Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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| I. |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | CANTO VI. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| II. |
 | Lucile |  |
128
CANTO VI.
I.
‘The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase,
‘And eltrich, 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 clue to unravel this old mystery?
‘And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall,
‘The mute men in armour around him, and all
‘The weird figures frown, as tho’ striving to say,
‘“ Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of To-day!
‘“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!”
‘And eltrich, 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!
129
‘The clue to unravel this old mystery?
‘And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on the wall,
‘The mute men in armour around him, and all
‘The weird figures frown, as tho’ striving to say,
‘“ Halt! invade not the Past, reckless child of To-day!
‘“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!
‘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.
‘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.
Eugène de Luvois was a man who, in part
From strong physical health, and that vigour of heart
Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance,
From a generous vanity native to France,
Threw himself, heart and soul, into all that allured
Or engaged his sensations; nor ever endured
To relinquish to failure whate'er he began,
Or accept any rank, save the foremost.
From strong physical health, and that vigour of heart
130
From a generous vanity native to France,
Threw himself, heart and soul, into all that allured
Or engaged his sensations; nor ever endured
To relinquish to failure whate'er he began,
Or accept any rank, save the foremost.
A man
Of action by nature, he might have, no doubt,
Been in some sense a great man, had life but laid out
Any great field of action for him, or conceded
To action a really great aim, such as needed
Faith, patience, self-sacrifice.
Of action by nature, he might have, no doubt,
Been in some sense a great man, had life but laid out
Any great field of action for him, or conceded
To action a really great aim, such as needed
Faith, patience, self-sacrifice.
But, on the whole,
From circumstance partly beyond his control,
His life was of trifles made up, and he lived
In a world of frivolities. Still he contrived
The trifles, to which he was wedded, to dower
With so much of his own individual power
(And mere pastime to him was so keen a pursuit),
That these trifles seem'd such as you scarce could impute
To a trifler.
From circumstance partly beyond his control,
His life was of trifles made up, and he lived
In a world of frivolities. Still he contrived
The trifles, to which he was wedded, to dower
With so much of his own individual power
(And mere pastime to him was so keen a pursuit),
That these trifles seem'd such as you scarce could impute
To a trifler.
Both he and Lord Alfred had been
Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seen
In Alfred, appear'd, from the light languid mood
Of soft unconcern with which these were pursued,
As amiable foibles, by strange involution,
In Eugène, from their earnest, intense prosecution,
Appear'd almost criminal.
Men of pleasure: but men's pleasant vices, which, seen
In Alfred, appear'd, from the light languid mood
Of soft unconcern with which these were pursued,
As amiable foibles, by strange involution,
In Eugène, from their earnest, intense prosecution,
Appear'd almost criminal.
Nevertheless,
What in him gave to vice, from its pathos and stress,
A sort of malignity, might have perchance
Had the object been changed by transposed circumstance,
Given vigour to virtue. And therefore, indeed,
Had his life been allied to some fix'd moral creed,
In the practice and forms of a rigid, severe,
And ascetic religion, he might have come near
To each saint in that calendar which he now spurn'd.
In its orbit, however, his intellect turn'd
On a circle so narrow'd as quite to exclude
A spacious humanity. Therefore, both crude
And harsh his religion would ever have been,
As shallow, presumptuous, narrow, and keen,
Was the trite irreligion which now he display'd.
It depended alone upon chance to have made
Persecutor of this man, or martyr. For, closed
In the man, lurk'd two natures the world deems opposed,
A Savonarola's, a Calvin's, alike
Uperceived by himself. It was in him to strike
At whatever the object he sought to attain,
Bold as Brutus, relentless as Philip of Spain,
And undaunted to march, in behalf of his brothers,
To the stake, or to light it, remorseless, for others.
The want of his life was the great want, in fact,
Of a principle, less than of power to act
Upon principle. Life without one living truth!
To the sacred political creed of his youth
The century which he was born to denied
All realisation. Its generous pride
To degenerate protest on all things was sunk;
Its principles, each to a prejudice shrunk.
And thus from his youth he had lived, in constrain'd
Vain resistance, opposed to the race that then reign'd
In the land of his birth, and from this cause alone
Exiled from his due sphere of action, and thrown
Into reckless inertness; whence, early possess'd
Of inherited wealth, he had learn'd 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.
