'd their pace, + And the marvellous prospect each moment changed face. + The breezy and pure inspirations of morn + Breathed about them. The scarp'd ravaged mountains, all worn + By the torrents, whose course they watch'd faintly meander, + Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander. + They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses, + And wound through a region of green wildernesses; + The waters went whirling above and around, + The forests hung heap'd in their shadows profound. + Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, + Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon, + Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux + They mark'd; and far down in the sunshine below, + Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue, + The white happy homes of the valley of Oo, + Where the age is yet golden. + And high overhead + The wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread. + Red granite, and quartz; in the alchemic sun, + Fused their splendors of crimson and crystal in one; + And deep in the moss gleam'd the delicate shells, + And the dew linger'd fresh in the heavy harebells; + The large violet burn'd; the campanula blue; + And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peer'd through + The red-berried brambles and thick sassafras; + And fragrant with thyme was the delicate grass; + And high up, and higher, and highest of all, + The secular phantom of snow! + O'er the wall + Of a gray sunless glen gaping drowsy below, + That aerial spectre, reveal'd in the glow + Of the great golden dawn, hovers faint on the eye + And appears to grow in, and grow out of, the sky + And plays with the fancy, and baffles the sight. + Only reach'd by the vast rosy ripple of light, + And the cool star of eve, the Imperial Thing, + Half unreal, like some mythological king + That dominates all in a fable of old, + Takes command of a valley as fair to behold + As aught in old fables; and, seen or unseen, + Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene + Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd + 'Mid the clouds beyond which spreads the infinite world + Of man's last aspirations, unfathom'd, untrod, + Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God. + + + VII. + + + Meanwhile, as they journey'd, that serpentine road, + Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly show'd + A gay cavalcade some few feet in advance. + Alfred Vargrave's heart beat; for he saw at a glance + The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next look + Show'd him, joyously ambling beside her, the Duke + The rest of the troop which had thus caught his ken + He knew not, nor noticed them (women and men). + They were laughing and talking together. Soon after + His sudden appearance suspended their laughter. + + + VIII. + + + "You here!... I imagined you far on your way + To Bigorre!"... said Lucile. "What has caused you to stay?" + "I AM on my way to Bigorre," he replied, + "But since MY way would seem to be YOURS, let me ride + For one moment beside you." And then, with a stoop + At her ear,... "and forgive me!" + + + IX. + + + By this time the troop + Had regather'd its numbers. + Lucile was as pale + As the cloud 'neath their feet, on its way to the vale. + The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side, + For even one moment, the whole of the ride. + Alfred smiled, as he thought, "he is jealous of her!" + And the thought of this jealousy added a spur + To his firm resolution and effort to please. + He talk'd much; was witty, and quite at his ease. + + + X. + + + After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the east + Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and increased. + The air changed and chill'd. As though out of the ground, + There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound, + And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like chamois, the air, + And look'd at each other, and halted, and there + Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white + Aspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in fright. + All announced the approach of the tempest. + Erelong, + Thick darkness descended the mountains among, + And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash + Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a gash. + The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon + Broke the thunder. + The horses took fright, every one. + The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. + The guides whoop'd. The band was obliged to alight; + And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, walk'd blind + To the darkness before from the darkness behind. + + + XI. + + + And the Storm is abroad in the mountains! + He fills + The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills + With dread voices of power. A roused million or more + Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar + Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake + Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake. + And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder descends + From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain ends; + He howls as he hounds down his prey; and his lash + Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash, + That clings to the rocks, with her garments all torn, + Like a woman in fear; then he blows his hoarse horn + And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and terror, + Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error + Of mountain and mist. + + + XII. + + + There is war in the skies! + Lo! the black-winged legions of tempest arise + O'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming below + In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though + Some seraph burn'd through them, the thunderbolt searching + Which the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo! the lurching + And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem + To waver above, in the dark; and yon stream, + How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white + And paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sight + of the things seen in heaven! + + + XIII. + + + Through the darkness and awe + That had gather'd around him, Lord Alfred now saw, + Reveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glare + Of the lightning that momently pulsed through the air + A woman alone on a shelf of the hill, + With her cheek coldly propp'd on her hand,--and as still + As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above + The black lake beneath her. + All terror, all love + Added speed to the instinct with which he rush'd on. + For one moment the blue lightning swathed the whole stone + In its lurid embrace: like the sleek dazzling snake + That encircles a sorceress, charm'd for her sake + And lull'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'd + And caressingly twined round the feet and the head + Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and calm + As the soul of that solitude, listing the psalm + Of the plangent and laboring tempests roll slow + From the caldron of midnight and vapor below. + Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round, + Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the sound + Of the battering thunder's indefinite peal, + And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile. + + + XIV. + + + She started. Once more, with its flickering wand, + The lightning approach'd her. In terror, her hand + Alfred Vargrave had seized within his; and he felt + The light fingers, that coldly and lingeringly dwelt + In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. + "See! see! + Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled yon tree!" + She exclaim'd,... "like the passion that brings on its breath, + To the being it embraces, destruction and death! + Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you!" + "Lucile! + I hear--I see--naught but yourself. I can feel + Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights in vain + With the truth that leaps from me. We two meet again + 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above + To avenge if I lie when I swear that I love,-- + And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, + I humble my head and my heart. I entreat + Your pardon, Lucile, for the past--I implore + For the future your mercy--implore it with more + Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the power + Which invisibly touches us both in this hour, + By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand--" + "The rights!"... said Lucile, and drew from him her hand. + + "Yes, the rights! for what greater to man may belong + Than the right to repair in the future the wrong + To the past? and the wrong I have done you, of yore, + Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to restore, + To retrieve, to amend! I, who injured your life, + Urge the right to repair it, Lucile! Be my wife, + My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth, + And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worth + To my life, its contrition!" + + + XV. + + + He paused, for there came + O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flame + That illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead. + With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said, + "And your pledge to another?" + + + XVI. + + + "Hush, hush!" he exclaim'd, + "My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed. + 'Twere poor honor indeed, to another to give + That life of which YOU keep the heart. Could I live + In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a lie? + Alas, no! YOUR hand holds my whole destiny. + I can never recall what my lips have avow'd; + In your love lies whatever can render me proud. + For the great crime of all my existence hath been + To have known you in vain. And the duty best seen, + And most hallow'd--the duty most sacred and sweet, + Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet. + O speak! and restore me the blessing I lost + When I lost you--my pearl of all pearls beyond cost! + And restore to your own life its youth, and restore + The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore! + Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of the world, + When our souls their white wings yet exulting unfurl'd! + For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man, + The wild star of whose course its pale orbit outran, + Whom the formless indefinite future of youth, + With its lying allurements, distracted. In truth + I have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel + That the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, + Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream + Which, though follow'd forever, forever doth seem + As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore + When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore + Of life's untraversed ocean! I know the sole path + To repose, which my desolate destiny hath, + Is the path by whose course to your feet I return. + And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern, + And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, + The sublimity in you, as he whom at length + These have saved from himself, for the truth they reveal + To his worship?" + + + XVII. + + + She spoke not; but Alfred could feel + The light hand and arm, that upon him reposed, + Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed. + But, under their languid mysterious fringe, + A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge + Of faint inward fire flush'd transparently through + The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue + Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich bosom + Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose-blossom + A bee is imprison'd and struggles. + + + XVIII. + + + Meanwhile + The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile + Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold! + O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold, + Rose and rested: while far up the dim airy crags, + Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags, + The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat + Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet + The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar, + Had already sent forward one bright, signal star + The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair, + From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to wear, + Had escaped; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with kisses + The redolent warmth of those long falling tresses. + Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet + Had ceased falling around them; when, splash'd, drench'd, and wet, + The Duc de Luvois down the rough mountain course + Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse, + Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had just now + Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow + Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had thrown; + But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a stone, + And the horse, being bred to the instinct which fills + The breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills, + Had scrambled again to his feet; and now master + And horse bore about them the signs of disaster, + As they heavily footed their way through the mist, + The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his wrist, + Bruised and bleeding. + + + XIX. + + + If ever your feet, like my own, + O reader, have traversed these mountains alone, + Have you felt your identity shrink and contract + At the sound of the distant and dim cataract, + In the presence of nature's immensities? Say, + Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its spray, + And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd, + Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heaped over fold, + Track'd the summits from which every step that you tread + Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the bed + Of invisible waters, whose mistical sound + Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound? + And, laboring onwards, at last through a break + In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake? + If you have, this description I might have withheld. + You remember how strangely your bosom has swell'd + At the vision reveal'd. On the overwork'd soil + Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil; + And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height, + To have conquer'd a claim of that wonderful sight. + + + XX. + + + Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo! + Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the snow; + For o'er thee the angels have whiten'd their wings, + And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy springs. + What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse? + When the breath of creation first fashion'd fair France, + Did the Spirit of Ill, in his downthrow appalling, + Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin while falling? + Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster unnamed + The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed? + And later, when Power to Beauty was wed, + Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed + With the fragile valerian and wild columbine? + + + XXI. + + + But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine; + For once gazing on thee, it flash'd on my soul, + All that secret! I saw in a vision the whole + Vast design of the ages; what was and shall be! + Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mystery + For one moment. I saw, and I heard; and my heart + Bore witness within me to infinite art, + In infinite power proving infinite love; + Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the dread pageant move-- + The divine Whence and Whither of life! But, O daughter + Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water + Is thy secret, than mine in my heart. Even so. + What I then saw and heard, the world never shall know. + + + XXII. + + + The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed, + The rain had ceased falling, the mountains reposed. + The stars had enkindled in luminous courses + Their slow-sliding lamps, when, remounting their horses, + The riders retraversed that mighty serration + Of rock-work. Thus left to its own desolation, + The lake, from whose glimmering limits the last + Transient pomp of the pageants of sunset had pass'd, + Drew into its bosom the darkness, and only + Admitted within it one image--a lonely + And tremulous phantom of flickering light + That follow'd the mystical moon through the night. + + + XXIII. + + + It was late when o'er Luchon at last they descended. + To her chalet, in silence, Lord Alfred attended + Lucile. As they parted, she whispered him low, + "You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know + All the worth of, believe me. I cannot reply + Without time for reflection. Good night!--not good by." + "Alas! 'tis the very same answer you made + To the Duc de Luvois but a day since," he said. + "No, Alfred! the very same, no," she replied. + Her voice shook. "If you love me, obey me. Abide + My answer to-morrow." + + + XXIV. + + + Alas, Cousin Jack! + You Cassandra in breeches and boots! turn your back + To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory + Amongst thine own people. + I follow my story. + + + + +CANTO V. + + + I. + + + Up!--forth again, Pegasus!--"Many's the slip," + Hath the proverb well said, "'twixt the cup and the lip!" + How blest should we be, have I often conceived, + Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved! + We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be, + And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. + So it will be, so has been, since this world began! + And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man + Is the part which he never hath fully play'd out: + For the first and last word in life's volume is-- + Doubt. + The face of the most fair to our vision allow'd + Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. + The thought that most thrills our existence is one + Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. + O Horace! the rustic still rests by the river, + But the river flows on, and flows past him forever! + Who can sit down, and say... "What I will be, I will"? + Who stand up, and affirm... "What I was, I am still"? + Who is that must not, if question'd, say...... + "What + I would have remain'd or become, I am not"? + We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside + Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide + And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone + Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, + Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve. + Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. + Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath been + Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween; + And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, + But what once in his life, some minute circumstance + Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss + Which, missing it then, he forever must miss. + And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, + Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have; + But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate, + The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late. + The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, + And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. + Yet! there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; + But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, + Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the wine + Spilt, one deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine, + O being of beauty and bliss! seen and known + In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone! + My days know thee not; and my lips name thee never. + Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. + We have met: we have parted. No more is recorded + In my annals on earth. This alone was afforded + To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to be. + But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, + (Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, + Whom the wind as it wails, and the wave as it swells, + Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, + 'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals; + At whose feet sit the sylphs and sea fairies; for whom + The almondine glimmers, the soft samphires bloom)-- + Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen + Of that better world which thou swayest unseen! + My one perfect mistress! my all things in all! + Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call; + For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my sleep, + And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. + But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, + And its thoughts are the purest--belov'd, thou art there! + And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, + Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. + The world gave thee not to me, no! and the world + Cannot take thee away from me now. I have furl'd + The wings of my spirit above thy bright head; + At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. + Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou art more. + And in silence I worship, in darkness adore. + If life be not that which without us we find-- + Chance, accident, merely--but rather the mind, + And the soul which, within us, surviveth these things, + If our real existence have truly its springs + Less in that which we do than in that which we feel, + Not in vain do I worship, not hopeless I kneel! + For then, though I name thee not mistress or wife, + Thou art mine--and mine only,--O life of my life! + And though many's the slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, + Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, + While there's life on the lip, while there's warmth in the wine, + One deep health I'll pledge, and that health shall be thine! + + + II. + + + This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose + Unconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the throes + Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry, + And in fiery fusion commix'd earth and sky. + Time cool'd it, and calm'd it, and taught it to go + The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. + The wind changeth and whirleth continually: + All the rivers run down and run into the sea: + The wind whirleth about, and is presently still'd: + All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fill'd: + The sun goeth forth from his chambers; the sun + Ariseth, and lo! he descendeth anon. + All returns to its place. Use and Habit are powers + Far stronger than Passion, in this world of ours. + The great laws of life readjust their infraction, + And to every emotion appoint a reaction. + + + III. + + + Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile, + To review the rash step he had taken, and feel + What the world would have call'd "his erroneous position." + Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recognition: + Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out + On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no doubt, + Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. + Ev'ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought. + + + IV. + + + He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel + Little doubt what the answer would be from Lucile. + Her eyes, when they parted--her voice, when they met, + Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted. And yet, + Though, exulting, he deem'd himself loved, where he loved, + Through his mind a vague self-accusation there moved. + O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would rise + The infantine face of Matilda, with eyes + So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, + That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did he find + A thousand just reasons for what he had done; + The vision that troubled him would not be gone. + In vain did he say to himself, and with truth, + "Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth; + And her heart is too young to have deeply involved + All its hopes in the tie which must now be dissolved. + 'Twere a false sense of honor in me to suppress + The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. + And what reason have I to presume this poor life + Of my own, with its languid and frivolous strife, + And without what alone might endear it to her, + Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer, + Its withdrawal can wrong her? + It is not as though + I were bound to some poor village maiden, I know, + Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon earth, + Or to whose simple fortunes mine own could give worth. + Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss + Aught that I could procure her. 'Tis best as it is!" + + + V. + + + In vain did he say to himself, "When I came + To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame + Or reproach myself for, in the thoughts of my heart. + I could not foresee that its pulses would start + Into such strange emotion on seeing once more + A woman I left with indifference before. + I believed, and with honest conviction believed, + In my love for Matilda. I never conceived + That another could shake it. I deem'd I had done + With the wild heart of youth, and looked hopefully on + To the soberer manhood, the worthier life, + Which I sought in the love that I vow'd to my wife. + Poor child! she shall learn the whole truth. She shall know + What I knew not myself but a few days ago. + The world will console her--her pride will support-- + Her youth will renew its emotions. In short, + There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss + When once we have parted. 'Tis best as it is!" + + + VI. + + + But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas! + He yet felt unconvinced that 'TWAS best as it was. + Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise + That infantine face of Matilda, with eyes + So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, + That they harrow'd his heart and distracted his mind. + + + VII. + + + And then, when he turned from these thoughts to Lucile, + Though his heart rose enraptured he could not but feel + A vague sense of awe of her nature. Behind + All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind, + Which he saw and revered in her, something unknown + And unseen in that nature still troubled his own. + He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized + Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised, + In himself; but he did not feel sure that he knew, + Or completely possess'd, what, half hidden from view, + Remained lofty and lonely in HER. + Then, her life, + So untamed and so free! would she yield as a wife + Independence, long claimed as a woman? Her name + So link'd by the world with that spurious fame + Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert, + In some measure, alas! to her own loss and hurt + In the serious thoughts of a man!... This reflection + O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejection, + From which he forever escaped to the thought + Doubt could reach not... "I love her, and all else is naught!" + + + VIII. + + + His hand trembled strangely in breaking the seal + Of the letter which reach'd him at last from Lucile. + At the sight of the very first words that he read, + That letter dropp'd down from his hand like the dead + Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and bare + A desolate tree in a wide wintry air. + He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes, + Bewilder'd, incredulous. Angry surprise + And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. Anon + He picked up the page, and read rapidly on. + + + IX. + + + THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE: + + "No, Alfred! + If over the present, when last + We two met, rose the glamour and mist of the past, + It hath now rolled away, and our two paths are plain, + And those two paths divide us. + "That hand which again + Mine one moment has clasp'd as the hand of a brother, + That hand and your honor are pledged to another! + Forgive, Alfred Vargrave, forgive me, if yet + For that moment (now past!) I have made you forget + What was due to yourself and that other one. Yes, + Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance. Not less, + In now owning this fault, Alfred, let me own, too, + I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. + "True, + That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought, + I alone! But oh! deem not it was with the thought + Of your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. + No! believe me, it was with the firm and unshaken + Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be + Without peril to YOU, although haply to me + The salvation of all my existence. + "I own, + When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly made known + To the world your engagement, my heart and my mind + Suffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to find + That so much of the life of my life, half unknown + To myself, had been silently settled on one + Upon whom but to think it would soon be a crime. + Then I said to myself, 'From the thraldom which time + Hath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of escape. + That image which Fancy seems ever to shape + From the solitude left round the ruins of yore, + Is a phantom. The Being I loved is no more. + What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone + Void of life, is the young hero born of my own + Perish'd youth: and his image, serene and sublime + In my heart rests unconscious of change and of time, + Could I see it but once more, as time and as change + Have made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange, + See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youth + Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth, + The hard pupil of life and the world: then, oh, then, + I should wake from a dream, and my life be again + Reconciled to the world; and, released from regret, + Take the lot fate accords to my choice.' + "So we met. + But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd: + The danger, alas, to yourself! I have err'd. + But happy for both that this error hath been + Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen! + We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, indeed, + Shall be far from Luchon when this letter you read. + My course is decided; my path I discern: + Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now. + "Return, + O return to the young living love! Whence, alas! + If, one moment, you wander'd, think only it was + More deeply to bury the past love. + "And, oh! + Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I, where I go + On my far distant pathway through life, shall rejoice + To treasure in memory all that your voice + Has avow'd to me, all in which others have clothed + To my fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed! + In the fair morning light, in the orient dew + Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to renew + All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, + The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest youth? + Yes! YOU will be happy. I, too, in the bliss + I foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this + Proves me worthy your friendship. And so--let it prove + That I cannot--I do not respond to your love. + Yes, indeed! be convinced that I could not (no, no, + Never, never!) have render'd you happy. And so, + Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have plighted, + You would have endured, when the first brief, excited + Emotion was o'er, not alone the remorse + Of honor, but also (to render it worse) + Disappointed affection. + "Yes, Alfred; you start? + But think! if the world was too much in your heart, + And too little in mine, when we parted ten years + Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and tears!) + Have but deepen'd the old demarcations which then + Placed our natures asunder; and we two again, + As we then were, would still have been strangely at strife. + In that self-independence which is to my life + Its necessity now, as it once was its pride, + Had our course through the world been henceforth side by side, + I should have revolted forever, and shock'd + Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd, + Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all those + Social creeds which you live by. + "Oh! do not suppose + That I blame you. Perhaps it is you that are right. + Best, then, all as it is! + "Deem these words life's Good-night + To the hope of a moment: no more! If there fell + Any tear on this page, 'twas a friend's. + "So farewell + To the past--and to you, Alfred Vargrave. + "LUCILE." + + + X. + + + So ended that letter. + The room seem'd to reel + Round and round in the mist that was scorching his eyes + With a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, + Half chocked him; each word he had read, as it smote + Down some hope, rose and grasped like a hand at his throat, + To stifle and strangle him. + Gasping already + For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady, + He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both oppress'd + And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast, + And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pass'd + The long lime-trees of Luchon. His footsteps at last + Reach'd a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a wood: + It was sombre and silent, and suited his mood. + By a mineral spring, long unused, now unknown, + Stood a small ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat down + On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and thistle, + And read over again that perplexing epistle. + + + XI. + + + In re-reading that letter, there roll'd from his mind + The raw mist of resentment which first made him blind + To the pathos breath'd through it. Tears rose in his eyes, + And a hope sweet and strange in his heart seem'd to rise. + The truth which he saw not the first time he read + That letter, he now saw--that each word betray'd + The love which the writer had sought to conceal. + His love was received not, he could not but feel, + For one reason alone,--that his love was not free. + True! free yet he was not: but could he not be + Free erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell, + And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to tell + The truth to Matilda, and she were the first + To release him: he had but to wait at the worst. + Matilda's relations would probably snatch + Any pretext, with pleasure, to break off a match + In which they had yielded, alone at the whim + Of their spoil'd child, a languid approval to him. + She herself, careless child! was her love for him aught + Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the thought + She last gave to her doll? was she able to feel + Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile? + He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh! then + He had but to fly to Lucile, and again + Claim the love which his heart would be free to command. + But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand, + Or even to seek, or to see, her before + He could say, "I am free! free, Lucile, to implore + That great blessing on life you alone can confer," + 'Twere dishonor in him, 'twould be insult to her. + Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee + He follow'd so fondly his own revery, + That he felt not the angry regard of a man + Fix'd upon him; he saw not a face stern and wan + Turn'd towards him; he heard not a footstep that pass'd + And repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at last + A hoarse voice aroused him. + He look'd up and saw, + On the bare heath before him, the Duc de Luvois. + + + XII. + + + With aggressive ironical tones, and a look + Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke + Address'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusion + To "the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusion + Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do better, + He fancied, however, to fold up a letter + The writing of which was too well known, in fact, + His remark as he pass'd to have failed to attract." + + + XIII. + + + It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was bent + Upon picking a quarrel! and doubtless 'twas meant + From HIM to provoke it by sneers such as these. + A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize + The position. He felt that he could not expose + His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those + Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the ban + Of the world, if he now were to fight with this man. + And indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard face, + He was pain'd by the change there he could not but trace. + And he almost felt pity. + He therefore put by + Each remark from the Duke with some careless reply, + And coldly, but courteously, waving away + The ill-humor the Duke seem'd resolved to display, + Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside. + + + XIV. + + + Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one stride + In advance, raised a hand, fix'd upon him his eyes, + And said... + "Hold, Lord Alfred! Away with disguise! + I will own that I sought you, a moment ago, + To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so + Upon any excuse. I prefer to be frank. + I admit not a rival in fortune or rank + To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers + Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. + I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have the right + To believe, that she would have been mine. To her sight + You return, and the woman is suddenly changed. + You step in between us: her heart is estranged. + You! who now are betrothed to another, I know: + You! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years ago + Was coupled by ties which you broke: you! the man + I reproach'd on the day our acquaintance began. + You! that left her so lightly,--I cannot believe + That you love, as I love, her; nor can I conceive + You, indeed, have the right so to love her. + Milord, + I will not thus tamely concede at your word, + What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine! + I shall yet persevere: I shall yet be, in fine, + A rival you dare not despise. It is plain + That to settle this contest there can but remain + One way--need I say what it is?" + + + XV. + + + Not unmoved + With regretful respect for the earnestness proved + By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave replied + In words which he trusted might yet turn aside + The quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain, + And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain + To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst!) + Had not been accepted. + + + XVI. + + + "Accepted! say first + Are you free to have offer'd?" + Lord Alfred was mute. + + + XVII. + + + "Ah, you dare not reply!" cried the Duke. "Why dispute, + Why palter with me? You are silent! and why? + Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny + 'Twas from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, + And the wish an ascendancy lost to recall, + That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, milord, + You be really sincere, I ask only one word. + Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, + I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart, + And there CAN be no quarrel between us. Say on!" + Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone + Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. + "You have not the right, sir," he said, "and still less + The power, to make terms and conditions with me. + I refuse to reply." + + + XVIII. + + + As diviners may see + Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, + He foresaw in a moment each evil result + Of the quarrel now imminent. + There, face to face, + 'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race, + With, for witness, the stern Autumn Sky overhead, + And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the dead, + Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge + Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge + Dividing the Past from the Future, so small + That if one should pass over, the other must fall. + + + XIX. + + + On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof, + Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under the roof + Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged + On the heath where they stood, at full gallop emerged + A horseman. + A guide he appear'd, by the sash + Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash + With a short wooden handle, slung crosswise behind + The short jacket; the loose canvas trouser, confined + By the long boots; the woollen capote; and the rein, + A mere hempen cord on a curb. + Up the plain + He wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his flank, + Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the bank, + And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen capote, + Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note. + + + XX. + + + The two stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a gest + Of apology, turnd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd + Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore + The page open and read. + Ere a moment was o'er + His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes, + And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise + Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel, + And said gayly, "A pressing request from Lucile! + You are quite right, Lord Alfred! fair rivals at worst, + Our relative place may perchance be reversed. + You are not accepted,--nor free to propose! + I, perchance, am accepted already; who knows? + I had warned you, milord, I should still persevere. + This letter--but stay! you can read it--look here!" + + + XXI. + + + It was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and enraged. + But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged + By aught that could sanction resentment. He said + Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and read... + + THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO THE DUC DE LUVOIS. + + + "SAINT SAVIOUR. + + "Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me stay + Till I see you again. With no moment's delay + I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel + Or profess, to come to me directly. + "LUCILE." + + + XXII. + + + "Your letter!" He then had been writing to her! + Coldly shrugging his shoulders, Lord Alfred said, "Sir, + Do not let me detain you!" + The Duke smiled and bow'd; + Placed the note in his bosom; address'd, half aloud, + A few words to the messenger,... "Say your despatch + Will be answer'd ere nightfall;" then glanced at his watch, + And turn'd back to the Baths. + + + XXIII. + + + Alfred Vargrave stood still, + Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. + He turn'd to Lucile's farewell letter to him. + And read over her words; rising tears made them dim: + "Doubt is over; my future is fix'd now," they said. + "My course is decided." Her course? what! to wed + With this insolent rival! With that thought there shot + Through his heart an acute jealous anguish. But not + Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite excuse + Those strange words to the Duke. She was free to refuse + Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true: + Even then, though, this eager and strange rendezvous, + How imprudent! To some unfrequented lone inn, + And so late (for the night was about to begin)-- + She, companionless there!--had she bidden that man? + A fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ran + Through his heart. + + + XXIV. + + + At that moment he look'd up, and saw, + Riding fast through the forest, the Duc de Luvois, + Who waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight. + The day was descending. He felt 'twould be night + Ere that man reached Saint Saviour. + + + XXV. + + + He walk'd on, but not + Back toward Luchon: he walk'd on, but knew not in what + Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed, + He was walking, but still he walk'd on without heed. + + + XXVI. + + + The day had been sullen; but, towards his decline, + The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine. + Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its back, + The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black. + The spring that yet oozed through the moss-paven floor + Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore, + The sight of that refuge where back to its God + How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod, + Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest + That now prey'd on his own! + + + XXVII. + + + By the thoughts in his breast + With varying impulse divided and torn, + He traversed the scant heath, and reach'd the forlorn + Autumn woodland, in which but a short while ago + He had seen the Duke rapidly enter; and so + He too enter'd. The light waned around him, and pass'd + Into darkness. The wrathful, red Occident cast + One glare of vindictive inquiry behind, + As the last light of day from the high wood declined, + And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam, + And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream + Fell faintly. + + + XXVIII. + + + O Nature, how fair is thy face, + And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy grace! + Thou false mistress of man! thou dost sport with him lightly + In his hours of ease and enjoyment; and brightly + Dost thou smile to his smile; to his joys thou inclinest, + But his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor divinest. + While he woos, thou art wanton; thou lettest him love thee; + But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot move thee; + And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost thou? + All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow, + And thou laughest and toyest with any new comer, + Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer! + Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart under + That fair breast of thine, O thou feminine wonder! + For all those--the young, and the fair, and the strong, + Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly and long, + And who now on thy bosom lie dead? and their deeds + And their days are forgotten! O hast thou no weeds + And not one year of mourning,--one out of the many + That deck thy new bridals forever,--nor any + Regrets for thy lost loves, conceal'd from the new, + O thou widow of earth's generations? Go to! + If the sea and the night wind know aught of these things, + They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. + + + + +CANTO VI. + + + I. + + + "The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase, + And eldrich, and eerie, and strange is the place! + The castle betokens a date long gone by. + He crosses the courtyard with curious eye: + He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet + From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are set; + And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and less + Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress, + Strange portraits regard him with looks of surprise, + Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes; + Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall: + The spell of a wizard is over it all. + In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleeping + The sleep which for centuries she has been keeping. + If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some lover + Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now cover: + If she moan in her dream, it must be to deplore + Some grief which the world cares to hear of no more. + But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her cheek! + And how sweet must that voice be, if once she would speak! + He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not he!) + The clew to unravel this old mystery? + And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall, + The mute men in armor around him, and all + The weird figures frown, as though striving to say, + 'Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of Today! + And give not, O madman! the heart in thy breast + To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess'd + By an Age not thine own!' + "But unconscious is he, + And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see + Aught but ONE form before him! + "Rash, wild words are o'er, + And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore! + And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves + O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves + Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream. + Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the scheme + Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart." + And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart. + It is told in all lands, in a different tongue; + Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young. + And the tale to each heart unto which it is known + Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own. + + + II. + + + Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part + From strong physical health, and that vigor of heart + Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance, + From a generous vanity native to France, + With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quarry, + Pursued it, too hotly impatient to tarry + Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles: + But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles, + No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind + Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind. + Both Eugene de Luvois and Lord Alfred had been + Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seen + Floating faint in the sunshine of Alfred's soft mood, + Seem'd amiable foibles, by Luvois pursued + With impetuous passion, seemed semi-Satanic. + Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles; in panic + You watch them whirl'd down by the torrent. + In truth, + To the sacred political creed of his youth + The century which he was born to denied + All realization. Its generous pride + To degenerate protest on all things was sunk; + Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk. + Down the path of a life that led nowhere he trod, + Where his whims were his guides, and his will was his god, + And his pastime his purpose. + From boyhood possess'd + Of inherited wealth, he had learned to invest + Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees from the cage + Which penury locks, in each vice of an age + All the virtues of which, by the creed he revered, + Were to him illegitimate. + Thus, he appear'd + To the world what the world chose to have him appear,-- + The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere + Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still + 'Twas the vigor of nature, and tension of will, + That found for the first time--perhaps for the last-- + In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the Past, + Force, and faith, in the Future. + And so, in his mind, + To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd + The terror of missing his life's destination, + Which in her had its mystical representation. + + + III. + + + And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd + O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight rode fast + As a shade from the wing of some great bird obscene + In a wide silent land may be suddenly seen, + Darkening over the sands, where it startles and scares + Some traveller stray'd in the waste unawares, + So that thought more than once darken'd over his heart + For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. + Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which rose + Up the shaggy hillside: and the quarrelling crows + Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim air + Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and there + Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. Oh, how + He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now + He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent + Of the mountain! Behind him a murmur was sent + From the torrent--before him a sound from the tracts + Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cataracts, + And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd momently down + From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. + The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, + And the Powers of the night through the vast solitudes + Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. The trees + Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas + In Elfland. The road through the forest was hollow'd. + On he sped through the darkness, as though he were follow'd + Fast, fast by the Erl King! + The wild wizard-work + Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork + Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems + Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd like gems, + Broke the broad moon above the voluminous + Rock-chaos,--the Hecate of that Tartarus! + With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the door + Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar + Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, + Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the limb + Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight, + Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. + A balcony hung o'er the water. Above + In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. + At the door the old negress was nodding her head + As he reach'd it. "My mistress awaits you," she said. + And up the rude stairway of creeking pine rafter + He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, + His heart almost stunned him, his head seem'd to reel, + For a door closed--Luvois was alone with Lucile. + + + IV. + + + In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined + Streaming o'er it, and tossed now and then by the wind + From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire + From a brass lamp before her--a faint hectic fire + On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever: + They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than ever, + Those dark eyes--so dark and so deep! + "You relent? + And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?" + There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife. + + LUCILE. + + Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threaten'd man's life-- + Woman's honor. + + Luvois. + + The last, madam, NOT? + + LUCILE. + + Both. I glance + At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France, + As I read them! You say, in this letter... + "I know + Why now you refuse me: 'tis (is it not so?) + For the man who has trifled before, wantonly, + And now trifles again with the heart you deny + To myself. But he shall not! By man's last wild law, + I will seize on the right (the right, Duc de Luvois!) + To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give + To the future its freedom. That man shalt not live + To make you as wretched as you have made me!" + + LUVOIS. + + Well, madam, in those words what words do you see + That threatens the honor of woman? + + LUCILE. + + See!... what, + What word, do you ask? Every word! would you not, + Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your name + Was soil'd and dishonor'd by more than mere shame + If the woman that bore it had first been the cause + Of the crime which in these words is menaced? You pause! + Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonor + In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her, + Can shudder, and say, "In that smile is a grave"? + No! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you have + In the contest you menace. That contest but draws + Every right into ruin. By all human laws + Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities + Of man's social honor! + The Duke droop'd his eyes. + "I obey you," he said, "but let woman beware + How she plays fast and loose thus with human despair, + And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was the right, + When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope quite. + But you should from the first have done this, for I feel + That you knew from the first that I loved you." + Lucile + This sudden reproach seem'd to startle. + She raised + A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed + On them silent awhile. His own looks were downcast. + Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was now pass'd, + Pity crept, and perhaps o'er her conscience a tear, + Falling softly, awoke it. + However severe, + Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her? + Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character, + Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it seem'd, + Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she deem'd + That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world, + So proud of the place the world gave him, held furl'd + In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide + Might tug, till it snapped, that erect lofty pride? + Were those elements in him, which once roused to strife + Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole life? + There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength of the river + Which through continents pushes its pathway forever + To fling its fond heart in the sea; if it lose + This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use, + It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. + The other, the strength of the sea; which supplies + Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws + The river's life into its own life, by laws + Which it heeds not. The difference in each case is this: + The river is lost, if the ocean it miss; + If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea + Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will be + Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore; + Its sources are infinite; still to the shore, + With no diminution of pride, it will say, + "I am here; I, the sea! stand aside, and make way!" + Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she, + Had she taken that love for the love of the sea? + + + V. + + + At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been + Stern or haughty departed; and, humble in mien, + She approach'd him and brokenly murmur'd, as though + To herself more than him, "Was I wrong? is it so? + Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you deem + Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem + I may claim on ONE ground--I at least am sincere. + You say that to me from the first it was clear + That you loved me. But what if this knowledge were known + At a moment in life when I felt most alone, + And least able to be so? a moment, in fact, + When I strove from one haunting regret to retract + And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil + Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes? would you still + So bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois, + If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw + For a moment the promise of this in the plighted + Affection of one who, in nature, united + So much that from others affection might claim, + If only affection were free? Do you blame + The hope of that moment? I deem'd my heart free + From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me + There was yet strength to mould it once more to my will, + To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you still + Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain + From hope? alas! I too then hoped!" + + LUVOIS. + + Oh, again, + Yet again, say that thrice blessed word! say, Lucile, + That you then deign'd to hope-- + + LUCILE. + + Yes! to hope I could feel, + And could give to you, that without which all else given + Were but to deceive, and to injure you even:-- + A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, + Do you blame that one hope? + + LUVOIS. + + O Lucile! + "Say again," + She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, + "Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own + To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er, + And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'? + I myself hoped no more!" + With but ill-suppressed wrath + The Duke answer'd... "What, then! he recrosses your path, + This man, and you have but to see him, despite + Of his troth to another, to take back that light + Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!" + Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd... "No! no! + 'Tis not that--but alas!--but I cannot conceal + That I have not forgotten the past--but I feel + That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,-- + In return for what... ah, Duke, what is it?... a heart + Which is only a ruin!" + With words warm and wild, + "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild + And restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be, + Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!" + He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes + Answer'd, "No!" + An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise + And to break into flame, as though fired by the light + Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, "Am I right? + You reject ME! Accept HIM?" + "I have not done so," + She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet--no! + But can you with accents as firm promise me + That you will not accept him?" + "Accept? Is he free? + Free to offer?" she said. + "You evade me, Lucile," + He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel! + He might make himself free? Oh, you blush--turn away! + Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say! + While you deign to reply to one question from me? + I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he? + What! silent? I alter my question. If quite + Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?" + "He might," + She said softly. + + + VI. + + + Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, + As he heard them, in one maddening moment releast + All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush + And extinguish in man all that's good. In the rush + Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste + And darken and devastate intellect, chased + From its realm human reason. The wild animal + In the bosom of man was set free. And of all + Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce + As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce + And to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, swell'd + By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd + To involve all things else in the anguish within it, + And on others inflict its own pangs! + At that minute + What pass'd through his mind, who shall say? who may tell + The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell + Can illumine alone? + He stared wildly around + That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no sound + Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drear + Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near! + It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather; + Deep midnight in him! They two,--alone and together, + Himself and that woman defenceless before him! + The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. + The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to ope + At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope + Which Dante read over the city of doom. + All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, + And uttering words he dared never recall, + Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all + The brew'd storm-cloud within him: its flashes scorch'd blind + His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind + Of a reckless emotion beyond his control; + A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soul + Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd + And seeth'd in his heart. + + + VII. + + + He had thrown, and had miss'd + His last stake. + + + VIII. + + + For, transfigured, she rose from the place + Where he rested o'erawed: a saint's scorn on her face; + Such a dread vade retro was written in light + On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that sight, + Have sunk back abash'd to perdition. I know + If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had looked so, + She had needed no dagger next morning. + She rose + And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows + Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is gone, + And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. + There she paused; and, as though from immeasurable, + Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd-- + "Farewell! + We, alas! have mistaken each other. Once more + Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. + Duc de Luvois, adieu!" + From the heart-breaking gloom + Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room, + He felt she was gone--gone forever! + + + IX. + + + No word, + The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, + Could have pierced to his heart with such keen accusation + As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, + In which he remain'd. + "O return; I repent!" + He exclaimed; but no sound through the stillness was sent, + Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, + And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night-hymn: + An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air + With a searching, and wistful, and questioning prayer. + "Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar + Of the waters replied, "Nevermore! nevermore!" + He walked to the window. The spray on his brow + Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below; + The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound + Of the torrent. The mountains gloom'd sullenly round. + A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. + O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung, + Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering blink + Of the stars on the veering and vitreous brink + Of that snake-like prone column of water; and listing + Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting + Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relinquish'd + His unconscious employment, that light was extinguish'd. + Wheels at last, from the inn door aroused him. He ran + Down the stairs; reached the door--just to see her depart. + Down the mountain the carriage was speeding. + + + X. + + + His heart + Peal'd the knell of its last hope. He rush'd on; but whither + He knew not--on, into the dark cloudy weather-- + The midnight--the mountains--on, over the shelf + Of the precipice--on, still--away from himself! + Till exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and moss + At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering cross + Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. He sank + Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the dank + Weeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them. He knew + That the night had divided his whole life in two. + Behind him a past that was over forever: + Before him a future devoid of endeavor + And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one, + Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done? + Whither now should he turn? Turn again, as before, + To his old easy, careless existence of yore + He could not. He felt that for better or worse + A change had pass'd o'er him; an angry remorse + Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd + Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd + By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread + To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was spread, + What clew there to cling by? + He clung by a name + To a dynasty fallen forever. He came + Of an old princely house, true through change to the race + And the sword of Saint Louis--a faith 'twere disgrace + To relinquish, and folly to live for! Nor less + Was his ancient religion (once potent to bless + Or to ban; and the crozier his ancestors kneel'd + To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard field + With the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, tradition; + A mere faded badge of a social position; + A thing to retain and say nothing about, + Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from doubt. + Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of his youth + Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, in truth! + And beyond them, what region of refuge? what field + For employment, this civilized age, did it yield, + In that civilized land? or to thought? or to action? + Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless distraction! + Not even a desert, not even the cell + Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell + The wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest, + Ran riot through that ruin'd world in his breast. + + + XI. + + + So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight + Of a heaven scaled and lost; in the wide arms of night + O'er the howling abysses of nothingness! There + As he lay, Nature's deep voice was teaching him prayer; + But what had he to pray to? + The winds in the woods, + The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes, + Were in commune all round with the invisible + Power that walk'd the dim world by Himself at that hour. + But their language he had not yet learn'd--in despite + Of the much he HAD learn'd--or forgotten it quite, + With its once native accents. Alas! what had he + To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony + Of thanksgiving?... A fiery finger was still + Scorching into his heart some dread sentence. His will, + Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild + At its work of destruction within him. The child + Of an infidel age, he had been his own god, + His own devil. + He sat on the damp mountain sod, + and stared sullenly up at the dark sky. + The clouds + Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowds + Of misshapen, incongruous potents. A green + Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between + The base of their black barricades, and the ridge + Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some bridge, + Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrown + By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown + And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. + While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands + Dismantled and rent; and reveal'd, through a loop + In the breach'd dark, the blemish'd and half-broken hoop + Of the moon, which soon silently sank; and anon + The whole supernatural pageant was gone. + The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss, + Darken'd round him. One object alone--that gray cross-- + Glimmer'd faint on the dark. Gazing up, he descried, + Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd, wide, + As though to embrace him. + He turn'd from the sight, + Set his face to the darkness, and fled. + + + XII. + + + When the light + Of the dawn grayly flicker'd and glared on the spent + Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is sent + To the need of some grief when its need is the sorest, + He was sullenly riding across the dark forest + Toward Luchon. + Thus riding, with eyes of defiance + Set against the young day, as disclaiming alliance + With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived + Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the damp-leaved + Autumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on his way, + The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray + With the gray glare of morning. Eugene de Luvois, + With the sense of a strange second sight, when he saw + That phantom-like face, could at once recognize, + By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyes + Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim, + With a stern sad inquiry fix'd keenly on him, + And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own; + A lie born of that lying darkness now grown + Over all in his nature! He answer'd that gaze + With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys + More intensely than words what a man means convey'd + Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement which said, + "I have triumph'd. The question your eyes would imply + Comes too late, Alfred Vargrave!" + And so he rode by, + And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight, + Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite. + + + XIII. + + + And it bit, and it rankled. + + + XIV. + + + Lord Alfred, scarce knowing, + Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going, + By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued, + And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude + From his mind every human sensation, save one + The torture of doubt--had stray'd moodily on, + Down the highway deserted, that evening in which + With the Duke he had parted; stray'd on, through rich + Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night, + Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight, + Toward Saint Saviour; nor did the changed aspect of all + The wild scenery around him avail to recall + To his senses their normal perceptions, until, + As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill + At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had hung + Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from among + The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world. + Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd, + In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark trees, + And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. + And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the face + Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the place + Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This same track + The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get back + To Luchon; not yet then the Duke had returned! + He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'd + Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. + He knew that the night was approaching to day. + He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The morn, + Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and forlorn, + Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke. + 'Twas then that the two men exchanged look for look. + + + XV. + + + And the Duke's rankled in him. + + + XVI. + + + He rush'd on. He tore + His path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn door, + Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, + And inquired for the Countess. The man rubb'd his eyes, + The Countess was gone. And the Duke? + The man stared + A sleepy inquiry. + With accents that scared + The man's dull sense awake, "He, the stranger," he cried, + "Who had been there that night!" + The man grinn'd and replied, + With a vacant intelligence, "He, oh ay, ay! + He went after the lady." + No further reply + Could he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no more, + Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the door. + "What! the Duke, then, the night in that lone inn had pass'd? + In that lone inn--with her!" Was that look he had cast + When they met in the forest, that look which remain'd + On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd? + + + XVII. + + + The day was half turn'd to the evening, before + He re-entered Luchon, with a heart sick and sore. + In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look, + By their voices attracted, distinguished the Duke, + Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright, + With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. + Right + Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift sombre stride, + Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd aside, + And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, + "O, how right have you been! There can never be--no, + Never--any more contest between us! Milord, + Let us henceforth be friends!" + Having utter'd that word, + He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again + His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that train + Of his young imitators. + Lord Alfred stood still, + Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill, + Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the soul + With a dull, stifling anguish he could not control. + Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the crowd, + The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud + Some comment upon his gay humor that day? + He never was gayer: what makes him so gay? + 'Tis, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune, + Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn + Has at last found a Mars--who, of course, shall be nameless, + That vestal that yields to Mars ONLY is blameless! + Hark! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stirs + All his heart into tumult?... Lucile de Nevers + With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, light, + Free allusion? Not so as might give him the right + To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet + To a trite and irreverent compliment set! + + + XVIII. + + + Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul + Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did there roll + Back again, back again, on its smooth downward course + O'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and force, + THE WORLD. + + + XIX. + + + "No!" he mutter'd, "she cannot have sinn'd! + True! women there are (self-named women of mind!) + Who love rather liberty--liberty, yes! + To choose and to leave--than the legalized stress + Of the lovingest marriage. But she--is she so? + I will not believe it. Lucile! O no, no! + Not Lucile! + "But the world? and, ah, what would it say? + O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day! + The gossip's light question! the slanderous jest! + She is right! no, we could not be happy. 'Tis best + As it is. I will write to her--write, O my heart! + And accept her farewell. OUR farewell! must we part-- + Part thus, then--forever, Lucile? Is it so? + Yes! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know. + 'Twas a dream! we must waken!" + + + XX. + + + With head bow'd, as though + By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow + Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn. + Drawn apart + From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start, + Postboys mounted, portmanteaus packed up and made fast, + A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd. + He order'd his horse to be ready anon: + Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd on, + And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room. + It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the gloom + Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light + On the mantel-piece; there a large card caught his sight-- + A large card, a stout card, well-printed and plain, + Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain. + It gave a respectable look to the slab + That it lay on. The name was-- + + SIR RIDLEY MACNAB. + + Full familiar to him was the name that he saw, + For 'twas that of his own future uncle-in-law. + Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known + As wearing the longest philacteried gown + Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of, + A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of + This world and the next; having largely invested + Not only where treasure is never molested + By thieves, moth, or rust; but on this earthly ball + Where interest was high, and security small. + Of mankind there was never a theory yet + Not by some individual instance upset: + And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm + Which declares that the wicked expand like the palm + In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, + A cheering exception did Ridley present. + Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety. + The leader of every religious society, + Christian knowledge he labor'd t though life to promote + With personal profit, and knew how to quote + Both the Stocks and the Scripture, with equal advantage + To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant-Age. + + + XXI. + + + Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, + A waiter his head through the doorway protruded; + "Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak." + Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek; + He brushed them away with a gesture of pride. + He glanced at the glass; when his own face he eyed, + He was scared by its pallor. Inclining his head, + He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said, + "Sir Ridley may enter." + In three minutes more + That benign apparition appeared at the door. + Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares + Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs + Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release, + In company there with his sister and niece, + Found himself now at Luchon--distributing tracts, + Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new facts + For Exeter Hall; he was starting that night + For Bigorre: he had heard, to his cordial delight, + That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting out + For the same destination: impatient, no doubt! + Here some commonplace compliments as to "the marriage + Through his speech trickled softly, like honey: his carriage + Was ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the weather; + If his young friend agreed, why not travel together? + With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown + Of perplexity, during this speech, up and down + Alfred Vargrave was striding; but, after a pause + And a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to cause + Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd--"My dear + Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here-- + Half an hour at the most--to conclude an affair + Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare + My presence (which brought me, indeed, to this spot), + Before I accept your kind offer." + "Why not?" + Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfred Vargrave, before + Sir Ridley observed it, had pass'd through the door. + A few moments later, with footsteps revealing + Intense agitation of uncontroll'd feeling, + He was rapidly pacing the garden below. + What pass'd through his mind then is more than I know. + But before one half-hour into darkness had fled, + In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley. His tread + Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face + Betrayed there the least agitation. "The place + You so kindly have offer'd," he said, "I accept." + And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers stepp'd + Smiling into the carriage. + And thus, out of sight, + They drove down the dark road, and into the night. + + + XXII. + + + Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so far + As their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar, + "We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!" + Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small supply with us. + Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two men + Began to converse somewhat drowsily, when + Alfred suddenly thought--"Here's a man of ripe age, + At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage, + Who looks happy, and therefore who must have been wise; + Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyes + Some few of the reasons which make me believe + That I neither am happy nor wise? 'twould relieve + And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and doubt." + For which purpose a feeler he softly put out. + It was snapp'd up at once. + "What is truth? "jesting Pilate + Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a smile at + Its utter futility. Had he address'd it + To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it + Admitted discussion! and certainly no man + Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical Roman + Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk! + Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk, + And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch you the scheme + Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on his theme! + Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he! + He'll prove you the whole plan in plain A B C. + Here's your sun--call him A; B's the moon; it is clear + How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear + Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place, + (Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to face!) + Their science in plain A B C to accord + To your point-blank inquiry, my friends! not a word + Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. Alas! + Not a drop from the bottle that's quite full will pass. + 'Tis the half-empty vessel that freest emits + The water that's in it. 'Tis thus with men's wits; + Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capability + Of imparting to others a truth with facility + Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness + To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, + The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight, + Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate + More freely than large ones. A beggar asks alms, + And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms; + But if every street charity shook an investment, + Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vestment, + The length of the process would limit the act; + And therefore the truth that's summ'd up in a tract + Is most lightly dispensed. + As for Alfred, indeed, + On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed + By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know, + That the two men thus talking continued to go + Onward somehow, together--on into the night-- + The midnight--in which they escape from our sight. + + + XXIII. + + + And meanwhile a world had been changed in its place, + And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy space + Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of sight + To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night; + And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, + And the fair morn to all things new sanction extended, + In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, + Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from the sun. + And the world laugh'd. + It wanted but two rosy hours + From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick passion flowers + Of the little wild garden that dimpled before + The small house where their carriage now stopp'd at Bigorre. + And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than the dew, + With her white morning robe flitting joyously through + The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was clothed, + Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his betrothed. + Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face + Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, + And radiant confidence, childlike delight, + That his whole heart upbraided itself at that sight. + And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, "O, how could I have stray'd + From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade + Her young claim on my life, though it were for an hour, + The thought of another?" + "Look up, my sweet flower!" + He whisper'd her softly," my heart unto thee + Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee!" + "And will wander no more?" laughed Matilda. + "No more," + He repeated. And, low to himself, "Yes, 'tis o'er! + My course, too, is decided, Lucile! Was I blind + To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of mind + Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, + Or sympathize with it?" + + + XXIV. + + + And here the first part + Of the drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd + On the actors within it--the Heart, and the World. + Woo'd and wooer have play'd with the riddle of life,-- + Have they solved it? + Appear! answer, Husband and Wife. + + + XXV. + + + Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, + Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers. + + THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA. + + "Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart, + And the places of old... never, never to part! + Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more + To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of yore + From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret + Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set; + From the children that cry for the birth, and behold, + There is no strength to bear them--old Time is SO old! + From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth + Sapp'd and mined by the fever they bear from their birth: + From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd, + Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been bow'd; + Back,--back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb + Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom + And the beauty of times that are faded forever! + To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River! + Where I too, the child of a day that is done, + First leaped into life, and look'd up at the sun, + Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home + I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come! + Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night by night + Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright? + Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old, + When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for gold? + Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you still + Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, + 'Mid those huge stones up-heav'd, where we recklessly trod + O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd god? + How he frown'd while around him we carelessly play'd! + That frown on my life ever after hath stay'd, + Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast + From some vague supernatural grief in the past. + For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he frown'd, + To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found, + In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss + Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss. + Alas! you may haply remember me yet + The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget. + I come--a sad woman, defrauded of rest: + I bear to you only a laboring breast: + My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'd + O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world: + The dove from my bosom hath flown far away: + It is flown and returns not, though many a day + Have I watch'd from the windows of life for its coming. + Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming. + I know not what Ararat rises for me + Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea: + I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills, + Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills: + But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast + Wakes and whispers me on--to the East! to the East! + Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find + The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of mind? + Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain? + Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again? + Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent? + Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent? + To a voice who shall render an image? or who + From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew? + I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life. + Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet after strife. + I would sleep for a while. I am weary. + "My friend, + I had meant in these lines to regather, and send + To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 'tis vain! + Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again; + Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er, + Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore + Whence too far I have wander'd. + "How many long years + Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears, + While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's premature + Moans of pain at what women in silence endure! + To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes alone, + That now long-faded page of my life hath been shown + Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know, + Many years since,--how many! + "A few months ago + I seem'd reading it backward, that page! Why explain + Whence or how? The old dream of my life rose again. + The old superstition! the idol of old! + It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould + Is not to the forest more lost than to me + That emotion. I bury it here by the sea + Which will bear me anon far away from the shore + Of a land which my footsteps will visit no more. + And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave. + Hark! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the wave, + Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home! + I come, O you whispering voices, I come! + My friend, ask me nothing. + "Receive me alone + As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone + In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring: + It may be an angel that, weary of wing, + Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom, + Or only a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom. + This only I know: that in Europe at least + Lives the craft or the power that must master our East. + Wherefore strive where the gods must themselves yield at last? + Both they and their altars pass by with the Past. + The gods of the household Time thrust from the shelf; + And I seem as unreal and weird to myself + As those idols of old. + "Other times, other men, + Other men, other passions! + "So be it! yet again + I turned to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn, + And the light of those lands where the great sun is born! + Spread your arms, O my friend! on your breast let me feel + The repose which hath fled from my own. + "Your LUCILE." + + + + +PART II. + + + + +CANTO I. + + + I. + + + Hail, Muse! But each Muse by this time has, I know, + Been used up, and Apollo has bent his own bow + All too long; so I leave unassaulted the portal + Of Olympus, and only invoke here a mortal. + + Hail, Murray!--not Lindley,--but Murray and Son. + Hail, omniscient, beneficent, great Two-in-One! + In Albermarle Street may thy temple long stand! + Long enlighten'd and led by thine erudite hand, + May each novice in science nomadic unravel + Statistical mazes of modernized travel! + May each inn-keeper knave long thy judgment revere, + And the postboys of Europe regard thee with fear; + While they feel, in the silence of baffled extortion, + That knowledge is power! Long, long, like that portion + Of the national soil which the Greek exile took + In his baggage wherever he went, may thy book + Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who trusts to thy wit + Not to pay through his nose just for following it! + May'st thou long, O instructor! preside o'er his way, + And teach him alike what to praise and to pay! + Thee, pursuing this pathway of song, once again + I invoke, lest, unskill'd, I should wander in vain. + To my call be propitious, nor, churlish, refuse + Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my Muse; + For I sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the stems + Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. + Yes! thy spirit descends upon mine, O John Murray! + And I start--with thy book--for the Baths in a hurry. + + + II. + + + "At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the Rhine; + And from thence the road, winding by Ehrenbreitstein, + Passes over the frontier of Nassua. + ("N. B. + No custom-house here since the Zollverein." See + Murray, paragraph 30.) + "The route, at each turn, + Here the lover of nature allows to discern, + In varying prospect, a rich wooded dale: + The vine and acacia-tree mostly prevail + In the foliage observable here: and, moreover, + The soil is carbonic. The road, under cover + Of the grape-clad and mountainous upland that hems + Round this beautiful spot, brings the traveller to--"EMS. + A Schnellpost from Frankfort arrives every day. + At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) you pay + Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaurateur + Is attach'd to the place; but most travellers prefer + (Including, indeed, many persons of note) + To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. + Through the town runs the Lahn, the steep green banks of which + Two rows of white picturesque houses enrich; + And between the high road and the river is laid + Out a sort of a garden, call'd 'THE Promenade.' + Female visitors here, who may make up their mind + To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find + On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day long, + Troops of donkeys--sure-footed--proverbially strong;" + And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he passes, + Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. + + + III. + + + 'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these springs + In the month when the merle on the maple-bough sings, + Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths + By a similar sickness, there came to the Baths + Four sufferers--each stricken deep through the heart, + Or the head, by the self-same invisible dart + Of the arrow that flieth unheard in the noon, + From the sickness that walketh unseen in the moon, + Through this great lazaretto of life, wherein each + Infects with his own sores the next within reach. + First of these were a young English husband and wife, + Grown weary ere half through the journey of life. + O Nature, say where, thou gray mother of earth, + Is the strength of thy youth? that thy womb brings to birth + Only old men to-day! On the winds, as of old, + Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold; + Thy forests are green as of yore; and thine oceans + Yet move in the might of their ancient emotions: + But man--thy last birth and thy best--is no more + Life's free lord, that look'd up to the starlight of yore, + With the faith on the brow, and the fire in the eyes, + The firm foot on the earth, the high heart in the skies; + But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth, + Born too late or too early. + The lady, in truth, + Was young, fair, and gentle; and never was given + To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of heaven. + Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold + Tresses brighter than those which her soft hand unroll'd + From her noble and innocent brow, when she rose, + An Aurora, at dawn, from her balmy repose, + And into the mirror the bloom and the blush + Of her beauty broke, glowing; like light in a gush + From the sunrise in summer. + Love, roaming, shall meet + But rarely a nature more sound or more sweet-- + Eyes brighter--brows whiter--a figure more fair-- + Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair-- + Than thine, Lady Alfred! And here I aver + (May those that have seen thee declare if I err) + That not all the oysters in Britain contain + A pearl pure as thou art. + Let some one explain,-- + Who may know more than I of the intimate life + Of the pearl with the oyster,--why yet in his wife, + In despite of her beauty--and most when he felt + His soul to the sense of her loveliness melt-- + Lord Alfred miss'd something he sought for: indeed, + The more that he miss'd it the greater the need; + Till it seem'd to himself he could willingly spare + All the charms that he found for the one charm not there. + + + IV. + + + For the blessings Life lends us, it strictly demands + The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. + And the value of all things exists, not indeed + In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's need. + Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with beauty and youth, + Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet in truth + Unfulfill'd the ambition, and sterile the wealth + (In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), + Had remain'd, while the beauty and youth, unredeem'd + From a vague disappointment at all things, but seem'd + Day by day to reproach him in silence for all + That lost youth in himself they had fail'd to recall. + No career had he follow'd, no object obtain'd + In the world by those worldly advantages gain'd + From nuptials beyond which once seem'd to appear, + Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. + All that glitter'd and gleam'd through the moonlight of youth + With a glory so fair, now that manhood in truth + Grasp'd and gather'd it, seem'd like that false fairy gold + Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and mould! + + + V. + + + Fairy gold! moss and leaves! and the young Fairy Bride? + Lived there yet fairy-lands in the face at his side? + Say, O friend, if at evening thou ever hast watch'd + Some pale and impalpable vapor, detach'd + From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and fall + O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all + The chill'd splendor reluctantly waned in the deep + Of its own native heaven? Even so seem'd to creep + O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, + While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, + Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil + Of a sadness unconscious. + The lady grew pale + As silent her lord grew: and both, as they eyed + Each the other askance, turn'd, and secretly sigh'd. + Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can give? + True, we know what life is--but, alas! do we live? + The grammar of life we have gotten by heart, + But life's self we have made a dead language--an art, + Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 'twas spoken + When the silence of passion the first time was broken! + Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no doubt; + But the last man, at best, was but learned about + What the first, without learning, ENJOYED. What art thou + To the man of to-day, O Leviathan, now? + A science. What wert thou to him that from ocean + First beheld thee appear? A surprise,--an emotion! + When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in the heart, + When it thrills as it fills every animate part, + Where lurks it? how works it?... We scarcely detect it. + But life goes: the heart dies: haste, O leech, and dissect it! + This accursed aesthetical, ethical age + Hath so finger'd life's hornbook, so blurr'd every page, + That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous story + With its fables of faery, its legends of glory, + Is turn'd to a tedious instruction, not new + To the children that read it insipidly through. + We know too much of Love ere we love. We can trace + Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face + When we see it at last. 'Tis the same little Cupid, + With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile almost stupid, + We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our shelves, + And copied a hundred times over, ourselves, + And wherever we turn, and whatever we do, + Still, that horrible sense of the deja connu! + + + VI. + + + Perchance 'twas the fault of the life that they led; + Perchance 'twas the fault of the novels they read; + Perchance 'twas a fault in themselves; I am bound not + To say: this I know--that these two creatures found not + In each other some sign they expected to find + Of a something unnamed in the heart or the mind; + And, missing it, each felt a right to complain + Of a sadness which each found no word to explain. + Whatever it was, the world noticed not it + In the light-hearted beauty, the light-hearted wit. + Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 'tis the case, + Each must speak to the crowd with a mask on his face. + Praise follow'd Matilda wherever she went, + She was flatter'd. Can flattery purchase content? + Yes. While to its voice for a moment she listen'd, + The young cheek still bloom'd and the soft eyes still glisten'd; + And her lord, when, like one of those light vivid things + That glide down the gauzes of summer with wings + Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved + Through that buzz of inferior creatures, which proved + Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot, + 'Mid the many charms there, the one charm that was not: + And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bow'd, + (As they turn'd to each other, each flush'd from the crowd,) + And murmur'd those praises which yet seem'd more dear + Than the praises of others had grown to her ear, + She, too, ceased awhile her own fate to regret: + "Yes!... he loves me," she sigh'd; "this is love, then--and YET!" + + + VII. + + + Ah, that YET! fatal word! 'tis the moral of all + Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world since the Fall! + It stands at the end of each sentence we learn; + It flits in the vista of all we discern; + It leads us, forever and ever, away + To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. + 'Twas the same little fatal and mystical word + That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord + To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah; + Drooping Pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara! + + + VIII. + + + At the same time, pursued by a spell much the same, + To these waters two other worn pilgrims there came: + One a man, one a woman: just now, at the latter, + As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her + And judge for himself, I will not even glance. + + + IX. + + + Of the self-crown'd young kings of the Fashion in France + Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight, + Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were so bright, + Who so hail'd in the salon, so mark'd in the Bois, + Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois? + Of all the smooth-brow'd premature debauchees + In that town of all towns, where Debauchery sees + On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere graven,-- + In Paris I mean,--where the streets are all paven + By those two fiends whom Milton saw bridging the way + From Hell to this planet,--who, haughty and gay, + The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, + Walk'd that causeway as bold as Eugene de Luvois? + Yes! he march'd through the great masquerade, loud of tongue, + Bold of brow: but the motley he mask'd in, it hung + So loose, trail'd so wide, and appear'd to impede + So strangely at times the vex'd effort at speed, + That a keen eye might guess it was made--not for him, + But some brawler more stalwart of stature and limb. + That it irk'd him, in truth, you at times could divine, + For when low was the music, and spilt was the wine, + He would clutch at the garment, as though it oppress'd + And stifled some impulse that choked in his breast. + + + X. + + + What! he,... the light sport of his frivolous ease! + Was he, too, a prey to a mortal disease? + My friend, hear a parable: ponder it well: + For a moral there is in the tale that I tell. + One evening I sat in the Palais Royal, + And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and Arnal, + My eye fell on the face of a man at my side; + Every time that he laugh'd I observed that he sigh'd, + As though vex'd to be pleased. I remark'd that he sat + Ill at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat + In his hand, with a look of unquiet abstraction. + I inquired the cause of his dissatisfaction. + "Sir," he said, "if what vexes me here you would know, + Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours ago, + I walk'd into the Francais, to look at Rachel. + (Sir, that woman in Phedre is a miracle!)--Well, + I ask'd for a box: they were occupied all: + For a seat in the balcony: all taken! a stall: + Taken too: the whole house was as full as could be,-- + Not a hole for a rat! I had just time to see + The lady I love tete-a-tete with a friend + In a box out of reach at the opposite end: + Then the crowd push'd me out. What was left me to do? + I tried for the tragedy... que voulez-vous? + Every place for the tragedy book'd!... mon ami. + The farce was close by:... at the farce me voici. + The piece is a new one: and Grassot plays well: + There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel: + And Hyacinth's nose is superb:... yet I meant + My evening elsewhere, and not thus to have spent. + Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours! + Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers." + + I once met the Duc de Luvois for a moment; + And I mark'd, when his features I fix'd in my comment, + O'er those features the same vague disquietude stray + I had seen on the face of my friend at the play; + And I thought that he too, very probably, spent + His evenings not wholly as first he had meant. + + + XI. + + + O source of the holiest joys we inherit, + O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit! + Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert sand, + Grown impatient too soon for the long-promised land, + He turns from the worship of thee, as thou art, + An expressless and imageless truth in the heart, + And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf + And the gold of the Godless, to make to himself + A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee, + And then bows to the sound of the cymbal the knee. + The sorrows we make to ourselves are false gods: + Like the prophets of Baal, our bosoms with rods + We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till they bleed, + But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to our need. + The land is athirst, and cries out!... 'tis in vain; + The great blessing of Heaven descends not in rain. + + + XII. + + + It was night; and the lamps were beginning to gleam + Through the long linden-trees, folded each in his dream, + From that building which looks like a temple... and is + The Temple of--Health? Nay, but enter! I wis + That never the rosy-hued deity knew + One votary out of that sallow-cheek'd crew + Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, + Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prussians; + Jews--Hamburghers chiefly;--pure patriots,--Suabians;-- + "Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, + And the dwellers in Pontus"... My muse will not weary + More lines with the list of them... cur fremuere? + What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum? + Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come? + Oh, what is the name of the god at whose fane + Every nation is mix'd in so motley a train? + What weird Kabala lies on those tables outspread? + To what oracle turns with attention each head? + What holds these pale worshippers each so devout, + And what are those hierophants busied about? + + + XIII. + + + Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro, + And rolls without ceasing the great Yes and No: + Round this altar alternate the weird Passions dance, + And the God worshipp'd here is the old God of Chance. + Through the wide-open doors of the distant saloon + Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune; + And an indistinct music forever is roll'd, + That mixes and chimes with the chink of the gold, + From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze, + Of figures forever eluding the gaze; + It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the glass, + And the weird words pursue it--Rouge, Impair, et Passe! + Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams as encumber + With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber + Of some witch when she seeks, through a nightmare, to grab at + The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat. + + + XIV. + + + The Duc de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met + Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet + Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion of Chance. + The idler from England, the idler from France, + Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial pleasure: + An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treasure, + And they both were too well-bred in aught to betray + One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd away. + 'Twas a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be seen, + These friends exchange greetings;--the men who had been + Foes so nearly in days that were past. + This, no doubt, + Is why, on the night I am speaking about, + My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at roulette, + Without one suspicion his bosom to fret, + Although he had left, with his pleasant French friend, + Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end. + + + XV. + + + Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began + With a few modest thalers--away they all ran-- + The reserve follow'd fast in the rear. As his purse + Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. + One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it: + 'Tis an old law in physics--Natura abhorret + Vacuum--and my lord, as he watch'd his last crown + Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown + Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have deck'd + On that day of all days when an empire was wreck'd + On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witness'd the last + Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast! + Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why, + Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye + Had long been intently regarding him there,-- + That some gaze was upon him too searching to bear. + He rose and look'd up. Was it fact? Was it fable? + Was it dream? Was it waking? Across the green table, + That face, with its features so fatally known-- + Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely his own + What was it? Some ghost from its grave come again? + Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain? + Or was it herself with those deep eyes of hers, + And that face unforgotten?--Lucile de Nevers! + + + XVI. + + + Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem, + Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream! + 'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead so hush'd, + That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, + There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved + A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. + The brief noon of beauty was passing away, + And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, + O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. + And now, as all around her the dim evening stole, + With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved + For the want of that tender assurance received + From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye, + Which should say, or should look, "Fear thou naught,--I am by!" + And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd existence, + Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and distance: + A strange sort of faint-footed fear,--like a mouse + That comes out, when 'tis dark, in some old ducal house + Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, + And the forms on the arras are all that move there. + + In Rome,--in the Forum,--there open'd one night + A gulf. All the augurs turn'd pale at the sight. + In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. + Men consulted the gods: then the oracle said:-- + "Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last + That which Rome hath most precious within it be cast." + The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff, + But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seem'd likely enough + To be ruin'd ere this rent in her heart she could choke. + Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke: + "O Quirites! to this Heaven's question is come: + What to Rome is most precious? The manhood of Rome." + He plunged, and the gulf closed. + The tale is not new; + But the moral applies many ways, and is true. + How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be destroy'd? + 'Tis a warm human one that must fill up the void. + Through many a heart runs the rent in the fable; + But who to discover a Curtius is able? + + + XVII. + + + Back she came from her long hiding-place, at the source + Of the sunrise; where, fair in their fabulous course, + Run the rivers of Eden: an exile again, + To the cities of Europe--the scenes, and the men, + And the life, and the ways, she had left: still oppress'd + With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceable breast. + The same, to the same things! The world she had quitted + With a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon flitted + Through the salons and clubs, to the great satisfaction + Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. + The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once more, + To her old friend, the World, had reopen'd her door; + The World came, and shook hands, and was pleased and amused + With what the World then went away and abused. + From the woman's fair fame it in naught could detract: + 'Twas the woman's free genius it vex'd and attack'd + With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech. + But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not reach + The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell beyond + The world's limit, to feel that the world could respond + To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, in naught, + 'Twas no longer this earth's idle inmates she sought: + The wit of the woman sufficed to engage + In the woman's gay court the first men of the age. + Some had genius; and all, wealth of mind to confer + On the world: but that wealth was not lavish'd for her. + For the genius of man, though so human indeed, + When call'd out to man's help by some great human need, + The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses + To use what it hoards for mankind's nobler uses. + Genius touches the world at but one point alone + Of that spacious circumference, never quite known + To the world; all the infinite number of lines + That radiate thither a mere point combines, + But one only,--some central affection apart + From the reach of the world, in which Genius is Heart, + And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and mind, + And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to find + Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken, + When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere clever men; + Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are unfurl'd + Worlds new-fashioned for man, as mere men of the world. + And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight + Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the light, + And watch'd her own shadow grow long at her feet, + As though stretch'd out, the shade of some OTHER to meet, + The woman felt homeless and childless: in scorn + She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children unborn; + And when from these sombre reflections away + She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay + For her presence within it, she knew herself friendless; + That her path led from peace, and that path appear'd endless! + That even her beauty had been but a snare, + And her wit sharpen'd only the edge of despair. + + + XVIII. + + + With a face all transfigured and flush'd by surprise, + Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep searching eyes + She look'd into his own. Not a word that she said, + Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray'd. + She seem'd to smile through him, at something beyond: + When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd to respond + To some voice in herself. With no trouble descried, + To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied. + Not so he. At the sight of that face back again + To his mind came the ghost of a long-stifled pain, + A remember'd resentment, half check'd by a wild + And relentful regret like a motherless child + Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive appeal, + To the heart which resisted its entrance. + Lucile + And himself thus, however, with freedom allow'd + To old friends, talking still side by side, left the crowd + By the crowd unobserved. Not unnoticed, however, + By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never + Seen her husband's new friend. + She had follow'd by chance, + Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance + Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meeting, had turn'd + On Lucile and Lord Alfred; and, scared, she discern'd + On his feature the shade of a gloom so profound + That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the sound + Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers + He replied not, but murmur'd, "Lucile de Nevers + Once again then? so be it!" In the mind of that man, + At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan + Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone + (To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) + As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of thought + By which all his nature to tumult was wrought. + + + XIX. + + + "So!" he thought, "they meet thus: and reweave the old charm! + And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his arm, + And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of me! + Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be + Loved by one--her own rival--more fair and more young?" + The serpent rose in him; a serpent which, stung, + Sought to sting. + Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye + Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by, + In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile + Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts touch'd. Meanwhile + The muse of this story, convinced that they need her, + To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader. + + + XX. + + + The Duke with that sort of aggressive false praise + Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise + From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before + He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er + The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly + With the man he is minded to hang by and by), + Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect + In the face of Matilda the growing effect + Of the words he had dropp'd. There's no weapon that slays + Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. + Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen: and now + Each was silent, preoccupied; thoughtful. + You know + There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken, + More expressive may be than all words ever spoken. + It is when the heart has an instinct of what + In the heart of another is passing. And that + In the heart of Matilda, what was it? Whence came + To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame? + What weighed down her head? + All your eye could discover + Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover + That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. + She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. + The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell + Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. + She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose blossom + Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her bosom. + "This poor flower," she said, "seems it not out of place + In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace?" + She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile + The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the while, + And continued on his side the silence. He knew + This would force his companion their talk to renew + At the point that he wish'd; and Matilda divined + The significant pause with new trouble of mind. + She lifted one moment her head; but her look + Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, + And dropp'd back on her flowret abash'd. Then, still seeking + The assurance she fancied she show'd him by speaking, + She conceived herself safe in adopting again + The theme she should most have avoided just then. + + + XXI. + + + "Duke," she said,... and she felt, as she spoke, her cheek burn'd, + "You know, then, this... lady?" + "Too well!" he return'd. + + MATILDA. + + True; you drew with emotion her portrait just now. + + LUVOIS. + + With emotion? + + MATILDA. + + Yes, yes! you described her, I know, + As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd. + + LUVOIS. + + Alas! + You mistook me completely! You, madam, surpass + This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as youth + Surpasses its best imitations; as truth + The fairest of falsehood surpasses; as nature + Surpasses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature + Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses + All the charms got by heart at the world's looking-glasses! + "Yet you said,"--she continued with some trepidation, + "That you quite comprehended"... a slight hesitation + Shook the sentence,... "a passion so strong as"... + + LUVOIS. + + "True, true! + But not in a man that had once look'd at you. + Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or"... + Hush, hush!" + She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. + "Between man and woman these things differ so! + It may be that the world pardons... (how should I know?) + In you what it visits on us; or 'tis true, + It may be that we women are better than you." + + LUVOIS. + + Who denies it? Yet, madam, once more you mistake. + The world, in its judgment, some difference may make + 'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects + Its social enchantments; but not as affects + The one sentiment which it were easy to prove, + Is the sole law we look to the moment we love. + + MATILDA. + + That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. + Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear + I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress + Or account for the feelings which sway it. + "Yes! yes! + That is too true, indeed!"