 | Collected poems |  |
45
PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN
A pleasant memory connected with the appearance in 1873
of Vignettes in Rhyme is that the little book procured me
the friendship of the author of London Lyrics. My second
volume of verse, with the title prefixed to this note, was dedicated
to him in words which—as they have not been recently
reprinted—may be here preserved:—
“To Frederick Locker.
Is it to kindest Friend I send
This nosegay gathered new?
Or is it more to Critic sure,—
To Singer clear and true?
I know not which, indeed, nor need;
All Three I found—in You.”
A pleasant memory connected with the appearance in 1873 of Vignettes in Rhyme is that the little book procured me the friendship of the author of London Lyrics. My second volume of verse, with the title prefixed to this note, was dedicated to him in words which—as they have not been recently reprinted—may be here preserved:—
“To Frederick Locker.
Is it to kindest Friend I sendThis nosegay gathered new?
Or is it more to Critic sure,—
To Singer clear and true?
I know not which, indeed, nor need;
All Three I found—in You.”
“Rien en relief.”
47
PROLOGUE
Assume that we are friends. Assume
A common taste for old costume,—
Old pictures,—books. Then dream us sitting—
Us two—in some soft-lighted room.
A common taste for old costume,—
Old pictures,—books. Then dream us sitting—
Us two—in some soft-lighted room.
Outside, the wind;—the “ways are mire.”
We, with our faces toward the fire,
Finished the feast not full but fitting,
Watch the light-leaping flames aspire.
We, with our faces toward the fire,
Finished the feast not full but fitting,
Watch the light-leaping flames aspire.
Silent at first, in time we glow;
Discuss “eclectics,” high and low;
Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing
The fancies of Detroy, Moreau;
Discuss “eclectics,” high and low;
Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing
The fancies of Detroy, Moreau;
“Reveils” and “Couchers,” “Balls” and “Fétes”;
Anon we glide to “crocks” and plates,
Grow eloquent on glaze and classing,
And half-pathetic over “states”
Anon we glide to “crocks” and plates,
Grow eloquent on glaze and classing,
And half-pathetic over “states”
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Then I produce my Prize, in truth;—
Six groups in Sèvres, fresh as Youth,
And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder
(Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!)
Six groups in Sèvres, fresh as Youth,
And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder
(Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!)
And so we fall to why and how
The fragile figures smile and bow;
Divine, at length, the fable under
Thus grew the “Scenes” that follow now.
The fragile figures smile and bow;
Divine, at length, the fable under
Thus grew the “Scenes” that follow now.
49
THE BALLAD À-LA-MODE
Scene.—A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies.
The Countess. The Baron (her cousin and suitor)
The Countess
(looking up from her work).
Baron, you doze.
The Baron
(closing his book).
I, Madame? No.
I wait your order—Stay or Go.
The Countess.
Which means, I think, that Go or Stay
Affects you nothing, either way.
The Baron.
Excuse me,—by your favour graced,
My inclinations are effaced.
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Or much the same. How keen you grow!
You must be reading Marivaux.
The Baron.
Nay,—'twas a song of Sainte-Aulaire.
It is but just to the octogenarian Marquis, whom the Duchess of Maine surnamed her “vieux berger,” to say that he is guiltless of the song here ascribed to him. For it, and for the similar pieces in these Proverbs, I am alone responsible. In the Secrets of the Heart, however, I have, without attempting to revive the persons, borrowed the names of the charming heroines of À quoi rêvent les Jeunes Filles.
The Countess.
Then read me one. We've time to spare
If I can catch the clock-face there,
'Tis barely eight.
The Baron.
What shall it be,—
A tale of woe, or perfidy?
The Countess.
Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes:
But perfidy, of course, one knows.
The Baron
(reads).
“‘Ah, Phillis! cruel Phillis!
(I heard a Shepherd say,)
You hold me with your Eyes, and yet
You bid me—Go my Way!’