What in him gave to vice, from its pathos and stress,
131
Had the object been changed by transposed circumstance,
Given vigour to virtue. And therefore, indeed,
Had his life been allied to some fix'd moral creed,
In the practice and forms of a rigid, severe,
And ascetic religion, he might have come near
To each saint in that calendar which he now spurn'd.
In its orbit, however, his intellect turn'd
On a circle so narrow'd as quite to exclude
A spacious humanity. Therefore, both crude
And harsh his religion would ever have been,
As shallow, presumptuous, narrow, and keen,
Was the trite irreligion which now he display'd.
It depended alone upon chance to have made
Persecutor of this man, or martyr. For, closed
In the man, lurk'd two natures the world deems opposed,
A Savonarola's, a Calvin's, alike
Uperceived by himself. It was in him to strike
At whatever the object he sought to attain,
Bold as Brutus, relentless as Philip of Spain,
And undaunted to march, in behalf of his brothers,
To the stake, or to light it, remorseless, for others.
The want of his life was the great want, in fact,
Of a principle, less than of power to act
Upon principle. Life without one living truth!
To the sacred political creed of his youth
The century which he was born to denied
All realisation. Its generous pride
132
Its principles, each to a prejudice shrunk.
And thus from his youth he had lived, in constrain'd
Vain resistance, opposed to the race that then reign'd
In the land of his birth, and from this cause alone
Exiled from his due sphere of action, and thrown
Into reckless inertness; whence, early possess'd
Of inherited wealth, he had learn'd 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
Neither Brutus nor Philip in action and deed,
Neither Calvin nor Savonarola in creed,
But that which the world chose to have him appear,—
The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere
Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still
'Twas this vigour of nature, and tension of will,
Whence his love for Lucile to such passion had grown.
The moment in which with his nature her own
Into contact had come, the intense life in her,
The tenacious embrace of her strong character,
Had seized and possess'd what in him was akin
To the powers within her; and still, as within
Her loftier, larger, more luminous nature,
These powers assumed greater glory and stature,
Her influence over the mind of Eugène
Was not only strong, but so strong as to strain
All his own to a loftier limit.
Neither Brutus nor Philip in action and deed,
Neither Calvin nor Savonarola in creed,
But that which the world chose to have him appear,—
The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere
Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages! Still
'Twas this vigour of nature, and tension of will,
Whence his love for Lucile to such passion had grown.
The moment in which with his nature her own
Into contact had come, the intense life in her,
The tenacious embrace of her strong character,
Had seized and possess'd what in him was akin
To the powers within her; and still, as within
Her loftier, larger, more luminous nature,
These powers assumed greater glory and stature,
Her influence over the mind of Eugène
Was not only strong, but so strong as to strain
133
And so
His whole being seem'd to cling to her, as though
He divined that, in some unaccountable way,
His happier destinies secretly lay
In the light of her dark eyes. And still, in his mind,
To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd
The terror of missing his life's destination,
Of which, as in mystical representation,
The love of the woman, whose aspect benign
Guided, starlike, his soul seem'd the symbol and sign.
For he felt, if the light of that star it should miss,
That there lurk'd in his nature, conceal'd, an abyss
Into which all the current of being might roll,
Devastating a life, and submerging a soul.
His whole being seem'd to cling to her, as though
He divined that, in some unaccountable way,
His happier destinies secretly lay
In the light of her dark eyes. And still, in his mind,
To the anguish of losing the woman was join'd
The terror of missing his life's destination,
Of which, as in mystical representation,
The love of the woman, whose aspect benign
Guided, starlike, his soul seem'd the symbol and sign.
For he felt, if the light of that star it should miss,
That there lurk'd in his nature, conceal'd, an abyss
Into which all the current of being might roll,
Devastating a life, and submerging a soul.
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 hill-side; 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!
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 hill-side; and the quarrelling crows
134
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 creaking pine rafter
He follow'd her silent. A few moments after,
His heart almost chok'd him, his head seem'd to reel,
For a door closed—and he was alone with Lucile.
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
135
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 creaking pine rafter
He follow'd her silent. A few moments after,
His heart almost chok'd him, his head seem'd to reel,
For a door closed—and he was alone with Lucile.
IV.
In a grey travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined
Streaming o'er it, and toss'd 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!
Streaming o'er it, and toss'd 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!