... the Duke sigh'd. + And again + For one moment in silence continued the twain. + + + XXII. + + + At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed + All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded: + "And yet!... what avails, then, to woman the gift + Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift + Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair, + One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less fair + Are exposed, when they love?" + With a quick change of tone, + As though by resentment impell'd he went on:-- + "The name that you bear, it is whisper'd, you took + From love, not convention. Well, lady,... that look + So excited, so keen, on the face you must know + Throughout all its expressions--that rapturous glow, + Those eloquent features--significant eyes-- + Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no surprise," + (He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door, + Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred)... "before, + Have you ever once seen what just now you may view + In that face so familiar?... no, lady, 'tis new. + Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, + Are you loved?"... + + + XXIII. + + + He look'd at her--paused--felt if thus far + The ground held yet. The ardor with which he had spoken, + This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken, + Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, + As though some indefinite danger were near. + With composure, however, at once she replied:-- + "'Tis three years since the day when I first was a bride, + And my husband I never had cause to suspect; + Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. + Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see-- + See, or fancy--some moment's oblivion of me, + I trust that I too should forget it,--for you + Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." + The hue + On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke + She had uttered this vague and half-frightened rebuke, + Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word + Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be heard. + There was silence again. + A great step had been made + By the Duke in the words he that evening had said. + There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that night, + Had listen'd--long listen'd--no doubt, in despite + Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, + And her heart by that voice had been troubled and stirr'd. + And so having suffer'd in silence his eye + To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh: + + + XXIV. + + + "Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade + By disclosing my own? The position," he said, + "In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse + The frankness and force of the words which I use. + You say that your heart is your husband's: You say + That you love him. You think so, of course, lady... nay, + Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. + But, trust me, no true love there can be without + Its dread penalty--jealousy. + "Well, do not start! + Until now,--either thanks to a singular art + Of supreme self-control, you have held them all down + Unreveal'd in your heart,--or you never have known + Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs + Which deep passion engenders; that anguish which hangs + On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy bred. + But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed + Of a blissful security thus hath reposed + Undisturb'd, with mild eyelids on happiness closed, + Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, + And most cruel, that happy repose you so trust, + To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, + For how long I know not, continue to see + A woman whose place rivals yours in the life + And the heart which not only your title of wife, + But also (forgive me!) your beauty alone, + Should have made wholly yours?--You, who gave all your own! + Reflect!--'tis the peace of existence you stake + On the turn of a die. And for whose--for his sake? + While you witness this woman, the false point of view + From which she must now be regarded by you + Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, + The charms I admit she possesses. To me + They are trivial indeed; yet to your eyes, I fear + And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear. + Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess + How more lovely by far is the grace you possess, + You will wrong your own beauty. The graces of art, + You will take for the natural charm of the heart; + Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, + Will too soon in that fatal comparison be + To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid sense + Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best eloquence. + O then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart + The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart! + While you see her, yourself you no longer will see,-- + You will hear her, and hear not yourself,--you will be + Unhappy; unhappy, because you will deem + Your own power less great than her power will seem. + And I shall not be by your side, day by day, + In despite of your noble displeasure, to say + 'You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair + Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty can wear'" + + + XXV. + + + This appeal, both by looks and by language, increased + The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. + Still she spoke with what calmness she could-- + "Sir, the while + I thank you," she said, with a faint scornful smile, + "For your fervor in painting my fancied distress: + Allow me the right some surprise to express + At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me + The possible depth of my own misery." + "That zeal would not startle you, madam," he said, + "Could you read in my heart, as myself I have read, + The peculiar interest which causes that zeal--" + + Matilda her terror no more could conceal. + "Duke," she answer'd in accents short, cold and severe, + As she rose from her seat, "I continue to hear; + But permit me to say, I no more understand." + "Forgive!" with a nervous appeal of the hand, + And a well-feign'd confusion of voice and of look, + "Forgive, oh, forgive me!" at once cried the Duke + "I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your leave + I entreat (from your anger those words to retrieve) + For one moment to speak of myself,--for I think + That you wrong me--" + His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink + And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glisten'd. + + + XXVI. + + + Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listen'd. + + + XXVII. + + + "Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, + Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in me," + He continued, "a sorrow which draws me to side + With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," he cried, + "At so strange an avowal. + "I seek at a ball, + For instance,--the beauty admired by all? + No! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits + Scorn'd of course by the beauties, and shunn'd by the wits. + All the world is accustom'd to wound, or neglect, + Or oppress, claims my heart and commands my respect. + No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, + I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong; + But I seek to console, where I can. 'Tis a part + Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart." + These trite words, from the tone which he gave them, received + An appearance of truth which might well be believed + By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. + And so + He continued... "O lady! alas, could you know + What injustice and wrong in this world I have seen! + How many a woman, believed to have been + Without a regret, I have known turn aside + To burst into heartbroken tears undescried! + On how many a lip have I witness'd the smile + Which but hid what was breaking the poor heart the while!" + Said Matilda, "Your life, it would seem, then, must be + One long act of devotion" + "Perhaps so," said he; + "But at least that devotion small merit can boast, + For one day may yet come,--if ONE day at the most,-- + When, perceiving at last all the difference--how great!-- + Twixt the heart that neglects, and the heart that can wait, + Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that pain, + Some woman, that else might have pass'd in disdain + Or indifference by me,--in passing that day + Might pause with a word or a smile to repay + This devotion,--and then"... + + + XXVIII. + + + To Matilda's relief + At that moment her husband approach'd. + With some grief + I must own that her welcome, perchance, was express'd + The more eagerly just for one twinge in her breast + Of a conscience disturb'd, and her smile not less warm, + Though she saw the Comtesse de Nevers on his arm. + The Duke turn'd and adjusted his collar. + Thought he, + "Good! the gods fight my battle to-night. I foresee + That the family doctor's the part I must play. + Very well! but the patients my visits shall pay." + Lord Alfred presented Lucile to his wife; + And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife + Of emotions which made her voice shake, murmur'd low + Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, with a bow + Which betoken'd a distant defiance, replied + To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she descried + Her former gay wooer. Anon, with the grace + Of that kindness which seeks to win kindness, her place + She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, perchance, + Or resolved not to notice the half-frighten'd glance, + That follow'd that movement. + The Duke to his feet + Arose; and, in silence, relinquish'd his seat. + One must own that the moment was awkward for all + But nevertheless, before long, the strange thrall + Of Lucile's gracious tact was by every one felt, + And from each the reserve seem'd, reluctant, to melt; + Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four + Thro' the crowd saunter'd smiling. + + + XXIX. + + + Approaching the door, + Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen behind, + By Lucile, after some hesitation, was join'd. + With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal, + Which appear'd to imply, without words, "Let us feel + That the friendship between us in years that are fled, + Has survived one mad moment forgotten," she said: + "You remain, Duke, at Ems?" + He turn'd on her a look + Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke; + And then, with a more than significant glance + At Matilda, maliciously answer'd, "Perchance. + I have here an attraction. And you?" he return'd. + Lucile's eyes had follow'd his own, and discern'd + The boast they implied. + He repeated, "And you?" + And, still watching Matilda, she answer'd, "I too." + And he thought, as with that word she left him, she sigh'd. + The next moment her place she resumed by the side + Of Matilda; and they soon shook hands at the gate + Of the selfsame hotel. + + + XXX. + + + One depress'd, one elate, + The Duke and Lord Alfred again, thro' the glooms + Of the thick linden alley, return'd to the Rooms. + His cigar each had lighted, a moment before, + At the inn, as they turn'd, arm-in-arm, from the door. + Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, experto + (Me miserum quoties!) crede Roberto. + In silence, awhile, they walk'd onward. + At last + The Duke's thoughts to language half consciously pass'd. + + LUVOIS. + + Once more! yet once more! + + ALFRED. + + What? + + LUVOIS. + + We meet her, once more, + The woman for whom we two madmen of yore + (Laugh, mon cher Alfred, laugh!) were about to destroy + Each other! + + ALFRED. + + It is not with laughter that I + Raise the ghost of that once troubled time. Say! can you + Recall it with coolness and quietude now? + + LUVOIS. + + Now? yes! I, mon cher, am a true Parisien: + Now, the red revolution, the tocsin, and then + The dance and the play. I am now at the play. + + ALFRED. + + At the play, are you now? Then perchance I now may + Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until + Such a moment, I waited... + + LUVOIS. + + Oh! ask what you will. + Franc jeu! on the table my cards I spread out. + Ask! + + ALFRED. + + Duke, you were called to a meeting (no doubt + You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night + When you went; and before you return'd it was light. + We met: you accosted me then with a brow + Bright with triumph: your words (you remember them now!) + Were "Let us be friends!" + + LUVOIS. + + Well? + + ALFRED. + + How then, after that + Can you and she meet as acquaintances? + + LUVOIS. + + What! + Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, + Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of hers? + + ALFRED. + + In our converse to-night we avoided the past. + But the question I ask should be answer'd at last: + By you, if you will; if you will not, by her. + + LUVOIS. + + Indeed? but that question, milord, can it stir + Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er? + + ALFRED. + + Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be no more. + Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (understand, + To MY WIFE!) to present her. I did so. Her hand + Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe + Respect to the name that is ours: and, if so, + To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. + Answer, Duc de Luvois! Did Lucile then reject + The proffer you made of your hand and your name? + Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim + Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, because + My title to do so is clear by the laws + That all gentlemen honor. Make only one sign + That you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in fine, + For which, if your own virgin sister were by, + From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, and I + And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. + + + XXXI. + + + The Duke + Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look + Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said, + And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts through his head: + "Leave Ems! would that suit me? no! that were again + To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain, + She herself will... et puis, il a raison: on est + Gentilhomme avant tout!" He replied therefore, + "Nay! + Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, + In those days, I was mad; and in some mad reply + I threatened the life of the rival to whom + That rejection was due, I was led to presume. + She fear'd for his life; and the letter which then + She wrote me, I show'd you; we met: and again + My hand was refused, and my love was denied, + And the glance you mistook was the vizard which Pride + Lends to Humiliation. + "And so," half in jest, + He went on, "in this best world, 'tis all for the best; + You are wedded (bless'd Englishman!) wedded to one + Whose past can be called into question by none: + And I (fickle Frenchman!) can still laugh to feel + I am lord of myself; and the Mode: and Lucile + Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair + As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there! + A Dian in marble that scorns any troth + With the little love gods, whom I thank for us both, + While she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart, + That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. + Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave!" + + + XXXII. + + + The Duke, with a smile, + Turn'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking, meanwhile, + They had reach'd. + + + XXXIII. + + + Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown + Heart and mind!) in the darkness bewilder'd, alone: + "And so," to himself did he mutter, "and so + 'Twas to rescue my life, gentle spirit! and, oh, + For this did I doubt her?... a light word--a look-- + The mistake of a moment!... for this I forsook-- + For this? Pardon, pardon, Lucile! O Lucile!" + Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal, + Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his brain, + As he stray'd down the darkness. + + + XXXIV. + + + Re-entering again + The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turned to roulette, + And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, and yet + He still smiled: night deepen'd: he play'd his last number: + Went home: and soon slept: and still smil'd in his slumber. + + + XXXV. + + + In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld wrote, + "In the grief or mischance of a friend you may note, + There is something which always gives pleasure." + Alas! + That reflection fell short of the truth as it was. + La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down-- + "No misfortune, but what some one turns to his own + Advantage its mischief: no sorrow, but of it + There ever is somebody ready to profit: + No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all + Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall + Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it." + Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld! + Fool! one man's wit + All men's selfishness how should it fathom? + O sage, + Dost thou satirize Nature? + She laughs at thy page. + + + + +CANTO II. + + + I. + + + COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED. + + LONDON, 18-- + + "My dear Alfred, + Your last letters put me in pain. + This contempt of existence, this listless disdain + Of your own life,--its joys and its duties,--the deuce + Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse! + I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your leg, + And compel you to stump through the world on a peg. + I wish that you had, like myself (more's the pity!), + To sit seven hours on this cursed committee. + I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread + Of another--(what is it that Dante has said?) + And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, + I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd + On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause + For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws! + This pressure against all the purpose of life, + This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife, + Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth, + The richness and strength of the new wine of youth. + But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with time, + Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavor sublime, + It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste, + Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste + The better, I take it. And this vice of snarling, + Self-love's little lapdog, the overfed darling + Of a hypochondriacal fancy appears, + To my thinking, at least, in a man of your years, + At the midnoon of manhood with plenty to do, + And every incentive for doing it too, + With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing + For prayer, and of joys more than most men for blessing; + With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse, + Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse! + I wish I could get you at least to agree + To take life as it is, and consider with me, + If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers; + It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears. + Do you think none have known but yourself all the pain + Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain? + And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt, + 'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that's without? + What one of us finds the world just as he likes? + Or gets what he wants when he wants it? Or strikes + Without missing the thing that he strikes at the first? + Or walks without stumbling? Or quenches his thirst + At one draught? Bah! I tell you! I, bachelor John, + Have had griefs of my own. But what then? I push on + All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain + Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again. + God means every man to be happy, be sure. + He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure. + Our duty down here is to do, not to know. + Live as though life were earnest, and life will be so. + Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, come: + It will wait to deliver its message; and some + Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed + A man does, but the way that he does it, should plead + For the man's compensation in doing it. + "Here, + My next neighbor's a man with twelve thousand a year, + Who deems that life has not a pastime more pleasant + Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheasant. + Yet this fellow goes through a contested election, + Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejection, + All the day through upon a committee, and late + To the last, every night, through the dreary debate, + As though he were getting each speaker by heart, + Though amongst them he never presumes to take part. + One asks himself why, without murmur or question, + He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his digestion, + For a labor of which the result seems so small. + 'The man is ambitious,' you say. Not at all. + He has just sense enough to be fully aware + That he never can hope to be Premier, or share + The renown of a Tully;--or even to hold + A subordinate office. He is not so bold + As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear + With patience his modest opinions to hear. + 'But he wants something!' + "What! with twelve thousand a year? + What could Government give him would be half so dear + To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun + Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital run? + 'No; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain; + The man would be more than his neighbor, 'tis plain; + And the drudgery drearily gone through in town + Is more than repaid by provincial renown. + Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose, + Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance; the goose, + If the Fashion to him open one of its doors, + As proud as a sultan returns to his boors.' + Wrong again! if you think so, + "For, primo; my friend + Is the head of a family known from one end + Of his shire to the other as the oldest; and therefore + He despises fine lords and fine ladies. HE care for + A peerage? no truly! Secondo; he rarely + Or never goes out: dines at Bellamy's sparely, + And abhors what you call the gay world. + "Then, I ask, + What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed task + As the life of this man,--but the sense of its duty? + And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest beauty + Have never inspired in my soul that intense, + Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense + Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man, + As I see him beside me;--there, wearing the wan + London daylight away, on his humdrum committee; + So unconscious of all that awakens my pity, + And wonder--and worship, I might say? + "To me + There seems something nobler than genius to be + In that dull patient labor no genius relieves, + That absence of all joy which yet never grieves; + The humility of it! the grandeur withal! + The sublimity of it! And yet, should you call + The man's own very slow apprehension to this, + He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is! + His work is the duty to which he was born; + He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn: + And this man is no uncommon type (I thank Heaven!) + Of this land's common men. In all other lands, even + The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 'tis the reason + That Government oscillates ever 'twixt treason + And tyranny elsewhere. + "I wander away + Too far, though, from what I was wishing to say. + You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the soul + Is immortal; and put this in rhyme, on the whole, + Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart + Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art:-- + The Greek Psyche,--that's beauty,--the perfect ideal. + But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real, + With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale + Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. + You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too, + Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you. + Geology opens the mind. So you know + Something also of strata and fossils; these show + The bases of cosmical structure: some mention + Of the nebulous theory demands your attention; + And so on. + "In short, it is clear the interior + Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior + In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire, + To that of my poor parliamentary squire; + But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat + Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incomplete. + You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at? + My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. + An old illustration's as good as a new, + Provided the old illustration be true. + We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly, + Though we marvel to see them ascending so high; + Things slight in themselves,--long-tail'd toys, and no more: + What is it that makes the kite steadily soar + Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth + But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth? + I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, + And the hornbook I learn'd on my poor mother's knee. + In truth, I suspect little else do we learn + From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, + Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, + What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood. + "Your case + Is exactly in point. + "Fly your kite, if you please, + Out of sight: let it go where it will, on the breeze; + But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, + Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. + No man is the absolute lord of his life. + You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear wife. + If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire, + With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire + For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair, + Some dull winter evening to solace and share + With the love which the world its good children allows + To shake hands with,--in short, a legitimate spouse, + This thought has consoled me: 'At least I have given + For my own good behavior no hostage to heaven.' + You have, though. Forget it not! faith, if you do, + I would rather break stones on a road than be you. + If any man wilfully injured, or led + That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head, + Even though you yourself were the sinner! + "And this + Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss!) + To the matter I meant to have mention'd at once, + But these thoughts put it out of my head for the nonce. + Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams, + Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs, + The wolf best received by the flock he devours + Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. + At least, this has long been my unsettled conviction, + And I almost would venture at once the prediction + That before very long--but no matter! I trust, + For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. + But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on + The score of such men as with both God and Mammon + Seem so shrewdly familiar. + "Neglect not this warning. + There were rumors afloat in the City this morning + Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows? would he fleece + At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece? + For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune + Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune + Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner, + Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up winner, + I say, lose no time! get it out of the grab + Of her trustee and uncle, Sir Ridley McNab. + I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out, + And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. + A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. + Verbum sap. I admit nothing yet justifies + My mistrust; but I have in my own mind a notion + That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devotion, + Have long been the only ostensible capital + On which he does business. If so, time must sap it all, + Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait, + Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late. + I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect; + I give you my notions. Form yours and reflect. + My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well. + I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell + Worth your hearing. We think that the Government here + Will not last our next session. Fitz Funk is a peer, + You will see by the Times. There are symptoms which show + That the ministers now are preparing to go, + And finish their feast of the loaves and the fishes. + It is evident that they are clearing the dishes, + And cramming their pockets with bonbons. Your news + Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues, + Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so + You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman? I know + That the man is a sad mauvais sujet. Take care + Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there; + But before I am free, you are sure to be gone. + Good-by, my dear fellow. Yours, anxiously, + JOHN." + + + II. + + + This is just the advice I myself would have given + To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, which, Heaven + Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed + In an unlucky hour, and received little heed. + A half-languid glance was the most that he lent at + That time to these homilies. Primum dementat + Quem Deus vult perdere. Alfred in fact + Was behaving just then in a way to distract + Job's self had Job known him. The more you'd have thought + The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would have caught, + The more did his aspect grow listless to hers, + And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers. + And Matilda, the less she found love in the look + Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the Duke. + With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, heart from heart, + Woke to feel themselves further and further apart. + More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the table; + Played high; and lost more than to lose he was able. + He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse,-- + And here I must mention, what made matters worse, + That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel + With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell + That they all saw too much of each other. The weather + Was so fine that it brought them each day all together + In the garden, to listen, of course, to the band. + The house was a sort of phalanstery; and + Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover + A mutual passion for music. Moreover, + The Duke was an excellent tenor; could sing + "Ange si pure" in a way to bring down on the wing + All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord + Would also, at times, when he was not too bored, + Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not ill; + With some little things of his own, showing skill. + For which reason, as well as for some others too, + Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendezvous. + Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless coquette!) + All the mischief she could not but mark? + Patience yet! + + III. + + + In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn from the sun, + By laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun, + Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when the heat + Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat. + And here, with some friends of their own little world, + In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd + From the feet of the lindens, and crept through the grass, + Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass. + The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring, + Undeterr'd by tobacco, their work there, and sing + Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the bee + Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there was tea + (A luxury due to Matilda), and ice, + Fruit and coffee. [Greek text omitted]! + Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided + O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided, + With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a thick head, + And an old Russian Countess both witty and wicked, + And two Austrian Colonels,--that Alfred, who yet + Was lounging alone with his last cigarette, + Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow + 'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro, + And joining her, cried, "Thank the good stars, we meet! + I have so much to say to you!" + "Yes?... "with her sweet + Serene voice, she replied to him.... "Yes? and I too + Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you." + She was paler just then than her wont was. The sound + Of her voice had within it a sadness profound. + "You are ill?" he exclaim'd. + "No!" she hurriedly said. + "No, no!" + "You alarm me!" + She droop'd down her head. + "If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to divine + The purpose of what has been passing in mine, + My farewell can scarcely alarm you." + + ALFRED. + + Lucile! + Your farewell! you go! + + LUCILE. + + Yes, Lord Alfred. + + ALFRED. + + Reveal + The cause of this sudden unkindness. + + LUCILE. + + Unkind? + + ALFRED. + + Yes! what else is this parting? + + LUCILE. + + No, no! are you blind? + Look into your own heart and home. Can you see + No reason for this, save unkindness in me? + Look into the eyes of your wife--those true eyes, + Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise + The sweet soul shining through them. + + ALFRED. + + Lucile! (first and last + Be the word, if you will!) let me speak of the past. + I know now, alas! though I know it too late, + What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate. + Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet! let it be! + I but say what is due to yourself--due to me, + And must say it. + He rushed incoherently on, + Describing how, lately, the truth he had known, + To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd her before, + All the complicate coil wound about him of yore, + All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was fled, + "And then, O Lucile, what was left me," he said, + "When my life was defrauded of you, but to take + That life, as 'twas left, and endeavor to make + Unobserved by another, the void which remain'd + Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd, + I have striven. One word of unkindness has never + Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever + Received my submission. And if, of a truth, + I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth, + I at least have been loyal to what I DO feel, + Respect, duty, honor, affection. Lucile, + I speak not of love now, nor love's long regret: + I would not offend you, nor dare I forget + The ties that are round me. But may there not be + A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me? + May we not be yet friends--friends the dearest?" + "Alas!" + She replied, "for one moment, perchance, did it pass + Through my own heart, that dream which forever hath brought + To those who indulge it in innocent thought + So fatal an evil awaking! But no. + For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-tree would grow + On the borders of Hades: beyond it, what lies? + The wheel of Ixion, alas! and the cries + Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us, + Are the days when with innocence we could discuss + Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my life! + Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife. + And I--in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow + To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow + Not one blush when I first took her hand. With no blush + Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. + "Hush! hush! + I would say what I wish'd to have said when you came. + Do not think that years leave us and find us the same! + The woman you knew long ago, long ago, + Is no more. You yourself have within you, I know, + The germ of a joy in the years yet to be, + Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me, + I go my own way,--onward, upward! + "O yet, + Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret + When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,-- + The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead, + But it is not corrupted. I too have at last + Lived to learn that love is not--such love as is past, + Such love as youth dreams of at least--the sole part + Of life, which is able to fill up the heart; + Even that of a woman. + "Between you and me + Heaven fixes a gulf, over which you must see + That our guardian angels can bear us no more. + We each of us stand on an opposite shore. + Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn, + By an instinct men never attain, to discern + Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, + Matilda is young--see her now, sitting there!