(I heard a Shepherd say,)
You hold me with your Eyes, and yet
You bid me—Go my Way!’
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“‘Ah, Colin! foolish Colin!
(The Maiden answered so,)
If that be All, the Ill is small,
I close them—You may go!’
(The Maiden answered so,)
If that be All, the Ill is small,
I close them—You may go!’
“But when her Eyes she opened,
(Although the Sun it shone,)
She found the Shepherd had not stirred—
‘Because the Light was gone!’
(Although the Sun it shone,)
She found the Shepherd had not stirred—
‘Because the Light was gone!’
“Ah, Cupid! wanton Cupid!
'Twas ever thus your Way:
When Maids would bid you ply your Wings,
You find Excuse to stay!”
'Twas ever thus your Way:
When Maids would bid you ply your Wings,
You find Excuse to stay!”
The Countess.
Famous! He earned whate'er he got:—
But there's some sequel, is there not?
The Baron
(turning the page).
I think not.—No. Unless 'tis this:
My fate is far more hard than his;—
In fact, your Eyes—
The Countess.
Now, that's a breach!
Your bond is—not to make a speech.
And we must start—so call Justine.
I know exactly what you mean!—
Give me your arm—
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If, in return,
Countess, I could your hand but earn!
The Countess.
I thought as much. This comes, you see,
Of sentiment, and Arcady,
Where vows are hung on every tree. . . .
The Baron
(offering his arm, with a low bow).
And no one dreams—of Perfidy.
53
THE METAMORPHOSIS
“On s'enrichit quand on dort.”
Scene.—A high stone Seat in an Alley of clipped Lime-trees.
The Abbé Tirili. Monsieur L'Étoile.
The Abbé
(writing).
“ This shepherdess Dorine adored—”
What rhyme is next? Implored?—ignored?
Poured?—soared?—afford? That facile Dunce,
L'Étoile, would cap the line at once.
'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose
We take a meditative doze.
(Sleeps. By and by his paper falls.)
M. L'Étoile
(approaching from the back).
Some one before me. What! 'tis you,
Monsieur the Scholar? Sleeping too! (Picks up the fluttering paper.)
More “Tales,” of course One can't refuse
To chase so fugitive a Muse!
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“Cum privilegio”—Zephyri! (Reads.)
“Clitander and Dorine.” Insane!
He fancies he's a La Fontaine!
“In early Days, the Gods, we find,
Paid private Visits to Mankind;—
At least, authentic Records say so
In Publius Ovidius Naso.”
(Three names for one. This passes all.
'Tis “furiously” classical!)
“No doubt their Purpose oft would be
Some ‘Nodus dignus Vindice’
‘On dit,’ not less, these earthward Tours
Were mostly Matters of Amours.
And Woe to him whose luckless Flame
Impeded that Olympic Game;
Ere he could say an ‘Ave’ o'er,
They changed him—like a Louis-d'or.”
(“Aves,” and current coinage! O!—
O shade of Nicolas Boileau!)
“Bird, Beast, or River he became:
With Women it was much the same.
In Ovid Case to Case succeeds;
But Names the Reader never reads.”
(That is, Monsieur the Abbé feels
His quantities are out at heels!)
“Suffice it that, for this our Tale,
There dwelt in a Thessalian Vale,
Of Tales like this the frequent Scene,
A Shepherdess, by name Dorine.
Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she;—
In short,—the whole Artillery.
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Men marked it. So did Jupiter.
This Shepherdess Dorine adored. . . .”
Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured—
(He's scrawled them here!) We'll sum in brief
His fable on his second leaf. (Writes.)
There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote:—
“L'Étoile's is but a mock-bird's note.”
[Exit.
The Abbé
(waking).
Implored's the word, I think. But where,—
Where is my paper? Ah! 'tis there!
Eh! what?
(Reads.)
Where is my paper? Ah! 'tis there!
Eh! what?