Some supreme
And concentrated effort within her to seem
Unassail'd by emotions which, nevertheless,
Were betray'd on her cheek, touch'd to strange stateliness
All her form. He sprang forward and cried,
And concentrated effort within her to seem
Unassail'd by emotions which, nevertheless,
Were betray'd on her cheek, touch'd to strange stateliness
All her form. He sprang forward and cried,
‘You relent?
‘And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?’
There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
The Countess.
‘And your plans have been changed by the letter I sent?’
There his voice sank, borne down by a strong inward strife.
Your letter! yes, Duke. For it threatens man's life—
Woman's honour.
136
The last, madam, not!
The Countess.
Both. I glance
At your own words; blush, son of the knighthood of France,
As I read them! You say in this letter...
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 shall not live
‘To make you as wretched as you have made me!’
‘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 shall not live
‘To make you as wretched as you have made me!’
The Duke.
Well, madam, in those words what word do you see
That threatens the honour of woman?
The Countess.
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 dishonour'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 honour, you ask? Is there, sir, no dishonour
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 honour!
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 dishonour'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!
137
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 honour!
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.’
‘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.
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 perchance o'er her conscience a tear,
Falling softly, awoke it.
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 perchance 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 snapp'd, 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 for ever
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, for ever. 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?
Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her?
Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character,
138
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 snapp'd, 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 for ever
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, for ever. 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?
139
V.
At that thought, from her aspect whatever had been
Stern or haughty departed; and, humbled in mien,
She approach'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as tho'
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, Eugène 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!’
Stern or haughty departed; and, humbled in mien,
She approach'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as tho'
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, Eugène 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!’
140
O again,
Yet again, say that thrice blessèd word! say, Lucile,
That you then deign'd to hope—
The Countess.
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?
The Duke.
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 for ever, I said to you then, “Hope no more”?
‘I myself hoped no more!’
‘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 for ever, I said to you then, “Hope no more”?
‘I myself hoped no more!’
With but ill-suppress'd 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!’
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,—
‘Rank—wealth—love—esteem—in return for a heart
‘Which is only a ruin!’
‘'Tis not that—but—alas!—but I cannot conceal
‘That I have not forgotten the past—but I feel
141
‘Rank—wealth—love—esteem—in return for a heart
‘Which is only a ruin!’
With words warm and wild,
‘Tho’ a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild
‘And restore it,’ the Duke cried; ‘tho’ 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!’
‘Tho’ a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild
‘And restore it,’ the Duke cried; ‘tho’ 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 tho' fired by the light
Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, ‘Am I right?
‘You reject me! accept him?’
And to break into flame, as tho' 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?’
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.
‘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 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.
She said softly.
142
VI.
Those two whisper'd words, in his breast,
As he heard them, in one deadly 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!
As he heard them, in one deadly 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 thro' his mind, who shall say? who may tell
The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell
Can illumine alone?
What pass'd thro' 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, thro' the dark evening air, save the 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,—lone 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.
That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no sound
Reach'd that room, thro' the dark evening air, save the 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,—lone and together,
Himself, and that woman defenceless before him!
The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him.
143
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'dHis last stake.
VIII.
For, transfigured, she rose from the place
Where he rested o'er-awed: 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 look'd so,
She had needed no dagger next morning.
Where he rested o'er-awed: 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 look'd 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—
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.
144
Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd—
‘Farewell!
‘We, alas! have mistaken each other. One more
‘Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er.
‘Duc de Luvois, adieu!’
‘We, alas! have mistaken each other. One more
‘Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er.
‘Duc de Luvois, adieu!’
From the heartbreaking gloom
Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room,
He felt she was gone—gone for ever!
Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room,
He felt she was gone—gone for ever!
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.
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 exclaim'd; 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 walk'd 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 verring 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 grey 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; reach'd the entrance. An old stableman
Was lighting his pipe in the doorway alone.
Down the mountain, that moment, a carriage was gone.
He could hear it, already too distant to see.
He turn'd to the groom there—
He exclaim'd; 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 walk'd 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,
145
Of the stars on the verring 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 grey 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; reach'd the entrance. An old stableman
Was lighting his pipe in the doorway alone.
Down the mountain, that moment, a carriage was gone.
He could hear it, already too distant to see.
He turn'd to the groom there—
‘Madame est partie.’
X.
He sprang from the doorstep; 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 grey 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 for ever;
Before him a Future devoid of endeavour
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 for ever. The future seem'd barr'd
By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread
To attain it. He realised then all the dread
Conditions which go to a life without faith.