-- + How tenderly fashion'd--(oh, is she not? say,) + To love and be loved!" + + + IV. + + + He turn'd sharply away-- + "Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair; + Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware; + But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child; + Matilda loves not--" + Lucile quietly smiled + As she answer'd him--"Yesterday, all that you say + Might be true; it is false, wholly false, though, today." + "How?--what mean you?" + "I mean that to-day," she replied, + "The statue with life has become vivified: + I mean that the child to a woman has grown: + And that woman is jealous." + "What, she!" with a tone + Of ironical wonder, he answer'd--what, she! + She jealous!--Matilda!--of whom, pray?--not me!" + "My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you + Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too, + That so lately this passion within her hath grown. + For who shall declare, if for months she had known + What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear, + That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear?" + + "Explain! explain, madam!" he cried, in surprise; + And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. + "How blind are you men!" she replied. "Can you doubt + That a woman, young, fair, and neglected--" + "Speak out!" + He gasp'd with emotion. "Lucile! you mean--what! + Do you doubt her fidelity?" + "Certainly not. + Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to explain + Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain + From touching a subject so fragile. However, + Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavor + To invade for one moment your innermost life. + Your honor, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife, + Are dear to me,--most dear! And I am convinced + That you rashly are risking that honor." + He winced, + And turn'd pale, as she spoke. + She had aim'd at his heart, + And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start, + That her aim had not miss'd. + "Stay, Lucile!" he exclaim'd, + "What in truth do you mean by these words, vaguely framed + To alarm me? Matilda?--my wife?--do you know?"-- + + "I know that your wife is as spotless as snow. + But I know not how far your continued neglect + Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect. + Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere + Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet dear, + Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece + Which surrounded and hid the celestials in Greece + From the glances of men, would disperse and depart + At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart,-- + For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, + A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure; + And the heart left too long to its ravage in time + May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime." + + + V. + + + "Such thoughts could have never," he falter'd, "I know, + Reach'd the heart of Matilda." + "Matilda? oh no! + But reflect! when such thoughts do not come of themselves + To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves + That seek lonely places,--there rarely is wanting + Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting + To conjure them to her." + "O lady, beware! + At this moment, around me I search everywhere + For a clew to your words"-- + "You mistake them," she said, + Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made. + "I was putting a mere hypothetical case." + With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face. + "Woe to him,..." he exclaim'd... "woe to him that shall feel + Such a hope! for I swear, if he did but reveal + One glimpse,--it should be the last hope of his life!" + The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'd the strife + She had roused in his heart. + "You forget," she began, + "That you menace yourself. You yourself are the man + That is guilty. Alas! must it ever be so? + Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, + And fight our own shadows forever? O think! + The trial from which you, the stronger ones, shrink, + You ask woman, the weaker one, still to endure; + You bid her be true to the laws you abjure; + To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder, + With the force that has fail'd you; and that too, when under + The assumption of rights which to her you refuse, + The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse! + Where the contract exists, it involves obligation + To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. + You unloose, in asserting your own liberty, + A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. + Then, O Alfred! be juster at heart: and thank Heaven + That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given + That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit + You have cause to reproach your own self, could you see it!" + + + VI. + + + In the silence that follow'd the last word she said, + In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head, + Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to impart + A new germ of motion and life to that heart + Of which he himself had so recently spoken + As dead to emotion--exhausted, or broken! + New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. + In the husband indifferent no more to the wife + She already, as she had foreseen, could discover + That Matilda had gain'd at her hands, a new lover. + So after some moments of silence, whose spell + They both felt, she extended her hand to him.... + + + VII. + + "Well?" + + + VIII. + + + "Lucile," he replied, as that soft quiet hand + In his own he clasp'd warmly, "I both understand + And obey you." + "Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. + "O yet, + One word, I beseech you! I cannot forget," + He exclaim'd, "we are parting for life. You have shown + My pathway to me: but say, what is your own?" + The calmness with which until then she had spoken + In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly broken. + She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly. + "Nay, + I know not," she murmur'd, "I follow the way + Heaven leads me; I cannot foresee to what end. + I know only that far, far away it must tend + From all places in which we have met, or might meet. + Far away!--onward upward!" + A smile strange and sweet + As the incense that rises from some sacred cup + And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up + Her whole face, with those words. + "Wheresoever it be, + May all gentlest angels attend you!" sighed he, + "And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are!" + And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd. + + + IX. + + + From afar + That kiss was, alas! by Matilda beheld. + With far other emotions: her young bosom swell'd, + And her young cheek with anger was crimson'd. + The Duke + Adroitly attracted towards it her look + By a faint but significant smile. + + + X. + + + Much ill-construed, + Renown'd Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, strew'd + With arguments page upon page to teach folks + That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. + But it surely is hard, since we can't do without them, + That our senses should make us so oft wish to doubt them! + + + + +CANTO III. + + + I. + + + When first the red savage call'd Man strode, a king, + Through the wilds of creation--the very first thing + That his naked intelligence taught him to feel + Was the shame of himself; and the wish to conceal + Was the first step in art. From the apron which Eve + In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave, + To the furbelow'd flounce and the broad crinoline + Of my lady--you all know of course whom I mean-- + This art of concealment has greatly increas'd. + A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast; + And that drama of passions as old as the hills, + Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils, + Is only reveal'd now and then to our eyes + In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize. + + + II. + + + In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled, + 'Mid those walks over which the laburnum-bough trembled, + And the deep-bosom'd lilac, emparadising + The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and sing, + The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen only, + A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely + The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom; + Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom, + Like those who, when Florence was yet in her glories, + Cheated death and kill'd time with Boccaccian stories. + But at length the long twilight more deeply grew shaded, + And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded. + And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough, + Through the shadowy garden were slumbering now. + The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk, + Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. + And, as each little sprightly and garrulous leaf + Woke up with an evident sense of relief, + They all seem'd to be saying... "Once more we're alone, + And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people are gone!" + + + III. + + + Through the deep blue concave of the luminous air, + Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and there, + Like the eyes of shy passionate women, look'd down + O'er the dim world whose sole tender light was their own, + When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended, + And enter'd the garden, unseen, unattended. + Her forehead was aching and parch'd, and her breast + By a vague inexpressible sadness oppress'd: + A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew how, + And she scarcely knew why... (save, indeed, that just now + The house, out of which with a gasp she had fled + Half stifled, seem'd ready to sink on her head)... + Out into the night air, the silence, the bright + Boundless starlight, the cool isolation of night! + Her husband that day had look'd once in her face, + And press'd both her hands in a silent embrace, + And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection + With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection. + He, of late so indifferent and listless!... at last + Was he startled and awed by the change which had pass'd + O'er the once radiant face of his young wife? Whence came + That long look of solicitous fondness?... the same + Look and language of quiet affection--the look + And the language, alas! which so often she took + For pure love in the simple repose of its purity-- + Her own heart thus lull'd to a fatal security! + Ha! would he deceive her again by this kindness? + Had she been, then, O fool! in her innocent blindness, + The sport of transparent illusion? ah folly! + And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy, + She had taken, till then, in the heart, not alone + Of her husband, but also, indeed, in her own, + For true love, nothing else, after all, did it prove + But a friendship profanely familiar? + "And love?... + What was love, then?... not calm, not secure--scarcely kind, + But in one, all intensest emotions combined: + Life and death: pain and rapture?" + Thus wandering astray, + Led by doubt, through the darkness she wander'd away. + All silently crossing, recrossing the night. + With faint, meteoric, miraculous light, + The swift-shooting stars through the infinite burn'd, + And into the infinite ever return'd. + And silently o'er the obscure and unknown + In the heart of Matilda there darted and shone + Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to expire, + Leaving traces behind them of tremulous fire. + + + IV. + + + She enter'd that arbor of lilacs, in which + The dark air with odors hung heavy and rich, + Like a soul that grows faint with desire. + 'Twas the place + In which she so lately had sat face to face, + With her husband,--and her, the pale stranger detested + Whose presence her heart like a plague had infested. + The whole spot with evil remembrance was haunted. + Through the darkness there rose on the heart which it daunted, + Each dreary detail of that desolate day, + So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away + The acacias were muttering, like mischievous elves, + The whole story over again to themselves, + Each word,--and each word was a wound! By degrees + Her memory mingled its voice with the trees. + + + V. + + + Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused by the root + Of the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its fruit, + To the heart of Matilda the trees seem'd to hiss + Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, which is + The right of reprisals. + An image uncertain, + And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the curtain + Of the darkness around her. It came, and it went; + Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent: + It pass'd and repass'd her; it went and it came, + Forever returning; forever the same; + And forever more clearly defined; till her eyes + In that outline obscure could at last recognize + The man to whose image, the more and the more + That her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep of yore, + From her husband detach'd itself slowly, with pain. + Her thoughts had return'd, and return'd to, again, + As though by some secret indefinite law,-- + The vigilant Frenchman--Eugene de Luvois! + + + VI. + + + A light sound behind her. She trembled. By some + Night-witchcraft her vision a fact had become. + On a sudden she felt, without turning to view, + That a man was approaching behind her. She knew + By the fluttering pulse which she could not restrain, + And the quick-beating heart, that this man was Eugene. + Her first instinct was flight; but she felt her slight foot + As heavy as though to the soil it had root. + And the Duke's voice retain'd her, like fear in a dream. + + + VII. + + + "Ah, lady! in life there are meetings which seem + Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too? + Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you? + Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn, + By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn + To revisit the memories left in the place + Where so lately this evening I look'd in your face. + And I find,--you, yourself,--my own dream! + "Can there be + In this world one thought common to you and to me? + If so,... I, who deem'd but a moment ago + My heart uncompanion'd, save only by woe, + Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to believe-- + --Ah, but ONE word, but one from your lips to receive"... + Interrupting him quickly, she murmur'd, "I sought, + Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought, + Which I needed."... + "Lives solitude only for one? + Must its charm by my presence so soon be undone? + Ah, cannot two share it? What needs it for this?-- + The same thought in both hearts,--be it sorrow or bliss; + If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady--you, + Are you not yet alone,--even though we be two?" + + "For that,"... said Matilda,... "needs were, you should read + What I have in my heart"... + "Think you, lady, indeed, + You are yet of that age when a woman conceals + In her heart so completely whatever she feels + From the heart of the man whom it interests to know + And find out what that feeling may be? Ah, not so, + Lady Alfred? Forgive me that in it I look, + But I read in your heart as I read in a book." + + "Well, Duke! and what read you within it? unless + It be, of a truth, a profound weariness, + And some sadness?" + "No doubt. To all facts there are laws. + The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause." + + + VIII. + + + Matilda shrank back; for she suddenly found + That a finger was press'd on the yet bleeding wound + She, herself, had but that day perceived in her breast. + + "You are sad,"... said the Duke (and that finger yet press'd + With a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed)-- + "You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need + Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be + Beloved, and to love. You are sad: for you see + That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that you were: + You are sad: for that knowledge hath left you aware + That you have not yet loved, though you thought that you had. + "Yes, yes!... you are sad--because knowledge is sad!" + + He could not have read more profoundly her heart. + "What gave you," she cried, with a terrified start, + "Such strange power?" + "To read in your thoughts?" he exclaim'd + "O lady,--a love, deep, profound--be it blamed + Or rejected,--a love, true, intense--such, at least, + As you, and you only, could wake in my breast!" + + "Hush, hush!... I beseech you... for pity!' she gasp'd, + Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had clasp'd, + In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot. + + "For pity?"... he echoed, "for pity! and what + Is the pity you owe him? his pity for you! + He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew! + The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair, + And matchless! (whose happiness did he not swear + To cherish through life?) he neglects her--for whom? + For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the bloom + Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail + To keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale, + Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of flowers + Her symbol is not, and this pure world of ours + Has no second Matilda! For whom? Let that pass! + 'Tis not I, 'tis not you, that can name her, alas! + And I dare not question or judge her. But why, + Why cherish the cause of your own misery? + Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you? + Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks through? + And why, since you have but to stretch forth your hand, + The love which you need and deserve to command, + Why shrink? Why repel it?" + "O hush, sir! O hush!" + Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one blush. + "Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life! + Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his wife?" + + + IX. + + + "And have I not, lady," he answer'd,... "respected + HIS rights as a friend, till himself he neglected + YOUR rights as a wife? Do you think 'tis alone + For three days I have loved you? My love may have grown, + I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes, + In watching their tears, and in sounding your sighs. + But, O lady! I loved you before I believed + That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever grieved. + Then I deem'd you were happy--I deem'd you possess'd + All the love you deserved,--and I hid in my breast + My own love, till this hour--when I could not but feel + Your grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal! + I knew, years ago, of the singular power + Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. Till the hour + In which he revea'd it himself, did I,--say!-- + By a word, or a look, such a secret betray? + No! no! do me justice. I never have spoken + Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had broken + Which bound YOUR heart to him. And now--now, that his love + For another hath left your own heart free to rove, + What is it,--even now,--that I kneel to implore you? + Only this, Lady Alfred!... to let me adore you + Unblamed: to have confidence in me: to spend + On me not one thought, save to think me your friend. + Let me speak to you,--ah, let me speak to you still! + Hush to silence my words in your heart if you will. + I ask no response: I ask only your leave + To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you grieve!" + + + X. + + + "Leave me, leave me!"... she gasp'd, with a voice thick and low + From emotion. "For pity's sake, Duke, let me go! + I feel that to blame we should both of us be, + Did I linger." + "To blame? yes, no doubt!"... answer'd he, + "If the love of your husband, in bringing you peace, + Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your release + By the hand of another. One moment! but one! + Who knows when, alas! I may see you alone + As to-night I have seen you? or when we may meet + As to-night we have met? when, entranced at your feet, + As in this blessed hour, I may ever avow + The thoughts which are pining for utterance now?" + "Duke! Duke!"... she exclaim'd,... "for Heaven's sake let me go! + It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know. + We must not be seen here together. The night + Is advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright! + It is time to return to my lord." + "To your lord?" + He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word. + "To your lord? do you think he awaits you in truth? + Is he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth? + Return to your lord!... his restraint to renew? + And hinder the glances which are not for you? + No, no!... at this moment his looks seek the face + Of another! another is there in your place! + Another consoles him! another receives + The soft speech which from silence your absence relieves!" + + + XI. + + + "You mistake, sir!"... responded a voice, calm, severe, + And sad,. . . "You mistake, sir! that other is here." + Eugene and Matilda both started. + "Lucile!" + With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel + From the place where she stood, cried Matilda. + "Ho, oh! + What! eaves-dropping, madam?"... the Duke cried... "And so + You were listening?" + "Say, rather," she said, "that I heard, + Without wishing to hear it, that infamous word,-- + Heard--and therefore reply." + "Belle Comtesse," said the Duke, + With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke, + Which betray'd that he felt himself baffled... "you know + That your place is not HERE." + "Duke," she answer'd him slow, + "My place is wherever my duty is clear; + And therefore my place, at this moment, is here. + O lady, this morning my place was beside + Your husband, because (as she said this she sigh'd) + I felt that from folly fast growing to crime-- + The crime of self-blindness--Heaven yet spared me time + To save for the love of an innocent wife + All that such love deserved in the heart and the life + Of the man to whose heart and whose life you alone + Can with safety confide the pure trust of your own." + + She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her + Her soft quiet hand... + "'Tis, O lady, the honor + Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite + Of his friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night-- + Save for both of you, lady! for yours I revere; + Duc de Luvois, what say you?--my place is not here?" + + + XII. + + + And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught, + Wound one arm round her waist unresisted and sought + Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. + The Duke stood confounded, and follow'd them not, + But not yet the house had they reach'd when Lucile + Her tender and delicate burden could feel + Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt down, + Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her own + The poor bosom beating against her. + The moon, + Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful of June, + Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the vale, + And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one pale, + Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous star + Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car, + Thus to each of those women revealing the face + Of the other. Each bore on her features the trace + Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame + The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame. + With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile + Trembled visibly yet; for she could not but feel + That a heavenly hand was upon her that night, + And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light. + "In the name of your husband, dear lady," she said, + "In the name of your mother, take heart! Lift your head, + For those blushes are noble. Alas! do not trust + To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, + That the fault of the husband can cancel the wife's. + Take heart! and take refuge and strength in your life's + Pure silence,--there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, and wait!" + "Saved, Lucile!" sobb'd Matilda, "but saved to what fate? + Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes." + "Hush!" the sweet voice replied. + "Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side + Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And return + For the love you can give, with the love that you yearn + To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both now? + Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how + Love is nourish'd by love. Well! henceforth you will prove + Your heart worthy of love,--since it knows how to love." + + + XIII. + + + "What gives you such power over me, that I feel + Thus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?" + Sigh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face + Of Lucile. + There pass'd suddenly through it the trace + Of deep sadness; and o'er that fair forehead came down + A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. + "The pupil of sorrow, perchance,"... she replied. + "Of sorrow?" Matilda exclaim'd... "O confide + To my heart your affliction. In all you made known + I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!" + + "And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tears + Of another have not flow'd for me many years." + + It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand + Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; and + Thus together they enter'd the house. + + + XIV. + + + 'Twas the room + Of Matilda. + The languid and delicate gloom + Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft + From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. + The casement oped into the garden. The pale + Cool moonlight stream'd through it. One lone nightingale + Sung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by side, + Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, + Save by guardian angels. + As when, sparkling yet + From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wet + The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines + To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines + As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful speech, + Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to each + Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, + So united, yet diverse, the two women there + Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem, + In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. + All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows? + All that heart gain'd from heart? + Leave the lily, the rose, + Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For who + To the heart of the floweret can follow the dew? + A night full of stars! O'er the silence, unseen, + The footsteps of sentinel angels between + The dark land and deep sky were moving. You heard + Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watchword + Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell + From earth's heart, which it eased... "All is well! all is well!" + + + + +CANTO IV. + + + I. + + + The Poets pour wine; and, when 'tis new, all decry it; + But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. + And Polonius, who praises no wine that's not Massic, + Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. + And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly, + My earlier verses, sighs "Commonplace sadly!" + + As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly; + But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly + In despite of their languishing looks, on my word, + That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. + Yes! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard + Better far than Longinus himself can reward + The appeal to her feelings of which she approves; + And the critics I most care to please are the Loves. + + Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head + And a brass on his breast,--when a man is once dead? + Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then + Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. + The reformer's?--a creed by posterity learnt + A century after its author is burnt! + The poet's?--a laurel that hides the bald brow + It hath blighted! The painter's?--Ask Raphael now + Which Madonna's authentic! The stateman's?--a name + For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim! + The soldier's?--three lines on the cold Abbey pavement! + Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant, + All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were + Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, + Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade + And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, + Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought, + A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for naught + Save the name of John Milton! For all men, indeed, + Who in some choice edition may graciously read, + With fair illustration, and erudite note, + The song which the poet in bitterness wrote, + Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this-- + The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss + The grief of the man: Tasso's song--not his madness! + Dante's dreams--not his waking to exile and sadness! + Milton's music--but not Milton's blindness!... + Yet rise, + My Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes + Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth! + Say--the life, in the living it, savors of worth: + That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim: + That the fact has a value apart from the fame: + That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays + Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days: + And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's writings were lost, + And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed + Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt + In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have felt + All that Hamlet hath uttered, and haply where, pure + On its death-bed, wrong'd Love lay, have moan'd with the Moor! + + + II. + + + When Lord Alfred that night to the salon return'd + He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn'd + As though half out of humor to find itself there + Forced to light for no purpose a room that was bare. + He sat down by the window alone. Never yet + Did the heavens a lovelier evening beget + Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the new moon! + The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet swoon, + Wide open to heaven; and the stars on the stream + Were trembling like eyes that are loved on the dream + Of a lover; and all things were glad and at rest + Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast. + He endeavor'd to think--an unwonted employment, + Which appear'd to afford him no sort of enjoyment. + + + III. + + + "Withdraw into yourself. But, if peace you seek there for, + Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare for," + Wrote the tutor of Nero; who wrote, be it said, + Better far than he acted--but peace to the dead! + He bled for his pupil: what more could he do? + But Lord Alfred, when into himself he withdrew, + Found all there in disorder. For more than an hour + He sat with his head droop'd like some stubborn flower + Beaten down by the rush of the rain--with such force + Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the course + Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim, + From the cloud that had darken'd the evening for him. + At one moment he rose--rose and open'd the door, + And wistfully look'd down the dark corridor + Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a sigh + Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly + Back again to his place in a sort of submission + To doubt, and return'd to his former position,-- + That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the face, + And the eye vaguely fix'd on impalpable space. + The dream, which till then had been lulling his life, + As once Circe the winds, had seal'd thought; and his wife + And his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses, + Forgotten; but now o'er the troubled abysses + Of the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leapt + To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly swept + All his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had been + Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen. + + + IV. + + + How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not, + Till he started, as though he were suddenly shot, + To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt, + Which was making some noise in the passage without. + A sound English voice; with a round English accent, + Which the scared German echoes resentfully back sent; + The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver + Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver; + Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot + Which reveal'd by its sound no diminutive foot: + And the door was flung suddenly open, and on + The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John + Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or + Frenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major + On some lean Ursa Minor would doubtless bestow + With a warmth for which only starvation and snow + Could render one grateful. As soon as he could, + Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food + Any more for those somewhat voracious embraces. + Then the two men sat down and scann'd each other's faces: + And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken + With unwonted emotion. The hand that had shaken + His own trembled somewhat. In truth he descried + At a glance, something wrong. + + + V. + + + "What's the matter?" he cried. + "What have you to tell me?" + + JOHN. + + What! have you not heard? + + ALFRED. + + Heard what? + + JOHN. + + This sad business-- + + ALFRED. + + I? no, not a word. + + JOHN. + + You received my last letter? + + ALFRED. + + I think so. If not, + What then? + + JOHN. + + You have acted upon it? + + ALFRED. + + On what? + + JOHN. + + The advice that I gave you-- + + ALFRED. + + Advice?--let me see? + You ALWAYS are giving advice, Jack, to me. + About Parliament, was it? + + JOHN. + + Hang Parliament! no, + The Bank, the Bank, Alfred! + + ALFRED. + + What Bank? + + JOHN. + + Heavens! I know + You are careless;--but surely you have not forgotten,-- + Or neglected... I warn'd you the whole thing was rotten. + You have drawn those deposits at least? + + ALFRED. + + No, I meant + To have written to-day; but the note shall be sent + To-morrow, however. + + JOHN. + + To-morrow? too late! + Too late! oh, what devil bewitch'd you to wait? + + ALFRED. + + Mercy save us! you don't mean to say... + + JOHN. + + Yes, I do. + + ALFRED. + + What! Sir Ridley? + + JOHN. + + Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted too! + + ALFRED. + + But his own niece?... In Heaven's name, Jack... + + JOHN. + + Oh, I told you + The old hypocritical scoundrel would... + + ALFRED. + + Hold! you + Surely can't mean we are ruin'd? + + JOHN. + + Sit down! + A fortnight ago a report about town + Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas! + I at once wrote and warn'd you. Well, now let that pass. + A run on the Bank about five days ago + Confirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though. + I drove down to the city at once; found the door + Of the Bank close: the Bank had stopp'd payment at four. + Next morning the failure was known to be fraud: + Warrant out for McNab: but McNab was abroad: + Gone--we cannot tell where. I endeavor'd to get + Information: have learn'd nothing certain as yet-- + Not even the way that old Ridley was gone: + Or with those securities what he had done: + Or whether they had been already call'd out: + If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt. + Twenty families ruin'd, they say: what was left,-- + Unable to find any clew to the cleft + The old fox ran to earth in,--but join you as fast + As I could, my dear Alfred?* + + + *These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse, + Took place when Bad News as yet travell'd by horse; + Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzz'd on a wire, + Or Time was calcined by electrical fire; + Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic, + Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic. + + + VI. + + + He stopp'd here, aghast + At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face + Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space. + "Courage, courage!"