The Metamorphosis (not in Ovid).
The Shepherdess Dorine adoredThe Shepherd-Boy Clitander;
But Jove himself, Olympus' Lord,
The Shepherdess Dorine adored.
Our Abbé's Aid the Pair Implored;—
And changed to Goose and Gander;
The Shepherdess Dorine adored
The Shepherd-Boy Clitander!”
L'Étoile,—by all the Muses!
Peste!
He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest.
No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day;
Next time 'twill be my turn to play.
He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest.
No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day;
Next time 'twill be my turn to play.
56
THE SONG OUT OF SEASON
“Point de culte sans mystère.”
Scene.—A Corridor in a Château, with Busts and Venice chandeliers.
Monsieur L'Étoile. Two Voices.
M. L'Étoile
(carrying a Rose).
This is the place. Mutine said here.
“Through the Mancini room, and near
The fifth Venetian chandelier. . . .”
The fifth?—She knew there were but four;—
Still, here's the busto of the Moor.
(Humming.)
“Through the Mancini room, and near
The fifth Venetian chandelier. . . .”
The fifth?—She knew there were but four;—
Still, here's the busto of the Moor.
Tra-la, tra-la! If Bijou wake,
He'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake!
I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake;
This surely is the door.
(Sings softly.)
He'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake!
I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake;
This surely is the door.
“When Jove, the Skies' Director,
First saw you sleep of yore,
He cried aloud for Nectar,
‘The Nectar quickly pour,—
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!’”
(No sound. I'll tap once more.)First saw you sleep of yore,
He cried aloud for Nectar,
57
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!’”
(Sings again.)
“Then came the Sire Apollo,
He passed you where you lay;
‘Come, Dian, rise and follow
The dappled Hart to slay,—
The rapid Hart to slay.’”
(A rustling within.)
He passed you where you lay;
‘Come, Dian, rise and follow
The dappled Hart to slay,—
The rapid Hart to slay.’”
(Coquette! She heard before.)
(Sings again.)
“And urchin Cupid after
Beside the Pillow curled,
He whispered you with Laughter,
‘Awake and witch the World,—
O Venus, witch the World!’”
(Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur l' Abbé's verse.)Beside the Pillow curled,
He whispered you with Laughter,
‘Awake and witch the World,—
O Venus, witch the World!’”
“So waken, waken, waken,
O You, whom we adore;
Where Gods can be mistaken,
Mere Mortals must be more,—
Poor Mortals must be more!”
(That merits an encore.)O You, whom we adore;
Where Gods can be mistaken,
Mere Mortals must be more,—
Poor Mortals must be more!”
“So waken, waken, waken!
O you, whom we adore!”
O you, whom we adore!”
58
'Tis thou, Antoine? Ah, Addle-pate!
Ah, Thief of Valet, always late!
Have I not told thee half-past eight
A thousand times!
(Great agitation.)
Ah, Thief of Valet, always late!
Have I not told thee half-past eight
A thousand times!
But wait,—but wait,—
M. L'Étoile
(stupefied).
Just Skies! What hideous roar!—
What lungs! The infamous Soubrette!
This is a turn I sha'n't forget:—
To make me sing my chansonnette
Before old Jourdain's door!
(Retiring slowly.)
What lungs! The infamous Soubrette!
This is a turn I sha'n't forget:—
To make me sing my chansonnette
Before old Jourdain's door!
And yet, and yet,—it can't be she.
They prompted her. Who can it be?
They prompted her. Who can it be?
(A second Voice.)
It was the Abbé Ti---ri---li!
(In a mocking falsetto.)
“Where Gods can be mistaken,
Mere Poets must be more,—
Bad Poets must be more.”
Mere Poets must be more,—
Bad Poets must be more.”
59
THE CAP THAT FITS
‘Qui sème épines n'aille déchaux.”
Scene.—A Salon with blue and white Panels. Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace.