The sole unseen fact he believed in was death.
His soul, roused to life by a great human need,
Now hunger'd and thirsted. What had he to feed
Her hunger and thirst on? That wise mother, France,
Had left to her spoil'd child of outgrown romance
Not a toy yet unbroken.
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 grey 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 for ever;
Before him a Future devoid of endeavour
And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one,
Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be done?
146
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 for ever. The future seem'd barr'd
By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must tread
To attain it. He realised then all the dread
Conditions which go to a life without faith.
The sole unseen fact he believed in was death.
His soul, roused to life by a great human need,
Now hunger'd and thirsted. What had he to feed
Her hunger and thirst on? That wise mother, France,
Had left to her spoil'd child of outgrown romance
Not a toy yet unbroken.
From college to college
She had gorged him crop full on her dead Tree of Knowledge;
But the lost Tree of Life—still the cherubim's sword
Fenced it from her false Edens. Belief was a word
To him, not a fact. He yet clung by a name
To a dynasty fallen for ever. 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 thro' that ruin'd world in his breast.
She had gorged him crop full on her dead Tree of Knowledge;
But the lost Tree of Life—still the cherubim's sword
Fenced it from her false Edens. Belief was a word
To him, not a fact. He yet clung by a name
To a dynasty fallen for ever. 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
147
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 thro' 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?
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.
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
148
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.
And stared sullenly up at the dark sky.
The clouds
Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowds
Of misshapen, incongruous portents. 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 grey 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.
Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in crowds
Of misshapen, incongruous portents. 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 grey 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.
Set his face to the darkness, and fled.
149
XII.
When the light
Of the dawn greyly 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 Serchon.
Of the dawn greyly 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 Serchon.
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 grey
With the grey glare of morning. Eugène de Luvois,
With the sense of a strange second sight, when he saw
That phantom-like face, could at once recognise,
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!’
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 grey
With the grey glare of morning. Eugène de Luvois,
With the sense of a strange second sight, when he saw
That phantom-like face, could at once recognise,
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 gaily, and rode out of sight,
Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite.
150
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, thro’ the rich
Haze of sunset, on 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 round 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 vapours, and sunk o'er the ridge of the world.
Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him unfurl'd,
In one moment of splendour, 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
151
The Duke must have travers'd, perforce, to get back
To Serchon; not yet then the Duke had return'd!
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 Serchon, 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?
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.
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'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.’
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?
152
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-enter'd Serchon, with a heart sick and sore.
In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look,
By their voices attracted, distinguish'd the Duke,
Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright,
With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous.
He re-enter'd Serchon, with a heart sick and sore.
In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look,
By their voices attracted, distinguish'd 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,
‘Oh, how right have you been! There can never be—no,
‘Never—any more contest between us! Milord,
‘Let us henceforth be friends!’
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,
‘Oh, 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.
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 humour 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.
The 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 gaily, 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!
Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill.
153
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 humour 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.
The 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 gaily, 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 soulWhere 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 legalised stress
‘Of the most brilliant marriage. But she—is she so?
‘I will not believe it. Lucile? Oh no, no!
‘Not Lucile!
‘True! women there are (self-named women of mind!)
‘Who love rather liberty—liberty, yes!
‘To choose and to leave—than the legalised stress
154
‘I will not believe it. Lucile? Oh 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—for ever, Lucile? Is it so?
‘Yes! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know.
‘'Twas a dream! we must waken!’
‘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—for ever, 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 turn'd to his inn.
By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow
Moody footsteps, he turn'd to his inn.
Drawn apart
From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start,
Postboys mounted, portmanteaus pack'd 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 mantelpiece; 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—
From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start,
Postboys mounted, portmanteaus pack'd 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 mantelpiece; there a large card caught his sight—
A large card, a stout card, well printed and plain,
Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain.
155
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:
From old Homer's, who sang that the race may be found
Now flourishing high, and now low on the ground,
Like the leaves upon trees; for one sometimes perceives
Certain creatures that spring from the mud put forth leaves
In high places; and so to that verse in 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 labour'd thro' 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.
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:
From old Homer's, who sang that the race may be found
Now flourishing high, and now low on the ground,
Like the leaves upon trees; for one sometimes perceives
Certain creatures that spring from the mud put forth leaves
156
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 labour'd thro' 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 thro' the doorway protruded;
‘Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak.’
Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek;
He brush'd 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.’