... said John,... "bear the blow like a man!" + And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. There ran + Through that hand a quick tremor. "I bear it," he said, + "But Matilda? the blow is to her!" And his head + Seem'd forced down, as he said it. + + JOHN. + + Matilda? Pooh, pooh! + I half think I know the girl better than you. + She has courage enough--and to spare. She cares less + Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress. + + ALFRED. + + The fault has been mine. + + JOHN. + + Be it yours to repair it: + If you did not avert, you may help her to bear t. + + ALFRED. + + I might have averted. + + JOHN. + + Perhaps so. But now + There is clearly no use in considering how, + Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here. + Broken shins are not mended by crying--that's clear! + One has but to rub them, and get up again, + And push on--and not think too much of the pain. + And at least it is much that you see that to her + You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir + And arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake. Who knows? + Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose + We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least. + + "O Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast! + A fool! I have sinn'd, and to HER I have sinn'd! + I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind! + And now, in a flash, I see all things!" + As though + To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low + On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on + And fell momently, heavily, one after one. + John felt no desire to find instant relief + For the trouble he witness'd. + He guess'd, in the grief + Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission + Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition: + Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse + To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use + Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely + The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly. + So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down + The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own + Cordial heart for Matilda. + Thus, silently lost + In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and re-cross'd + The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung + O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among + The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there, + That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, + The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own + Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown + Unconscious of Alfred. + And so for a space + There was silence between them. + + + VII. + + + At last, with sad face + He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile + A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, + Approach'd him,--stood o'er him,--and suddenly laid + One hand on his shoulder-- + "Where is she?" he said. + Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears + And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears + In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, + Unable to answer. + "Where is she?" repeated + His cousin. + He motioned his hand to the door; + "There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no more, + And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations, + Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications. + So again there was silence. + A timepiece at last + Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. + Roused by them, he cast + A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw + His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew + The hands down from his face. + "It is time she should know + What has happen'd," he said,... "let us go to her now." + Alfred started at once to his feet. + Drawn and wan + Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was--a man. + Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd through + With a manly resolve. + If that axiom be true + Of the "Sum quia cogito," I must opine + That "id sum quod cogito;"--that which, in fine + A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought + And feeling, the man is himself. + He had fought + With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow + The survivor of much which that strife had laid low + At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, + Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life + Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in that name, + To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of fame + And of power fell shatter'd before him; and only + There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely + In all save the love he could give her. The lord + Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record + That his first thought, and last, at that moment was not + Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, + But the love that was left to it; not of the pelf + He had cared for, yet squander'd; and not of himself, + But of her; as he murmur'd, + "One moment, dear jack! + We have grown up from boyhood together. Our track + Has been through the same meadows in childhood: in youth + Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. In truth, + There is none that can know me as you do; and none + To whom I more wish to believe myself known. + Speak the truth; you are not wont to mince it, I know. + Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. + In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite + Of vanity, folly, and pride, Jack, which might + Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true + As your own, I have never turn'd round and miss'd YOU + From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt + By my own blind and heedless self-will brought about. + Tell me truth. Do I owe this alone to the sake + Of those old recollections of boyhood that make + In your heart yet some clinging and crying appeal + From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but feel + Might have sentenced our friendship to death long ago? + Or is it... (I would I could deem it were so!) + That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, + Your heart has divined in me something superior + To that which I seem; from my innermost nature + Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature? + Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire + For truth? Some one spark of the soul's native fire + Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust + Which life hath heap'd o'er it? Some one fact to trust + And to hope in? Or by you alone am I deem'd + The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd + To my own self?" + + JOHN. + + No, Alfred! you will, I believe, + Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve + For having belied your true nature so long. + Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong! + + "Do you think," he resumed,... "what I feel while I speak + Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak + As these weak tears would seem to betoken it?" + + JOHN. + + No! + + ALFRED. + + Thank you, cousin! your hand then. And now I will go + Alone, Jack. Trust to me. + + + VIII. + + + JOHN. + + I do. But 'tis late. + If she sleeps, you'll not wake her? + + ALFRED. + + No, no! it will wait + (Poor infant!) too surely, this mission of sorrow; + If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of tomorrow. + He open'd the door, and pass'd out. + Cousin John + Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone. + + + IX. + + + His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her door, + He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more + He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he tried: + The door open'd: he enter'd the room undescried. + + + X. + + + No brighter than is that dim circlet of light + Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the night, + The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed + Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed + Matilda was kneeling; so wrapt in deep prayer + That she knew not her husband stood watching her there. + With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a faint + And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint + The whole place with a sense of deep peace made secure + By the presence of something angelic and pure. + And not purer some angel Grief carves o'er the tomb + Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that gloom. + She had put off her dress; and she look'd to his eyes + Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise; + Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, + And over them rippled her soft golden hair; + Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced + Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. + As the light that, from water reflected, forever, + Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river, + So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him, + Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft and dim. + Reproducing itself in the broken and bright + Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. + That sight + Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce what he did, + To her side through the chamber he silently slid, + And knelt down beside her--and pray'd at her side. + + + XI. + + + Upstarting, she then for the first time descried + That her husband was near her; suffused with the blush + Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush + Where the tears sparkled yet. + As a young fawn uncouches, + Shy with fear from the fern where some hunter approaches, + She shrank back; he caught her, and circling his arm + Round her waist, on her brow press'd one kiss long and warm. + Then her fear changed in impulse; and hiding her face + On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace + With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as though + She fear'd, if their clasp was relaxed, he would go: + Her smooth, naked shoulders, uncared for, convulsed + By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed + In its pressure on his, as the effort within it + Lived and died with each tender tumultuous minute. + "O Alfred, O Alfred! forgive me," she cried-- + "Forgive me!" + "Forgive you, my poor child!" he sigh'd; + "But I never have blamed you for aught that I know, + And I have not one thought that reproaches you now." + From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so + He forced her down softly beside him. Below + The canopy shading their couch, they sat down. + And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, + "When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at length, + That he is but a child in the midst of his strength, + But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own + The weakness which thus to himself hath been shown? + From whom seek the strength which his need of is sore, + Although in his pride he might perish, before + He could plead for the one, or the other avow + 'Mid his intimate friends? Wife of mine, tell me now, + Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour, + The sole friend that CAN have the right or the power + To be at his side, is the woman that shares + His fate, if he falter; the woman that bears + The name dear for HER sake, and hallows the life + She has mingled her own with,--in short, that man's wife?" + "Yes," murmur'd Matilda, "O yes!" + "Then," he cried, + "This chamber in which we two sit, side by side, + (And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to press her), + Is now a confessional--you, my confessor!" + "I?" she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head. + "Yes! but first answer one other question," he said: + "When a woman once feels that she is not alone: + That the heart of another is warm'd by her own; + That another feels with her whatever she feel + And halves her existence in woe or in weal; + That a man, for her sake, will, so long as he lives, + Live to put forth the strength which the thought of her gives; + Live to shield her from want, and to share with her sorrow; + Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow: + Will that woman feel less than another, O say, + The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away? + Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come, + That they brighten the heart, though they darken the home?" + She turn'd, like a soft rainy heav'n, on him + Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, tender, and dim. + "That woman," she murmur'd, "indeed were thrice blest!" + "Then courage, true wife of my heart!" to his breast + As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried. + "For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd wide + To your heart, can be never closed to it again, + And this room is for both an asylum! For when + I pass'd through that door, at the door I left there + A calamity sudden and heavy to bear. + One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, + We must face it henceforth; but it enters not here, + For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone + A heart which calamity leaves all your own!" + She started... "Calamity, Alfred, to you?" + "To both, my poor child, but 'twill bring with it too + The courage, I trust, to subdue it." + "O speak! + Speak!" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and weak. + "O yet for a moment," he said, "hear me on! + Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun, + Like those children of sunshine, the bright summer flies, + That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the skies + While the skies smile, and heed not each other: at last, + When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky overcast, + Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings? + So indeed the morn found us,--poor frivolous things! + Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set, + And the night brings its darkness around us. Oh yet + Have we weather'd no storm through those twelve cloudless hours? + Yes; you, too, have wept! + "While the world was yet ours, + While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd to us, + And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us, + We stray'd from each other, too far, it may be, + Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see + How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great + Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my fate! + But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, + Watching o'er us to warn, and to rescue! + "That smile + Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you eyed + With resentment, an angel's they were at your side + And at mine; nor perchance is the day all so far, + When we both in our prayers, when most heartfelt they are, + May murmur the name of that woman now gone + From our sight evermore. + "Here, this evening, alone, + I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart + Unto yours,--from this clasp be it never to part! + Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, + But a prize richer far than that fortune has won + It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, + 'Tis the heart of my wife!" With suffused happy eyes + She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart, + And tenderly closing them round him, his heart + Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom; and there + Droop'd her head on his shoulder; and sobb'd. + Not despair, + Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss, + Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was + Of all save the sense of her own love! Anon, + However, his words rush'd back to her. "All gone, + The fortune you brought me!" + And eyes that were dim + With soft tears she upraised; but those tears were for HIM. + "Gone! my husband?" she said," tell me all! see! I need, + To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed, + Fuller sense of affliction." + "Poor innocent child!" + He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled, + As he told her the tale he had heard--something more, + The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore. + "Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand, for you; + And with these, my Matilda, what may I not do? + And know not, I knew not myself till this hour, + Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full power." + "And I too," she murmur'd, "I too am no more + The mere infant at heart you have known me before. + I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in life. + O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, + The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel! + For I--love you, my husband!" + As though to conceal + Less from him, than herself, what that motion express'd, + She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his breast. + "O lovely as woman, beloved as wife! + Evening star of my heart, light forever my life! + If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus far + You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian star, + Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, + There I see you, and know you, and bless the light given + To lead me to life's late achievement; my own, + My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one!" + + + XII. + + + How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight, + That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy night! + How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth, + As she clung to his side, full of trust and of truth! + How lovely to HIM, as he tenderly press'd + Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd + The glittering tresses which now shaken loose + Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them! + + + XIII. + + + O Muse, + Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart + Twixt these two silent souls! There's a joy beyond art, + And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast. + + + XIV. + + + Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at least! + No music, save such as the nightingales sung, + Breath'd their bridals abroad; and no cresset, up-hung, + Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given + From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple heaven. + He open'd the casement: he led her with him, + Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim + Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They heard + Aloof, the invisible, rapturous bird, + With her wild note bewildering the woodlands: they saw + Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw + His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with cheer + From the throat of the vale; o'er the dark sapphire sphere + The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, + Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the sheep + Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace; from unknown + Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were blown + Intermittingly; then the moon dropp'd from their sight, + Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light + Which no longer they needed to read on the face + Of each other life's last revelation. + The place + Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that never + Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeavor + Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, + Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green + Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blossoms, + And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms + Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that halts not + His forces, how lovely soever the spot + Where their march lies--the wary, gray strategist, Time, + With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd--Grief and Crime, + Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; maturing, + For his great war with man, new surprises; securing + All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe + To his last narrow refuge--the grave. + + + XV. + + + Sweetly though + Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and sweetly + Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, completely + Confiding in that yet untrodden existence + Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resistance + And struggle; to-night, Love his hallow'd device + Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice. + + + + +CANTO V. + + + I. + + + When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours + In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, + 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back + To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. + She felt her heart falter within her. She sat + Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at + The insignia of royalty worn for a night; + Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, + And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks + Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks + From the chill of the change that awaits her. + + + II. + + From these + Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, + Unable to sleep, she descended the stair + That led from her room to the garden. + The air, + With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, + Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land + Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave: + No sound, save the voice of the long river wave + And the crickets that sing all the night! + She stood still, + Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill. + Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, + And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. + Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, + Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book? + Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who + Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew? + Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both? + What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth? + Hath the darkness a dwelling,--save there, in those eyes? + And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies? + Ay, question, and listen! What answer? + The sound + Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound, + And the crickets that sing all the night. + There are hours + Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, + Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all + That to this race of worms,--stinging creatures, that crawl, + Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,-- + Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. + When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd + Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last; + When she traverses nature and space, till she stands + In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands, + Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd, + And those three blind old women sit spinning the world. + + + III. + + + The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green star + Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar; + The spirits of change and of awe, with faint breath, + Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath. + The spirits of awe and of change were around + And about, and upon her. + A dull muffled sound, + And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise, + And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes + Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seemed to burn, + And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn + Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade + Of a creature by fancy some solitude made, + And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress + Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness. + + + IV. + + + "At last, then,--at last, and alone,--I and thou, + Lucile de Nevers, have we met? + "Hush! I know + Not for me was the tryst. Never mind--it is mine; + And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine, + They remove not, until we have spoken. My hour + Is come; and it holds me and thee in its power, + As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis well! + The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell + Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight, + When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night, + Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly, + Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!" + To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream. + She appear'd with a start to awaken. + The stream, + When he ceased, took the night with its moaning again, + Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. + "Continue," she answer'd, "I listen to hear." + For a moment he did not reply. + Through the drear + And dim light between them, she saw that his face + Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace, + With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride + Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide. + Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last + He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast. + "Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face? + Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! canst thou trace + One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, + With thine own name scrawl'd through it, defacing a soul?" + In his face there was something so wrathful and wild, + That the sight of it scared her. + He saw it, and smiled, + And then turn'd him from her, renewing again + That short restless stride; as though searching in vain + For the point of some purpose within him. + "Lucile, + You shudder to look in my face: do you feel + No reproach when you look in your own heart?" + "No, Duke, + In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke: + Not yours!" she replied. + "No," he mutter'd again, + "Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and then + To Despair you say, 'Act not!'" + + + V. + + + He watch'd her awhile + With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. + They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, + Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies + Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set, + And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet + With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loom'd + Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed, + "Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou--one and all! + Only able to injure each other and fall, + Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare + For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are! + O heaven! and what has become of them? all + Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall: + That glorious faith in inherited things: + That sense in the soul of the length of her wings; + Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind sounds human, + Bewailing those once nightly visitants! Woman, + Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? Give again, + Give me back the young heart that I gave thee... in vain!" + "Duke!" she falter'd. + "Yes, yes!" he went on, "I was not + Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot." + + + VI. + + + As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd + Through his voice an emotion that swept every word + Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change, + He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. + "Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torch + Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch! + But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee + Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me! + Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine! + Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine! + My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep: + And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep! + Well!... how utter soever it be, one mistake + In the love of a man, what more change need it make + In the steps of his soul through the course love began, + Than all other mistakes in the life of a man? + And I said to myself, 'I am young yet: too young + To have wholly survived my own portion among + The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys; + What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys! + Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, + For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow + As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, + Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring! + Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remains + All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains + And the hills with each summer their verdure renew. + Wouldst thou be as they are? do thou then as they do, + Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living divine + Where they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!' + + "Vain! all vain!... For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, + I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. + Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, + Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, + In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, + In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, + I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, + But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears! + It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking, + It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, + The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold, + All my days were become as a tale that is told. + And I said to my sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see, + For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. + In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' + And I said to the grave, 'Lo, my father!' and said + To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to the dust, + And one end to the wicked shall be with the just!" + + + VII. + + + He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night + And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light + A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone + Of ineffable pity, replied to his own. + "And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life? + Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife + By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone + For the love in your nature a lie in my own, + Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse? + Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, + For I then should have wrong'd you!" + "Wrong'd! ah, is it so? + You could never have loved me?" + "Duke!" + "Never? oh, no!" + (He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he said) + "Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led + My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, + All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power + Shut up in that cold face of yours! was this well? + But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hell + Which has grown in my heart. Oh, that man! first and last + He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast + His shadow 'twixt me and the sun... let it pass! + My hate yet may find him!" + She murmur'd, "Alas! + These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. + Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall try + To forget every word I have heard, every sight + That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night + Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke, + Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke + Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had! + Adieu!" + "Stay, Lucile, stay!"... he groaned, "I am mad, + Brutalized, blind with pain! I know not what I said. + I mean it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his head) + "Forgive me! I--have I so wrong'd you, Lucile? + I... have I... forgive me, forgive me!" + "I feel + Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, "far, + Far too sad for resentment." + "Yet stand as you are + One moment," he murmur'd. "I think, could I gaze + Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days + Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart + Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart + Thus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink, + Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think. + Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will, + Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. + I lied. And the truth, now, could justify nought. + There are battles, it may be, in which to have fought + Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, + Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to feel--" + "Could I help you," she murmur'd, "but what can I say + That your life will respond to?" "My life?" he sigh'd. "Nay, + My life hath brought forth only evil, and there + The wild wind hath planted the wild weed: yet ere + You exclaim, 'Fling the weed to the flames,' think again + Why the field is so barren. With all other men + First love, though it perish from life, only goes + Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose. + For a man, at least most men, may love on through life: + Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife + With labor, and therefor, with love, for a man. + If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan + Of man's life includes love in all objects! But I? + All such loves from my life through its whole destiny + Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas! + Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass! + It perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition? + Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. + Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some great + Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State? + I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw + From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois + To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art? + But, alas! I was fashion'd for action: my heart, + Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly compress + 'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics: life's stress + Needs scope, not contraction! what rests? to wear out + At some dark northern court an existence, no doubt, + In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause + As hopeless as is my own life! By the laws + Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, + I am what I am!" + + + VIII. + + + For a while she was mute. + Then she answer'd, "We are our own fates. Our own deeds + Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creeds + But men's actions. And, Duc de Luvois, I might say + That all life attests, that 'the will makes the way.' + Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth, + Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth + Our upholding, because the white lily no more + Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore? + Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchance + Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France + Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugene + De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in pain, + Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul + That the great master hand which sweeps over the whole + Of this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretch + To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to fetch + Its response the truest, most stringent, and smart, + Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart, + Whose faculties, flaccid it may be, if less + Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to express + Just the one note the great final harmony needs. + And what best proves there's life in a heart?--that it bleeds? + Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain, + Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain! + Cease the sin with the sorrow! See morning begin! + Pain must burn itself out if not fuel'd by sin. + There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light. + Let hate and despondency die with the night!" + + He was moved by her words. As some poor wretch confined + In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose mind + Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hear + A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, + And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again, + Singing through the caged lattice a once well-known strain, + Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until + The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill + With music and memory, and, as it were, + The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware + Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each thing + It once sought,--the poor idiot who pass'd for a king, + Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confess'd + A madman more painfully mad than the rest.