Hortense. Armande. Monsieur Loyal.
Hortense
(behind her fan).
Not young, I think.
Armande
(raising her eye-glass).
And faded, too!—
Quite faded! Monsieur, what say you?
M. Loyal.
Nay,—I defer to you. In truth,
To me she seems all grace and youth.
60
Graceful? You think it? What, with hands
That hang like this (with a gesture).
Armande.
And how she stands!
M. Loyal.
Nay,—I am wrong again. I thought
Her air delightfully untaught!
Hortense.
But you amuse me—
M. Loyal.
Still her dress,—
Her dress at least, you must confess—
Armande.
Is odious simply! Jacotot
Did not supply that lace, I know;
And where, I ask, has mortal seen
A hat unfeathered!
Hortense.
Edged with green!!
61
The words remind me. Let me say
A Fable that I heard to-day.
Have I permission?
Both
(with enthusiasm).
Monsieur, pray!
M. Loyal.
“Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise
The Lady's Name I thus disguise),
Dying of Ennui, once decided—
Much on Resource herself she prided—
To choose a Hat. Forthwith she flies
On that momentous Enterprise.
Whether to Petit or Legros,
I know not: only this I know;—
Head-dresses then, of any Fashion,
Bore Names of Quality or Passion.
Myrtilla tried them, almost all:
‘Prudence,’ she felt, was somewhat small;
‘Retirement’ seemed the Eyes to hide;
‘Content,’ at once, she cast aside.
‘Simplicity,’—'twas out of Place;
‘Devotion,’ for an older Face;
Briefly, Selection smaller grew,
‘Vexatious!’ odious!—none would do!
Then, on a Sudden, she espied
One that she thought she had not tried:
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Roses in yellow, Thorns between.
‘Quick! Bring me that!’ 'Tis brought. ‘Complete,
Superb, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,’
In all the Tones. ‘And this you call—?’
‘“Ill-Nature,” Madame. It fits all.’”
Hortense.
A thousand thanks! So naïvely turned!
Armande.
So useful too . . . to those concerned!
'Tis yours?
M. Loyal.
Ah no,—some cynic Wits;
And called (I think)—
(Placing his hat upon his breast),
And called (I think)—
“The Cap that Fits.”
63
THE SECRETS OF THE HEART
“Le cœur mène où il va.”
Scene.—A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle.
Ninette. Ninon.
Ninette.
This way—
Ninon.
No, this way—
Ninette.
This way, then. (They enter the Chalet.)
You are as changing, Child,—as Men.
Ninon.
But are they? Is it true, I mean?
Who said it?
Ninette.
Sister Séraphine.
She was so pious and so good,
With such sad eyes beneath her hood,
64
Her name was Eugénie la Fère.
She used to tell us,—moonlight nights,—
When I was at the Carmelites.
Ninon.
Ah, then it must be right. And yet,
Suppose for once—suppose, Ninette—
Ninette.
But what?
Ninon.
Suppose it were not so?
Suppose there were true men, you know!
Ninette.
And then?
Ninon.
Why, if that could occur,
What kind of man should you prefer?
Ninette.
What looks, you mean?
Ninon.
Looks, voice and all.
65
Well, as to that, he must be tall,
Or say, not “tall,”—of middle size;
And next, he must have laughing eyes,
And a hook-nose,—with, underneath,
O! what a row of sparkling teeth!
Ninon
(touching her cheek suspiciously).
Has he a scar on this side?
Ninette.
Hush!
Some one is coming. No; a thrush:
I see it swinging there.
Ninon.
Go on.
Ninette.
Then he must fence, (ah, look, 'tis gone!)
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing
“Love was a Shepherd”:—everything
I have sometimes fancied that the song referred to must have run in this wise:—
When this old world was new,
Before the towns were made,
Love was a shepherd too.
Before the towns were made,
Love was a shepherd too.
Clear-eyed as flowers men grew,
Of evil unafraid,
When this old world was new.