A waiter his head thro' the doorway protruded;
‘Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak.’
Alfred Vargrave could feel there were tears on his cheek;
He brush'd 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 appear'd at the door.
Sir Ridley, releas'd 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 Serchon—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?
That benign apparition appear'd at the door.
Sir Ridley, releas'd 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 Serchon—distributing tracts,
Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new facts
157
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.’
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
Betray'd 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.
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
158
Betray'd 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.
Who can answer where any road leads to?
They drove down the dark road, and into the night.
Who can answer where any road leads to?
XXII.
Alas!
There are so many questions of this kind that pass
My perplex'd comprehension, that were I to place them
On record, no volume would ever encase them.
There is heaven above us! we see it each day:
But what is the reason, can any one say,
Why what we see most of, we least comprehend?
Again, if our eyes on earth only we bend,
What suggests that strange doubt—‘This appealing Creation,
‘Which says ... Eat, drink, be full! ... is it only temptation?’
Tho' divine Aphrodite should open her arms
To our longing, and lull us to sleep on her charms;
Tho' the world its full sum of enjoyment ensure us;
Tho' Horace, Lucretius, and old Epicurus
Sit beside us, and swear we are happy, what then?
Whence the answer within us which cries to these men,
‘Let it be! you say well; but the world is too old
‘To rekindle within it the ages of gold;
‘A vast hope hath travers'd the earth, and our eyes
‘In despite of ourselves we must lift to the skies’?
And we lift them; and, lifting them, why do we find
That just when we vindicate sight, we are blind?
The Sir Ridleys, and other good men of that class,
Bring spectacles, which not a raylet will pass;
And seek to make clear to our vision the sun,
By dimming his splendour, and smoking him dun.
Then we turn to the children of this generation,
Since the children of light deal in light's obscuration.
And O Chaos and Night! what at last do we mark
By the gleam of their corpse-lights enkindling the dark?
A Liebnitz transfigures clean from us our being:
From whirlpool to whirlpool Descartes sets it fleeing:
With that horrible face, Monsieur Arouet Voltaire
Grins Theology out of its wits at one stare.
Not the first time a dwarf's sword a giant despatch'd;
If it could not cut deep, it disfigured and scratch'd.
Next, man in the image of Jean Jacques we have,
A coward, a liar, a thief, and a slave!
Spinosa finds out for us God everywhere,
Saving just where we, else, could have found Him, in prayer;
Locke (and few will dispute the assertion I ween)
Is a great mechanician if man's a machine:
Kant, the great god of Nothing, takes pains to expound,
But his pains go for nothing—since nothing is found.
And of all human science the last word is this;
Simply Nothing—the name scribbled o'er an abyss.
Is, then, Life one vast question without a reply?
Must man, like Ulysses, with stopp'd ears sail by
Where'er Thought and Sense (Sirens only) sing to him
Songs over the deeps, that are sure to undo him
If once he should list to the music that mocks
The frail bark it lures to the whirlpools and rocks?
And to exercise thought, or to satisfy sense,
To the Being that gave both is this an offence?
Not mine be that creed, whosesoever it be!
My heart humbly whispers this answer to me:
—True! the more we gaze up into heaven, the more
Do we feel our gaze foil'd; all attempt to explore
With earth's finite insight heaven's infinite gladness
Is baffled by something like infinite sadness.
What then, did man's limited science engirth
Heaven's limitless secret, were man's use on earth,
Where he just sees enough of the heaven above him
To be sure it is there, to confirm and approve him
In his work upon earth, whence he works his way to it?
True! the more that we seek earthly bliss, and pursue it,
The more do we feel it inadequate, wholly
Insufficient for man; a profound melancholy
At the bottom of all, like the whirlpool, absorbs,
In its own sombre bosom, the brittle bright orbs
Of those painted bubbles call'd pleasures. What then,
If earth in itself were sufficient for men,
Would be man's claim to that glorious promise which arches
With Hope's fourfold bow the black path where he marches
Triumphant to death, chanting boldly, ‘Beyond!’
Whilst invisible witnesses round him respond
From the Infinite, till the great Pæan is caught
By the echoes of heaven, and the chariot of Thought
Rolls forth from the world's ringing walls to its goal,
Urged by Faith, the bright-eyed charioteer of the soul?
There are so many questions of this kind that pass
My perplex'd comprehension, that were I to place them
On record, no volume would ever encase them.