-- + So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er + His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore + The forces of thought: he recaptured the whole + Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul + Reflected on his: he appear'd to awake + From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake: + His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him: + He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim, + But he murmur'd... + "Lucile, not for me that sun's light + Which reveals--not restores--the wild havoc of night. + There are some creatures born for the night, not the day. + Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray, + And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower + Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower. + Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes + Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize + Enough desolation." + + + IX. + + + "The pride that claims here + On earth to itself (howsoever severe + To itself it may be) God's dread office and right + Of punishing sin, is a sin in heaven's sight, + And against heaven's service. + "Eugene de Luvois, + Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the law. + Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all + His own doomsman." + Her words seem'd to fall + With a weight of tears in them. + He look'd up, and saw + That sad serene countenance, mournful as law + And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him: and heard + In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird. + + + X. + + + "Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly. + "Eugene," + She continued, "in life we have met once again, + And once more life parts us. Yon day-spring for me + Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be + We shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to me yet + The belief that it is not in vain we have met! + I plead for the future. A new horoscope + I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a hope: + I plead for a memory; yours, yours alone, + To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, + Be the memory mine. + "Once of yore, when for man + Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began, + Men aroused to the knowledge of evil, fled far + From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the war + With the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and sought + Not repose, but employment in action or thought, + Life's strong earnest, in all things! oh, think not of me, + But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny: + I plead for your life, with its duties undone, + With its claims unappeased, and its trophies unwon; + And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead + For all that you miss, and for all that you need." + + + XI. + + + Through the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she spoke, + A clear, chilly chime from a church-turret broke; + And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the bell, + On his ear, where he kneel'd, softly, soothingly fell. + All within him was wild and confused, as within + A chamber deserted in some roadside inn, + Where, passing, wild travellers paused, over-night, + To quaff and carouse; in each socket each light + Is extinct; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the wall + With wild ribald ballads; serenely o'er all, + For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light creeps faint + Through the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint, + Seen through some broken frame, appears noting meanwhile + The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. + And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawn + Oped behind her; and pure as the pure light of dawn + She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his eyes + From their sight to be melting away in the skies + That expanded around her. + + + XII. + + + There pass'd through his head + A fancy--a vision. That woman was dead + He had loved long ago--loved and lost! dead to him, + Dead to all the life left him; but there, in the dim + Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit; 'twas hers; + And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers: + "O soul to its sources departing away! + Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. + I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power, + One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour + I name not my heart, and I speak not to thine. + Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine, + Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart denies, + Hope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon skies, + This wild night is passing away while I speak: + Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to break! + Something wakens within me, and warms to the beam: + Is it hope that awakens? or do I but dream? + I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark + Of a new light within me to solace the dark + Unto which I return; or perchance it may be + The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me. + I know not. Thou goest thy way: I my own; + For good or for evil, I know not. Alone + This I know; we are parting. I wish'd to say more, + But no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is o'er. + Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the pain + For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me again. + I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reprove + Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not love, + That you thwarted this night. What is done is now done. + Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. + I was madden'd, delirious! I saw you return + To him--not to me; and I felt my heart burn + With a fierce thirst for vengeance--and thus... let it pass! + Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, alas! + Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose + 'Tis to meet nevermore. Is it not so? Who knows, + Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise flies? + Or what altars of his in the desert may rise? + Is it not so, Lucile? Well, well! Thus then we part + Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from heart!" + + + XIII. + + + And again clearer far than the chime of a bell, + That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. + "Our two paths must part us, Eugene; for my own + Seems no more through that world in which henceforth alone + You must work out (as now I believe that you will) + The hope which you speak of. That work I shall still + (If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far away. + Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if I say + That the great moral combat between human life + And each human soul must be single. The strife + None can share, though by all its results may be known. + When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone. + I say not, indeed, we shall meet nevermore, + For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore, + I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet + By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street, + Or in solitude even, but never again + Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eugene. + For we know not the way we are going, nor yet + Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. Life hath set + No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, + I will promise: whatever your path, or my own, + If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance + That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance + Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war, + You falter and hesitate, if from afar + I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) + O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see + That my presence could rescue, support you, or guide, + In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, + To warn, if you will, or incite, or control; + And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul!" + + + XIV. + + + The voice ceased. + He uplifted his eyes. + All alone + He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone, + Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night, + Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. + And at once, in her place was the Sunrise! It rose + In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose, + The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold, + Realms of rose, in the Orient! and breathless, and bold, + While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one, + The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun! + Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began + In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man. + The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere! + Light! silence! the fresh innovations of air! + O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze + Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees. + Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-rippled stream, + Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, + Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope, + The spirits of morning were whispering, "HOPE!" + + + XV. + + + He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood + But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood + Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, + In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold + Of his own youth,--its ardors--its promise of fame-- + Its ancestral ambition; and France by the name + Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light, + That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright + And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be + Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he + Had once dwelt, a native! + There, rooted and bound + To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around + The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone + Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone; + And he--as the body may yearn for the soul, + So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole + Heart arose to regain it. + "And is it too late?" + No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. + Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. + For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain + The true source of spirit, there IS no TOO LATE. + As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate + In the fountain arises, the spirit in him + Arose to that image. The image waned dim + Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt + As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt + With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense--awed, amazed-- + Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed. + + + + +CANTO VI. + + + I. + + + Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend + Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend, + By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks + That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. + He leaps with a wail into being; and lo! + His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his foe. + Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head: + 'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes: her solitudes spread + To daunt him: her forces dispute his command: + Her snows fall to freeze him: her suns burn to brand: + Her seas yawn to engulf him: her rocks rise to crush: + And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush + On their startled invader. + In lone Malabar, + Where the infinite forest spreads breathless and far, + 'Mid the cruel of eye and the stealthy of claw + (Striped and spotted destroyers!) he sees, pale with awe, + On the menacing edge of a fiery sky, + Grim Doorga, blue-limb'd and red-handed, go by, + And the first thing he worships is Terror. + Anon, + Still impell'd by necessity hungrily on, + He conquers the realms of his own self-reliance, + And the last cry of fear wakes the first of defiance. + From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul; + Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll! + On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides high on + The heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion: + And man, conquering terror, is worshipp'd by man. + + A camp has the world been since first it began! + From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian; at peace, + A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fleece; + But, warring his way through a world's destinies, + Lo from Delhi, from Bagdadt, from Cordova, rise + Domes of empiry, dower'd with science and art, + Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart! + + New realms to man's soul have been conquer'd. But those + Forthwith they are peopled for man by new foes! + The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her own, + And bold must the man be that braves the Unknown! + Not a truth has to art or to science been given, + But brows have ached for it, and souls toil'd and striven; + And many have striven, and many have fail'd, + And many died, slain by the truth they assail'd, + But when Man hath tamed Nature, asserted his place + And dominion, behold! he is brought face to face + With a new foe--himself! + Nor may man on his shield + Ever rest, for his foe is ever afield, + Danger ever at hand, till the armed Archangel + Sound o'er him the trump of earth's final evangel. + + + II. + + + Silence straightway, stern Muse, the soft cymbals of pleasure, + Be all bronzen these numbers, and martial the measure! + Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in me + One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee + Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far time, + Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sublime + In the light of the aureole over her head, + Hears, and heeds not the wound in her heart fresh and red. + Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold + The shrill clanging curtains of war! + And behold + A vision! + The antique Heraclean seats; + And the long Black Sea billow that once bore those fleets, + Which said to the winds, "Be ye, too, Genoese!" + And the red angry sands of the chafed Cheronese; + And the two foes of man, War and Winter, allied + Round the Armies of England and France, side by side + Enduring and dying (Gaul and Briton abreast!) + Where the towers of the North fret the skies of the East. + + + III. + + + Since that sunrise which rose through the calm linden stems + O'er Lucile and Eugene, in the garden of Ems, + Through twenty-five seasons encircling the sun, + This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone, + And the fates that I sing of have flowed with the fates + Of a world, in the red wake of war, round the gates + Of that doom'd and heroical city, in which + (Fire crowning the rampart, blood bathing the ditch!), + At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear, + Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in his lair. + + + IV. + + + A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fire, + Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, mash'd to one gory mire! + There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, + While those two famished ogres--the Siege, the Defence, + Face to face, through a vapor frore, dismal, and dun, + Glare, scenting the breath of each other. + The one + Double-bodied, two-headed--by separate ways + Winding, serpent-wise, nearer; the other, each day's + Sullen toil adding size to,--concentrated, solid, + Indefatigable--the brass-fronted, embodied, + And audible [Greek text omitted] gone sombrely forth + To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north! + + + V. + + + In the dawn of a moody October, a pale + Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail + Over city and camp; like the garment of death + Which (is formed by) the face it conceals. + 'Twas the breath + War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire; + Wherethrough, here and there, flash'd an eye of red fire, + And closed, from some rampart beginning to bellow + Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the yellow + And sulphurous twilight: till day reel'd and rock'd + And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was mock'd + With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain + Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plain + Flared with fitful combustion; where fitfully fell + Afar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle, + And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom + With wings of swift flame round that City of Doom. + + + VI. + + + So the day--so the night! So by night, so by day, + With stern patient pathos, while time wears away, + In the trench flooded through, in the wind where it wails, + In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it hails + Shot and shell--link by link, out of hardship and pain, + Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chain + Of those terrible siege-lines! + No change to that toil + Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous soil. + Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the maim'd, + And Death's daily obolus due, whether claim'd + By man or by nature. + + + VII. + + + Time passes. The dumb, + Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is come. + And its snows have been bathed in the blood of the brave; + And many a young heart has glutted the grave: + And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, + And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story. + + + VIII. + + + The moon, swathed in storm, has long set: through the camp + No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, + The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, + That seems searching for something it never can find. + The midnight is turning: the lamp is nigh spent: + And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent + Lies a young British soldier whose sword... + In this place, + However, my Muse is compell'd to retrace + Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. + The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last + Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature, + Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature + The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath + All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheath + Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so + Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by a blow. + And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. + The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, + In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate, + Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, + But large their possessions. + Sir Ridley, forgiven + By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven + By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech + The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reach + Of the law, died abroad. + Cousin John, heart and hand, + Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took his stand + By Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and friend + Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, + With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave meanwhile + Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's faithful smile. + Late in life he began life in earnest; and still, + With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, + Through long, and laborious, and difficult days, + Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, + Work'd his way through the world; till at last he began + (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims for man), + After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, + Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize ever + More clear on the broad stream of current opinion + The reflex of powers in himself--that dominion + Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth, + May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youth + In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he won + Working only for home, love, and duty. + One son + Matilda had borne him; but scarce had the boy, + With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, + The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced + Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it chanced + That a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er the bloom + Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom + Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell: + No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, + Captious April engenders; but deep as his own + Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known + The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. + When first a wild war-note through England was sent, + He, transferring without either token or word, + To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, + From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war, + Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the star + Whence others sought glory. Thus fighting, he fell + On the red field of Inkerman; found, who can tell + By what miracle, breathing, though shatter'd, and borne + To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and torn. + Where for long days and nights, with the wound in his side, + He lay, dark. + + + IX. + + + But a wound deeper far, undescried, + The young heart was rankling; for there, of a truth, + In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth, + A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, + Lay ensheath'd: and that love, ever fretting its sheath, + The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through and through. + There are loves in man's life for which time can renew + All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, in love, + Which cling to one faith, and die with it; nor move, + Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. + Whence or how + Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not now. + + + X. + + + Oh is it a phantom? a dream of the night? + A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? + The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, + Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tattered curtain, + To and fro, up and down. + But it is not the wind + That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind + That hath moulded that vision. + A pale woman enters, + As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concenters + Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer + There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer, + The sufferer sees that still form floating on, + And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. + She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands + By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands + On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing + Softly, softly the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing + Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals + Through the rack'd weary frame; and, throughout it, he feels + The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. + Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood + Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, + And thrill through and through him. The sweet form before him, + It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping! + A soft voice says... "Sleep!" + And he sleeps: he is sleeping. + + + XI. + + + He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there. + Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care + Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering + The aspect of all things around him. + Revering + Some power unknown, and benignant, he bless'd + In silence the sense of salvation. And rest + Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly + Sigh'd... "Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly + And minist'ring spirit!" + A whisper serene + Slid, softer than silence... "The Soeur Seraphine, + A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire + Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, + For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. + Thou didst not shun death: shun not life: 'Tis more brave + To live than to die. Sleep!" + He sleeps: he is sleeping. + + + XII. + + + He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping + The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting, + Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. + As the dawn to the darkness, so life seemed returning + Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp yet burning, + Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. + He said, + "If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, + Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing + Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing + Thy mission of mercy; whence art thou?" + "O son + Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One + Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead: + To thee, and to others, alive yet"... she said... + "So long as there liveth the poor gift in me + Of this ministration; to them, and to thee, + Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation + Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. + Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, + There her land! there her kindred!" + She bent down to smooth + The hot pillow; and added... "Yet more than another + Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, + I know them--I know them." + "Oh, can it be? you! + My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew,' + You know them?" + She bowed, half averting her head + In silence. + He brokenly, timidly said, + "Do they know I am thus?" + "Hush!"... she smiled, as she drew + From her bosom two letters: and--can it be true? + That beloved and familiar writing! + He burst + Into tears... "My poor mother--my father! the worst + Will have reach'd them!" + "No, no!" she exclaimed, with a smile, + "They know you are living; they know that meanwhile + I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!" + But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot + Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. + There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest: + And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, + The calm voice say... "Sleep!" + And he sleeps, he is sleeping. + + + XIII. + + + And day follow'd day. And, as wave follow'd wave, + With the tide, day by day, life, re-issuing, drave + Through that young hardy frame novel currents of health. + Yet some strange obstruction, which life's health by stealth + Seemed to cherish, impeded life's progress. And still + A feebleness, less of the frame than the will, + Clung about the sick man--hid and harbor'd within + The sad hollow eyes: pinch'd the cheek pale and thin: + And clothed the wan fingers with languor. + And there, + Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care, + Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien, + And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine! + + + XIV. + + + A strange woman truly! not young; yet her face, + Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace + Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For the whole + Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent, the soul + Seemed to fill with its own light, like some sunny fountain + Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain + That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, + And all the more lovely for loneliness seems. + So that, watching that face, you could scarce pause to guess + The years which its calm careworn lines might express, + Feeling only what suffering with these must have past + To have perfected there so much sweetness at last. + + + XV. + + + Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out, + His brief thrifty fires, and the wind was about, + The nun, watchful still by the boy, on his own + Laid a firm quiet hand, and the deep tender tone + Of her voice moved the silence. + She said... "I have heal'd + These wounds of the body. Why hast thou conceal'd, + Young soldier, that yet open wound in the heart? + Wilt thou trust NO hand near it?" + He winced, with a start, + As of one that is suddenly touched on the spot + From which every nerve derives suffering. + "What? + Lies my heart, then, so bare?" he moaned bitterly. + "Nay," + With compassionate accents she hastened to say, + "Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, young man, + So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan + Her features, yet know them not? + "Oh, was it spoken, + 'Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the broken!' + Of the body alone? Is our mission, then, done, + When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone? + Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold? + Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers that we hold + To fulfil it, of Heaven! For Heaven doth still + To us, Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill + Won from long intercourse with affliction, and art + Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart. + Trust to me!" (His two feeble hands in her own + She drew gently.) "Trust to me!" (she said, with soft tone): + "I am not so dead in remembrance to all + I have died to in this world, but what I recall + Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, + To grieve for both--save from both haply! The dial + Receives many shades, and each points to the sun. + The shadows are many, the sunlight is one. + Life's sorrows still fluctuate: God's love does not. + And His love is unchanged, when it changes our lot. + Looking up to this light, which is common to all, + And down to these shadows, on each side, that fall + In time's silent circle, so various for each, + Is it nothing to know that they never can reach + So far, but what light lies beyond them forever? + Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavor + To trace the shade creeping across the young life + Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through its strife + With the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith alone, + That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun. + Trust to me!" + She paused: he was weeping. Small need + Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed, + Had those gentle accents to win from his pale + And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief tale + Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old, + And in words few as may be shall straightway be told. + + + XVI. + + + A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace + Was driven from Europe, a young girl--the niece + Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile + By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a while + With a lady allied to her race--an old dame + Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name, + In the Faubourg Saint Germain. + Upon that fair child, + From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled. + One uncle their place in her life had supplied, + And their place in her heart: she had grown at his side, + And under his roof-tree, and in his regard, + From childhood to girlhood. + This fair orphan ward + Seem'd the sole human creature that lived in the heart + Of that stern rigid man, or whose smile could impart + One ray of response to the eyes which, above + Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love + That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill + Lofty stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill + Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere. + + Grass grew in the court-yard; the chambers were bare + In that ancient mansion; when first the stern tread + Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead: + Bringing with him this infant (the child of a brother), + Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother + Had placed on his bosom. 'Twas said--right or wrong-- + That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long, + To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, + In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had burn'd + The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, + Slow and sad was the footstep which now wander'd through + Those desolate chambers; and calm and severe + Was the life of their inmate. + Men now saw appear + Every morn at the mass that firm sorrowful face, + Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case + Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, + His severity seem'd to be trebly severe + In the rule of his own rigid life, which, at least, + Was benignant to others. The poor parish priest, + Who lived on his largess, his piety praised. + The peasant was fed, and the chapel was raised, + And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand. + Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to stand + A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. + There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan + Of his life, that love fail'd to pass over. + That child + Alone did not fear him, nor shrink from him; smiled + To his frown, and dispell'd it. + The sweet sportive elf + Seem'd the type of some joy lost, and miss'd, in himself. + Ever welcome he suffer'd her glad face to glide + In on hours when to others his door was denied: + And many a time with a mute moody look + He would watch her at prattle and play, like a brook + Whose babble disturbs not the quietest spot, + But soothes us because we need answer it not. + + But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood before + A change came among them. A letter, which bore + Sudden consequence with it, one morning was placed + In the hands of the lord of the chateau. He paced + To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone + After reading that letter. At dawn he was gone. + Weeks pass'd. When he came back again he return'd + With a tall ancient dame, from whose lips the child learn'd + That they were of the same race and name. With a face + Sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the race + He confided the orphan, and left them alone + In the old lonely house. + In a few days 'twas known, + To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one + Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging on + To the banner that bears the white lilies of France, + Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chance + Of restoring their own, had renounced the watchword + And the creed of his youth in unsheathing his sword, + For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate!) + By legitimate parents. + And meanwhile, elate + And in no wise disturbed by what Paris might say, + The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away:-- + "To the life of inaction farewell! After all, + Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties fall, + But the sole grand Legitimacy will endure, + In whatever makes death noble, life strong and pure. + Freedom! action!... the desert to breathe in--the lance + Of the Arab to follow! I go! vive la France!" + + Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as years fled, + 'Twixt the child and the soldier. The two women led + Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child grew + Into girlhood; and, like a sunbeam, sliding through + Her green quiet years, changed by gentle degrees + To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees + In his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl, + And as perfect: a noble and innocent girl, + With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the light + Of her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright! + Then her guardian wrote to the dame,... "Let Constance + Go with you to Paris. I trust that in France + I may be ere the close of the year. I confide + My life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side, + The world which we live in." + To Paris then came + Constance to abide with that old stately dame + In that old stately Faubourg. + The young Englishman + Thus met her. 'Twas there their acquaintance began, + There it closed. That old miracle, Love-at-first-sight, + Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright + Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden + Nor check'd, the young soldier was graciously bidden + An habitual guest to that house by the dame. + His own candid graces, the world-honor'd name + Of his father (in him not dishonor'd) were both + Fair titles to favor. His love, nothing loath, + The old lady observed, was return'd by Constance. + And as the child's uncle his absence from France + Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratulation) + Wrote to him a lengthen'd and moving narration + Of the graces and gifts of the young English wooer: + His father's fair fame; the boy's deference to her; + His love for Constance,--unaffected, sincere; + And the girl's love for him, read by her in those clear + Limpid eyes; then the pleasure with which she awaited + Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. + + At length from that cousin an answer there came, + Brief, stern; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the dame. + + "Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day + You receive this. Until my return she may stay + At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes ever + To behold me again, understand, she will never + Wed that man. + "You have broken faith with me. Farewell!" + No appeal from that sentence. + It needs not to tell + The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover: + The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. + Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face + Of a life where invisible hands seemed to trace + O'er the threshold these words... "Hope no more!" + + Unreturn'd + Had his love been, the strong manful heart would have spurn'd + That weakness which suffers a woman to lie + At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dry + And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there + Lay the bitterer part of the pain! Could he dare + To forget he was loved? that he grieved not alone? + Recording a love that drew sorrow upon + The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek + Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak, + Beat him down, and destroy'd him? + News reach'd him indeed, + Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to read + From the dame who had care of Constance (it was one + To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, + A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which said + That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd + What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day, + And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. + It was then he sought death. + + + XVII. + + + Thus the tale ends. 'Twas told + With such broken, passionate words, as unfold + In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each pause + Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, + The rain shook the canvas, unheeded; aloof, + And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent-roof + At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, + The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head, + And fell into a feverish slumber. + Long while + Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile + That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face + And made it like heaven, was fled from its place + In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there + Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, + As low to herself she sigh'd... + "Hath it, Eugene, + Been so long, then, the struggle?... and yet, all in vain! + Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man, + And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can? + Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so! + And then--soul of mine, whither? whither?" + + + XVIII. + + + Large, slow, + Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. + "HERE, at least, I have fail'd not"... she mused... "this is well!" + She drew from her bosom two letters. + In one, + A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, + Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. + "The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile! + The hope of a home saved by thee--of a heart + Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as thou art!) + Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! save my son! + And if not"... the letter went brokenly on, + "Heaven help us!" + Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few + Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, + With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, + So unlike his own; how in beauty and truth + He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave! + And how he had striven his son's youth to save + From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own, + And so deeply repented: how thus, in that son, + In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had seem'd + To be bless'd by a pledge that the past was redeem'd, + And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak + Of the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd to break + Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain, + And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back again + The hopes of the future. To sue for consent + Pride forbade: and the hope his old foe might relent + Experience rejected... "My life for the boy's!" + (He exclaim'd); "for I die with my son, if he dies! + Lucile! Heaven bless you for all you have done! + Save him, save him, Lucile! save my son! save my son!" + + + XIX. + + + "Ay!" murmur'd the Soeur Seraphine... "heart to heart! + THERE, at least, I have fail'd not! Fulfill'd is my part? + Accomplish'd my mission? One act crowns the whole. + Do I linger? Nay, be it so, then!... Soul to soul!" + She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slumber'd on, + Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside was gone. + + + XX. + + Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent + O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent + There sits a French General--bronzed by the sun + And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One + Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee + Had strangely and rapidly risen to be + The idol, the darling, the dream and the star + Of the younger French chivalry: daring in war, + And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed, + Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed) + The Army of France: and had risen, in part + From a singular aptitude proved for the art + Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise, + And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies + Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; + Partly, too, from a name and position which France + Was proud to put forward; but mainly, in fact, + From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, + In frequent emergencies startlingly shown, + To the rank which he now held,--intrepidly won + With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, + From fierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar. + + + XXI. + + + All within, and without, that warm tent seems to bear + Smiling token of provident order and care. + All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands + In groups round the music of mirth-breathing bands. + In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, + The messengers come and the messengers go, + Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil: + To report how the sapper contends with the soil + In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring + In the hospital tent: and, combining, comparing, + Constructing, within moves the brain of one man, + Moving all. + He is bending his brow o'er some plan + For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. + The officer standing behind him is fain + To refer to the angel solicitous cares + Of the Sisters of Charity: one he declares + To be known through the camp as a seraph of grace; + He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place + Where suffering is seen, silent, active--the Soeur... + Soeur... how do they call her? + "Ay, truly, of her + I have heard much," the General, musing, replies; + "And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) + The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean + Ah, how do they call her?... the Soeur--Seraphine + (Is it not so?). I rarely forget names once heard." + + "Yes; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." + "On my word, + I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, + In some facts traced to her, something more than the grace + Of an angel; I mean an acute human mind, + Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, + And if possible, let her come to me. We shall, + I think, aid each other." + "Oui, mon General: + I believe she has lately obtained the permission + To tend some sick man in the Second Division + Of our Ally; they say a relation." + "Ay, so? + A relation?" + "'Tis said so." + "The name do you know?" + Non, mon General." + While they spoke yet, there went + A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. + "A Sister of Charity craves, in a case + Of urgent and serious importance, the grace + Of brief private speech with the General there. + Will the General speak with her?" + "Bid her declare + Her mission." + "She will not. She craves to be seen + And be heard." + "Well, her name, then?" + "The Soeur Seraphine." + "Clear the tent. She may enter." + + + XXII. + + + The tent has been clear'd, + The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, + A sable long silver'd: and press'd down his brow + On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, now + Unwitness'd, at once fell dejected, and dreary, + As a curtain let fall by a hand that's grown weary, + Into puckers and folds. From his lips, unrepress'd, + Steals th' impatient sigh which reveals in man's breast + A conflict conceal'd, and experience at strife + With itself,--the vex'd heart's passing protest on life. + He turn'd to his papers. He heard the light tread + Of a faint foot behind him: and, lifting his head, + Said, "Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well known + To the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my own. + I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you some thanks; + In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks + I record them. Sit! Now then, your mission?" + The nun + Paused silent. The General eyed her anon + More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change + Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd "Strange! strange! + Any face should so strongly remind me of HER! + Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it stir? + Does it move as of old? Psha! + "Sit, Sister! I wait + Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State + The cause why you seek me." + "The cause? ay, the cause!" + She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause,-- + As one who, awaked unawares, would put back + The sleep that forever returns in the track + Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not the less + Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their stress, + Like doves to a pent-house,--a movement she made, + Less toward him than away from herself; droop'd her head + And folded her hands on her bosom: long, spare, + Fatigued, mournful hands! Not a stream of stray hair + Escaped the pale bands; scarce more pale than the face + Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white case. + She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague awe + O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast. + "Eugene de Luvois, + The cause which recalls me again to your side, + Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd," she replied. + "I come to fulfil it." + He sprang from the place + Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er his face; + And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground + That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the sound + Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight + Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 'light + Unawares), crept towards her; one heavy hand laid + On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head, + Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appeal + Against doubt: stagger'd backward, and murmur'd... "Lucile? + Thus we meet then?... here!... thus?" + "Soul to soul, ay, + Eugene, + As I pledged you my word that we should meet again. + Dead,..." she murmur'd, "long dead! all that lived in our lives-- + Thine and mine--saving that which ev'n life's self survives, + The soul! 