Of evil unafraid,
When this old world was new.
No skill had they to woo,
Who but their hearts obey'd—
Love was a shepherd too.
Who but their hearts obey'd—
Love was a shepherd too.
What need to feign or sue!
Not thus was life delay'd
When this old world was new.
Not thus was life delay'd
When this old world was new.
Under the cloudless blue
They kiss'd their shepherd-maid—
Love was a shepherd too.
They kiss'd their shepherd-maid—
Love was a shepherd too.
They knew but joy; they knew
No pang of Love decay'd:
When this old world was new,
Love was a shepherd too.
No pang of Love decay'd:
When this old world was new,
Love was a shepherd too.
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon.
Ninon.
Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair . . .
I mean he should have; then an air
Half sad, half noble; features thin;
A little royale on the chin;
And such a pale, high brow. And then,
He is a prince of gentlemen;—
66
Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight
No worse for that—
Ninette.
I know your man.
Ninon.
And I know yours. But you'll not tell,—
Swear it!
Ninette.
I swear upon this fan,—
My Grandmother's!
Ninon.
And I, I swear
On this old turquoise reliquaire,—
My great—great Grandmother's!!—
(After a pause.)
On this old turquoise reliquaire,—
My great—great Grandmother's!!—
Ninette!
I feel so sad.
I feel so sad.
Ninette.
I too. But why?
Ninon.
Alas, I know not!
Ninette
(with a sigh).
Nor do I.
67
“GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!”
“Si vieillesse pouvait!—”
Scene.—A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman.
Monsieur Vieuxbois. Babette.
M. Vieuxbois
(turning querulously).
Day of my life! Where can she get?
Babette! I say! Babette!—Babette!
Babette
(entering hurriedly).
Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!
M. Vieuxbois.
Where have you been?
Babette.
Why, M'sieu' knows:—
April! . . . Ville d'Avray! . . . Ma'am'selle Rose!
68
Ah! I am old,—and I forget.
Was the place growing green, Babette?
Babette.
But of a greenness!—yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue!—so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
(Lifting her apron to her eyes.)
And then the sky so blue!—so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
This poor Ma'am'selle!
M. Vieuxbois.
You're a good girl, Babette, but she,—
She was an Angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains . . .
She was an Angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains . . .
Where's the draught?
(She gives him a cup.)
Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette;—
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette;—
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
Babette
(sings).
“Once at the Angelus
(Ere I was dead),
69
Came to my Bed;
Angels in blue and white
Crowned on the Head.”
M. Vieuxbois
(drowsily).
“She was an Angel” . . . “Once she laughed” . . .
What, was I dreaming?
What, was I dreaming?
Where's the draught?
Babette
(showing the empty cup).
The draught, M'sieu'?
M. Vieuxbois.
How I forget!
I am so old! But sing, Babette!
Babette
(sings).
“One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long,—long ago;
One was the Love I lost . . .
How could she know?”
M. Vieuxbois
(murmuring).
Ah, Paul! . . . old Paul! . . . Eulalie too!
And Rose . . . And O! “the sky so blue!”
70
(sings).
“One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me,—
Bent down and smiled!”
(He is asleep!)
M. Vieuxbois
(almost inaudibly).
“How I forget!”
“I am so old!” . . . “Good-night, Babette!”
71
EPILOGUE
Heigho! how chill the evenings get!
Good-night, Ninon!—good-night, Ninette!
Your little Play is played and finished;—
Go back, then, to your Cabinet!
Good-night, Ninon!—good-night, Ninette!
Your little Play is played and finished;—
Go back, then, to your Cabinet!
Loyal, L'Étoile! no more to-day!
Alas! they heed not what we say:
They smile with ardour undiminished;
But we,—we are not always gay!
Alas! they heed not what we say:
They smile with ardour undiminished;
But we,—we are not always gay!
| Collected poems | |