There is heaven above us! we see it each day:
But what is the reason, can any one say,
Why what we see most of, we least comprehend?
Again, if our eyes on earth only we bend,
What suggests that strange doubt—‘This appealing Creation,
‘Which says ... Eat, drink, be full! ... is it only temptation?’
Tho' divine Aphrodite should open her arms
To our longing, and lull us to sleep on her charms;
Tho' the world its full sum of enjoyment ensure us;
Tho' Horace, Lucretius, and old Epicurus
Sit beside us, and swear we are happy, what then?
Whence the answer within us which cries to these men,
‘Let it be! you say well; but the world is too old
‘To rekindle within it the ages of gold;
159
‘In despite of ourselves we must lift to the skies’?
And we lift them; and, lifting them, why do we find
That just when we vindicate sight, we are blind?
The Sir Ridleys, and other good men of that class,
Bring spectacles, which not a raylet will pass;
And seek to make clear to our vision the sun,
By dimming his splendour, and smoking him dun.
Then we turn to the children of this generation,
Since the children of light deal in light's obscuration.
And O Chaos and Night! what at last do we mark
By the gleam of their corpse-lights enkindling the dark?
A Liebnitz transfigures clean from us our being:
From whirlpool to whirlpool Descartes sets it fleeing:
With that horrible face, Monsieur Arouet Voltaire
Grins Theology out of its wits at one stare.
Not the first time a dwarf's sword a giant despatch'd;
If it could not cut deep, it disfigured and scratch'd.
Next, man in the image of Jean Jacques we have,
A coward, a liar, a thief, and a slave!
Spinosa finds out for us God everywhere,
Saving just where we, else, could have found Him, in prayer;
Locke (and few will dispute the assertion I ween)
Is a great mechanician if man's a machine:
Kant, the great god of Nothing, takes pains to expound,
But his pains go for nothing—since nothing is found.
And of all human science the last word is this;
Simply Nothing—the name scribbled o'er an abyss.
Is, then, Life one vast question without a reply?
Must man, like Ulysses, with stopp'd ears sail by
160
Songs over the deeps, that are sure to undo him
If once he should list to the music that mocks
The frail bark it lures to the whirlpools and rocks?
And to exercise thought, or to satisfy sense,
To the Being that gave both is this an offence?
Not mine be that creed, whosesoever it be!
My heart humbly whispers this answer to me:
—True! the more we gaze up into heaven, the more
Do we feel our gaze foil'd; all attempt to explore
With earth's finite insight heaven's infinite gladness
Is baffled by something like infinite sadness.
What then, did man's limited science engirth
Heaven's limitless secret, were man's use on earth,
Where he just sees enough of the heaven above him
To be sure it is there, to confirm and approve him
In his work upon earth, whence he works his way to it?
True! the more that we seek earthly bliss, and pursue it,
The more do we feel it inadequate, wholly
Insufficient for man; a profound melancholy
At the bottom of all, like the whirlpool, absorbs,
In its own sombre bosom, the brittle bright orbs
Of those painted bubbles call'd pleasures. What then,
If earth in itself were sufficient for men,
Would be man's claim to that glorious promise which arches
With Hope's fourfold bow the black path where he marches
Triumphant to death, chanting boldly, ‘Beyond!’
Whilst invisible witnesses round him respond
From the Infinite, till the great Pæan is caught
By the echoes of heaven, and the chariot of Thought
161
Urged by Faith, the bright-eyed charioteer of the soul?
XXIII.
Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who, so farAs 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,
162
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 for ever 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
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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.
XXIV.
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 tall 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 hill-side 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.
164
‘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?’ laugh'd 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 sympathise with it?’
XXV.
And here the first partOf this 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!
XXVI.
Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers,Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.
165
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 min'd 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 for ever!
‘To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River!
‘Where I too, the child of a day that is done,
‘First leapt 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,
166
‘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 labouring 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?
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‘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 awhile. 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!
‘My own touch 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.
‘I had meant in these lines to regather, and send
‘To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 'tis vain!
‘My own touch 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!
‘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.
‘I seem'd reading it backward, that page! Why explain
‘Whence or how? The old dream of my life rose again.
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‘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 thrusts from the shelf;
‘And I seem as unreal and weird to myself
‘As those idols of old.
‘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 thrusts 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!
‘Other men, other passions!
‘So be it! yet again
‘I turn 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.
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‘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.’
| Lucile | |