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. What may reach + From my life to thy life (so wide each from each!) + Save the soul to the soul? To thy soul I would speak. + May I do so?" + He said (work'd and white was his cheek + As he raised it), "Speak to me!" + Deep, tender, serene, + And sad was the gaze which the Soeur Seraphine + Held on him. She spoke. + + + XXIII. + + + As some minstrel may fling, + Preluding the music yet mute in each string, + A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole, + Seeking which note most fitly must first move the soul; + And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, + Move pathetic in numbers remote;--even so + The voice which was moving the heart of that man + Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, + Far away in the pathos remote of the past; + Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, + Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that were gone + Unaccomplish'd from life. + He was mute. + + + XXIV. + + + She went on + And still further down the dim past did she lead + Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed + 'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, + And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope + Of life's dawning land! + 'Tis the heart of a boy, + With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy! + The unproved desire--the unaim'd aspiration-- + The deep conscious life that forestalls consummation + With ever a flitting delight--one arm's length + In advance of the august inward impulse. + The strength + Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand + With the birth of the palm-tree! Let ages expand + The glorious creature! The ages lie shut + (Safe, see!) in the seed, at time's signal to put + Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer on layer, + Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in blue air. + So the palm in the palm-seed! so, slowly--so, wrought + Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought by thought, + Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. + Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy! + Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance intervene! + While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem's in the green, + A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks the bough, + Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, may grow + To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest, + And take both the bird and the breeze to its breast. + Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed? + Save the man in the boy? in the thought save the deed? + Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can! + Save the seed from the north wind. So let the grown man + Face our fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. + He was dumb. + She went one step further. + + + XXV. + + + Lo! manhood is come. + And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the tree. + And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we, and see: + What shade from the leaf? what support from the branch? + Spreads the leaf broad and fair? holds the bough strong and staunch? + There, he saw himself--dark, as he stood on that night, + The last when they met and they parted: a sight + For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice! + An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice; + It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. + Then he said + (Never looking at her, never lifting his head, + As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd + Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a world, + 'Twas a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!" + + + XXVI. + + + She went on. + "So be it! Perish Babel, arise Babylon! + From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last, + And to build up the future heaven shatters the past." + "Ay," he moodily murmur'd, "and who cares to scan + The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a man? + From the past to the present, though late, I appeal; + To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile!" + + + XXVII. + + + Lucile!... the old name--the old self! silenced long: + Heard once more! felt once more! + As some soul to the throng + Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized + By death to a new name and nature--surprised + 'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, + Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star, + Calling to her forlornly; and (sadd'ning the psalms + Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms!) + The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth + Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her birth;-- + So that one word... Lucile!... stirr'd the Soeur Seraphine, + For a moment. Anon she resumed here serene + And concentrated calm. + "Let the Nun, then, retrace + The life of the soldier!"... she said, with a face + That glow'd, gladdening her words. + "To the present I come: + Leave the Past!" + There her voice rose, and seem'd as when some + Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise + Of her hero whose brows she is crowning with bays. + Step by step did she follow his path from the place + Where their two paths diverged. Year by year did she trace + (Familiar with all) his, the soldier's existence. + Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance; + Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours: + And the same sentinels that ascend the same towers + And report the same foes, the same fears, the same strife, + Waged alike to the limits of each human life. + She went on to speak of the lone moody lord, + Shut up in his lone moody halls: every word + Held the weight of a tear: she recorded the good + He had patiently wrought through a whole neighborhood; + And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor, + By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door. + There she paused: and her accents seem'd dipp'd in the hue + Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew + Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, + Yet working love's work; reading backwards life's pages + For penance; and stubbornly, many a time, + Both missing the moral, and marring the rhyme. + Then she spoke of the soldier!... the man's work and fame, + The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim! + Life's inward approval! + + + XXVIII. + + + Her voice reach'd his heart, + And sank lower. She spoke of herself: how, apart + And unseen,--far away,--she had watch'd, year by year, + With how many a blessing, how many a tear, + And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife: + Guess'd the thought in the deed: traced the love in the life: + Bless'd the man in the man's work! + "THY work... oh, not mine! + Thine, Lucile!"... he exclaim'd... "all the worth of it thine, + If worth there be in it!" + Her answer convey'd + His reward, and her own: joy that cannot be said + Alone by the voice... eyes--face--spoke silently: + All the woman, one grateful emotion! + And she + A poor Sister of Charity! hers a life spent + In one silent effort for others!... + She bent + Her divine face above him, and fill'd up his heart + With the look that glow'd from it. + Then slow, with soft art, + Fix'd her aim, and moved to it. + + + XXIX. + + + He, the soldier humane, + He, the hero; whose heart hid in glory the pain + Of a youth disappointed; whose life had made known + The value of man's life!... that youth overthrown + And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth + In another? his own life of strenuous truth + Accomplish'd in act, had it taught him no care + For the life of another?... oh no! everywhere + In the camp which she moved through, she came face to face + With some noble token, some generous trace + Of his active humanity... + "Well," he replied, + "If it be so?" + "I come from the solemn bedside + Of a man that is dying," she said. "While we speak, + A life is in jeopardy." + "Quick then! you seek + Aid or medicine, or what?" + "'Tis not needed," she said. + "Medicine? yes, for the mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid! + You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can + Save the life of this man. Will you save it?" + "What man? + How?... where?... can you ask?" + She went rapidly on + To her object in brief vivid words... The young son + Of Matilda and Alfred--the boy lying there + Half a mile from that tent door--the father's despair, + The mother's deep anguish--the pride of the boy + In the father--the father's one hope and one joy + In the son:---the son now--wounded, dying! She told + Of the father's stern struggle with life: the boy's bold, + Pure, and beautiful nature: the fair life before him + If that life were but spared... yet a word might restore him! + The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene! + Its pathos: the girl's love for him; how, half slain + In his tent, she had found him: won from him the tale; + Sought to nurse back his life; found her efforts still fail + Beaten back by a love that was stronger than life; + Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife + Wherein England and France in their best blood, at last, + Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the past. + And shall nations be nobler than men? Are not great + Men the models of nations? For what is a state + But the many's confused imitation of one? + Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son + Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchance + An innocent life,--here, when England and France + Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore, + And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent gore? + She went on to tell how the boy had clung still + To life, for the sake of life's uses, until + From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, stricken down + By the news that the heart of Constance, like his own, + Was breaking beneath... + But there "Hold!" he exclaim'd, + Interrupting, "Forbear!"... his whole face was inflamed + With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while she spoke, + Had been gathering silent--at last the storm broke + In grief or in wrath... + "'Tis to him, then," he cried,... + Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride, + "That I owe these late greetings--for him you are here-- + For his sake you seek me--for him, it is clear, + You have deign'd at the last to bethink you again + Of this long-forgotten existence!" + "Eugene!" + "Ha! fool that I was!"... he went on,... "and just now, + While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to grow + Almost boyish again, almost sure of ONE friend! + Yet this was the meaning of all--this the end! + Be it so! There's a sort of slow justice (admit!) + In this--that the word that man's finger hath writ + In fire on my heart, I return him at last. + Let him learn that word--Never!" + "Ah, still to the past + Must the present be vassal?" she said. "In the hour + We last parted I urged you to put forth the power + Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. + Yours, the promise to strive: mine--to watch o'er the strife. + I foresaw you would conquer; you HAVE conquer'd much, + Much, indeed, that is noble! I hail it as such, + And am here to record and applaud it. I saw + Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, + One peril--one point where I feared you would fail + To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail,-- + Himself: and I promised that, if I should see + My champion once falter, or bend the brave knee, + That moment would bring me again to his side. + That moment is come! for that peril was pride, + And you falter. I plead for yourself, and another, + For that gentle child without father or mother, + To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France, + For your own nobler nature--and plead for Constance!" + At the sound of that name he averted his head. + "Constance!... Ay, she enter'd MY lone life" (he said) + "When its sun was long set; and hung over its night + Her own starry childhood. I have but that light, + In the midst of much darkness! Who names me but she + With titles of love? And what rests there for me + In the silence of age save the voice of that child? + The child of my own better life, undefiled! + My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts!" + "Say," + Said the Soeur Seraphine--"are you able to lay + Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man + And swear that, whatever may happen, you can + Feel assured for the life you thus cherish?" + "How so?" + He look'd up. "if the boy should die thus?" + "Yes, I know + What your look would imply... this sleek stranger forsooth! + Because on his cheek was the red rose of youth + The heart of my niece must break for it!" + She cried, + "Nay, but hear me yet further!" + With slow heavy stride, + Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, + He was muttering low to himself as he went. + Ay, these young things lie safe in our heart just so long + As their wings are in growing; and when these are strong + They break it, and farewell! the bird flies!"... + The nun + Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, "The sun + Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus! oh, yet + Let this day upon one final victory set, + And complete a life's conquest!" + He said, "Understand! + If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose hand + My heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my life! + Can her home be my home? Can I claim in the wife + Of that man's son the child of my age? At her side + Shall he stand on my hearth? Shall I sue to the bride + Of... enough! + "Ah, and you immemorial halls + Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet falls + On my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, past, + Present,--all, in one silence! old trees to the blast + Of the North Sea repeating the tale of old days, + Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky ways + Shall I hear through your umbrage ancestral the wind + Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mind + Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far years + Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with tears! + Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone + Rouse your echoes?" + "O think not," she said, "of the son + Of the man whom unjustly you hate; only think + Of this young human creature, that cries from the brink + Of a grave to your mercy! + "Recall your own words + (Words my memory mournfully ever records!) + How with love may be wreck'd a whole life! then, Eugene, + Look with me (still those words in our ears!) once again + At this young soldier sinking from life here--dragg'd down + By the weight of the love in his heart: no renown, + No fame comforts HIM! nations shout not above + The lone grave down to which he is bearing the love + Which life has rejected! Will YOU stand apart? + You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart! + You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led on + Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it hath won, + By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, + Such as lies at your door now: who have but, in truth, + To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word, + And by that word you rescue a life!" + He was stirr'd. + Still he sought to put from him the cup, bow'd his face + on his hand; and anon, as though wishing to chase + With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, + He sprang up, brush'd past her, and bitterly cried, + "No!--Constance wed a Vargrave!"--I cannot consent!" + Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine. + The low tent + In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the height + From which those imperial eyes pour'd the light + Of their deep silent sadness upon him. + No wonder + He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under + The compulsion of that grave regard! For between + The Duc de Luvois and the Soeur Seraphine + At that moment there rose all the height of one soul + O'er another; she look'd down on him from the whole + Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and days, + There were long months and years in that heart-searching gaze; + And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos thrill'd through + And transfix'd him. + "Eugene de Luvois, but for you, + I might have been now--not this wandering nun, + But a mother, a wife--pleading, not for the son + Of another, but blessing some child of my own, + His,--the man's that I once loved!... Hush! that which is done + I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's best + Which God sends. 'Twas his will: it is mine. And the rest + Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads + In your heart--He that judges of all thoughts and deeds. + With eyes, mine forestall not! This only I say: + You have not the right (read it, you, as you may!) + To say... 'I am the wrong'd."'... + "Have I wrong'd thee?--wrong'd THEE!" + He falter'd, "Lucile, ah, Lucile!" + "Nay, not me," + She murmur'd, "but man! The lone nun standing here + Has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the sphere + Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she, + The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in me, + Demands from her grave reparation to man, + Reparation to God. Heed, O heed, while you can, + This voice from the grave!" + "Hush!" he moan'd, "I obey + The Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile! let this pay + Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on: + I follow you, Soeur Seraphine!... To the son + Of Lord Alfred Vargrave... and then,"... + As he spoke + He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smoke + Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries crown'd, + Of the city beneath them... + "Then, THERE, underground, + And valete et plaudite, soon as may be! + Let the old tree go down to the earth--the old tree + With the worm at its heart! Lay the axe to the root! + Who will miss the old stump, so we save the young shoot? + A Vargrave!... this pays all... Lead on! In the seed + Save the forest!... + I follow... forth, forth! where you lead." + + + XXX. + + + The day was declining; a day sick and damp. + In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly camp + Of the English. Alone in his dim, spectral tent + (Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent + On the daylight departing, the sick man was sitting + Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely flitting, + Cross'd the silence between him and death, which seem'd near, + --"Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balk'd! else, how bear + This intense and intolerable solitude, + With its eye on my heart and its hand on my blood? + Pulse by pulse! Day goes down: yet she comes not again. + Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more plain, + Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange! and scarcely feel sad. + Oh, to think of Constance THUS, and not to go mad! + But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his own + Dull doings..." + + + XXXI. + + + Between those sick eyes and the sun + A shadow fell thwart. + + + XXXII. + + + 'Tis the pale nun once more! + But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the door? + How oft had he watch'd through the glory and gloom + Of the battle, with long, longing looks, that dim plume + Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'd + To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd! + How that stern face had haunted and hover'd about + The dreams it still scared! through what fond fear and doubt + Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero. (What's like + A boy's love for some famous man?)... Oh, to strike + A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance + Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France, + And so fall in his glorious regard!... Oft, how oft, + Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft + The dim battle that plume dance and dart--never seen + So near till this moment! how eager to glean + Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise + Of his hero--each tale of old venturous days + In the desert! And now... could he speak out his heart + Face to face with that man ere he died! + + + XXXIII. + + + With a start + The sick soldier sprang up: the blood sprang up in him, + To his throat, and o'erthrew him: he reel'd back: a dim + Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the din + And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within, + Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale nun + (Looking larger than life, where she stood in the sun) + Point to him and murmur, "Behold!" Then that plume + Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade off in the gloom + Which momently put out the world. + + + XXXIV. + + + To his side + Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved... "Ah!"... he sigh'd, + "The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face! and those eyes, + All the mother's! The old things again! + "Do not rise. + You suffer, young man?" + + THE BOY. + + Sir, I die. + + THE DUKE. + + Not so young! + + THE BOY. + + So young? yes! and yet I have tangled among + The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine + Other lives than my own. Could my death but untwine + The vext skein... but it will not. Yes, Duke, young--so young! + And I knew you not? yet I have done you a wrong + Irreparable!... late, too late to repair. + If I knew any means... but I know none!... I swear, + If this broken fraction of time could extend + Into infinite lives of atonement, no end + Would seem too remote for my grief (could that be!) + To include it! Not too late, however, for me + To entreat: is it too late for you to forgive? + + THE DUKE. + + You wrong--my forgiveness--explain. + + THE BOY. + + Could I live! + Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, + I falter... Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think + Should free my soul hence. + Ah! you could not surmise + That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, longing eyes + Were following you evermore (heeded not!) + While the battle was flowing between us: nor what + Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went + With the wind and the rain, round and round your blind tent, + Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, + Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain! + Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent! The waste air + Grew stern at the gleam which said... "Off! he is there!" + I know not what merciful mystery now + Brings you here, whence the man whom you see lying low + Other footsteps (not those!) must soon bear to the grave. + But death is at hand, and the few words I have + Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. + Duke, I swear, + As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to hear!) + That I meant not this wrong to you. Duc de Luvois, + I loved your niece--loved? why, I LOVE her! I saw, + And, seeing, how could I but love her? I seem'd + Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I dream'd + Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now + Ever fearfully present before me, I vow + That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the tomb + Into which I descend... Oh why, whilst there was room + In life left for warning, had no one the heart + To warn me? Had any one whisper'd... "Depart!" + To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then to nurse! + Had any one hinted... "Beware of the curse + Which is coming!" There was not a voice raised to tell, + Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell, + And then... then the blow fell on BOTH! This is why + I implore you to pardon that great injury + Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on you, Heaven knows + How unwittingly! + + THE DUKE. + + Ah!... and, young soldier, suppose + That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon?-- + + THE BOY. + + Of whom? + + THE DUKE. + + Of yourself. + + THE BOY. + + Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb + No boyish resentment; not one lonely thought + That honors you not. In all this there is naught + 'Tis for me to forgive. + Every glorious act + Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, + To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. + And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, + A hundred great acts from your life? Nay, all these, + Were they so many lying and false witnesses, + Does there rest not ONE voice which was never untrue? + I believe in Constance, Duke, as she does in you! + In this great world around us, wherever we turn, + Some grief irremediable we discern; + And yet--there sits God, calm in Heaven above! + Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love? + I judge not. + + THE DUKE. + + Enough! Hear at last, then, the truth + Your father and I--foes we were in our youth. + It matters not why. Yet thus much understand: + The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his hand. + I was not of those whom the buffets of fate + Tame and teach; and my heart buried slain love in hate. + If your own frank young heart, yet unconscious of all + Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to gall, + And unable to guess even aught that the furrow + Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow, + Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life, + 'Twill at least comprehend how intense was the strife + Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby + I seek in the son of my youth's enemy + The friend of my age. Let the present release + Here acquitted the past! In the name of my niece, + Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give, + Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me,--and live? + + Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy + Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy: + As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud confined, + Struggles outward through shadows, the varying wind + Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from her prison, + So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had risen + To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every limb; + A strange, happy feebleness trembled through him. + With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank + On the breast of the nun, who stood near. + "Yes, boy! thank + This guardian angel," the Duke said. "I--you, + We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live! be true + To your young life's fair promise, and live for her sake!" + "Yes, Duke: I will live. I MUST live--live to make + My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, + "For joy does not kill!" + Back again the faint head + Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw + His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdraw + And leave them a moment together. + He eyed + Them both with a wistful regard; turn'd and sigh'd, + And lifted the tent-door, and pass'd from the tent. + + + XXXV. + + + Like a furnace, the fervid, intense occident + From its hot seething levels a great glare struck up + On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup + Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise, + Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and ting'd with strange dyes, + Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird shapes + As of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, apes, + Chimeras, and hydras: whilst--ever the same + In the midst of all these (creatures fused by his flame, + And changed by his influence!) changeless, as when, + Ere he lit down to death generations of men, + O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which there + With wild shapes this cloud-world seem'd to mimic in air, + The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone. + And shall shine on the ages we reach not--the sun! + + + + XXXVI. + + + Nature posted her parable thus in the skies, + And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors arise + And fall, pass and change, group themselves and revolve + Round the great central life, which is love: these dissolve + And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there terror; + And the phantasmagoria of infinite error, + And endless complexity, lasts but a while; + Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile + Of God, on the soul in the deep heart of Heaven + Lives changeless, unchanged: and our morning and even + Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's. + + + XXXVII. + + + While he yet + Watched the skies, with this thought in his heart; while he set + Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, + Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapor and wind, + And embraced the new life which that hour had reveal'd,-- + Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and conceal'd; + Lucile left the tent and stood by him. + Her tread + Aroused him; and, turning towards her, he said: + "O Soeur Seraphine, are you happy?" + "Eugene, + What is happier than to have hoped not in vain?" + She answer'd,--"And you?" + "Yes." + "You do not repent?" + "No." + "Thank Heaven!" she murmur'd. He musingly bent + His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart + Where he stood, sigh'd, as though to his innermost heart, + "O bless'd are they, amongst whom I was not, + Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot, + Predicts a pure evening; who, sunlike, in light + Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set bright!" + But she in response, "Mark yon ship far away, + Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day, + With all its hush'd thunders shut up! Would you know + A thought which came to me a few days ago, + Whilst watching those ships?... When the great Ship of Life + Surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and strife + Of earth's angry element,--masts broken short, + Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten--drives safe into port; + When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand, + Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand; + When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar, + The mariner turns to his rest evermore; + What will then be the answer the helmsman must give? + Will it be... 'Lo our log-book! Thus once did we live + In the zones of the South; thus we traversed the seas + Of the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides; + Thence follow'd the west wind; here, eastward we turn'd; + The stars fail'd us there; just here land we discern'd + On our lee; there the storm overtook us at last; + That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast; + There the mermen came round us, and there we saw bask + A siren?' The Captain of Port will he ask + Any one of such questions? I cannot think so! + But... 'What is the last Bill of Health you can show?' + Not--How fared the soul through the trials she pass'd? + But--What is the state of that soul at the last?" + + "May it be so!" he sigh'd. "There the sun drops, behold!" + And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and gold + In the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading strip + Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lip + Of a long reef of cloud; and o'er sullen ravines + And ridges the raw damps were hanging white screens + Of melancholy mist. + "Nunc dimittis?" she said. + "O God of the living! whilst yet 'mid the dead + And the dying we stand here alive, and thy days + Returning, admit space for prayer and for praise, + In both these confirm us! + "The helmsman, Eugene, + Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. Again + We two part: each to work out Heaven's will: you, I trust, + In the world's ample witness; and I, as I must, + In secret and silence: you, love, fame, await; + Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at one gate + When all's over. The ways they are many and wide, + And seldom are two ways the same. Side by side + May we stand at the same little door when all's done! + The ways they are many, the end it is one. + He that knocketh shall enter: who asks shall obtain: + And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, Eugene!" + She turn'd to depart. + "Whither? whither?"... he said. + She stretch'd forth her hand where, already outspread + On the darken'd horizon, remotely they saw + The French camp-fires kindling. + "See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart + Made as one man's by one hope! The hope 'tis your part + To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse + Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through sickness to nurse. + I go to my work: you to yours." + + + XXXVIII. + + + Whilst she spoke, + On the wide wasting evening there distantly broke + The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, + From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun. + "Our chasseurs are at it!" he mutter'd. + She turn'd, + Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight. + He faintly discern'd + Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky + Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists: by and by + The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more. + + + XXXIX. + + + Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish'd, is o'er. + The mission of genius on earth! To uplift, + Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift, + The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor + To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. + The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, + To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. + The mission of woman on earth! to give birth + To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth. + The mission of woman: permitted to bruise + The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse, + Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd curse, + The blessing which mitigates all: born to nurse, + And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal + The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile. + + + XL. + + + A power hid in pathos: a fire veil'd in cloud: + Yet still burning outward: a branch which, though bow'd + By the bird in its passage, springs upward again: + Through all symbols I search for her sweetness--in vain! + Judge her love by her life. For our life is but love + In act. Pure was hers: and the dear God above, + Who knows what His creatures have need of for life, + And whose love includes all loves, through much patient strife + Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may be given + In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven + More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream + Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream + That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the shore + Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore + With its little wild wailing. No stream from its source + Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, + But what some land is gladden'd. No star ever rose + And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows + What earth needs from earth's lowest creature? No life + Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife + And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. + The spirits of just men made perfect on high, + The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne + And gaze into the face that makes glorious their own, + Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, + Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, + Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, + The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary? + Hush! the sevenhold heavens to the voice of the Spirit + Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit. + + + XLI. + + + The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog; + The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chained dog. + The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without, + War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt; + All within, light, warmth, calm! + In the twilight, longwhile + Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile + Linger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent. + At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucile, by Owen Meredith + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCILE *** + +***** This file should be named 1852.txt or 1852.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/5/1852/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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