University of Virginia Library

I.

During the weary months, when Paris, all closely surrounded,
Fought with starvation within, fought with the Germans without;
When, though the master of millions, no man could leave or re-enter,
Were the need ever so great, either for others or self;
When many knew that a word, if into the city transmitted,
Ruin would surely avert, fatal delusion remove:
Greater perhaps was the suffering, deeper perhaps was the heart-ache,
Caused by the stoppage of news, than by the stoppage of bread.
Those who were pining for bread were only the hapless Parisians,
Those who were pining for news numbered both them and the world.
History, when wilt thou tell, how many the mothers too tender,
Who in that endless suspense died for the want of a word?
Nothing, however, so tragical lies at the root of this story:
'Tis but a straw I picked up, drifting about in the storm.
During the period of agony, when the political centre
Wandered from Paris to Tours, wandering thence to Bordeaux,
I was attached to an Embassy, which, with other legations,
Shared in the fortune of war, moving as Government moved.
There at Bordeaux was the capital; there in a heap were collected
All the official remains saved from the general wreck:
Over-worked public departments, embassies, bodies judicial,
Newspaper offices, banks, great Paris houses of trade;
Also a nondescript crowd of such as in time of invasion
Hang on the footsteps of power, feeding on public disgrace:
Place-hunters, demagogues, spies, contractors, soldiers of fortune;
All who had nothing to lose, or who had something to gain.
Somehow 'twas rumoured abroad, the embassy could, as a favour,
Letters to Paris transmit, over the enemy's lines,
Having been granted the privilege, by the high Prussian commanders,
Messengers thither to send bearing what letters it chose.
This was a cruel mistake, for we could no more an admittance
Into the city obtain, than could the rest of the world.
Letters, however, and messages, all of them destined for Paris,
At our office poured in, in a continuous stream;
Nearly all being accompanied by a most pressing entreaty,
Giving a view of the case, showing how great was the need.
Piteous, indeed, were the narratives, proving what suffering tortured
During that weary siege thousands within and without;
When all the notes to be forwarded treated of matters so urgent,
Friends and relations to save, heartrending fears to appease,
Difficult is it to justify what my attention could rivet
On a particular note, urgent far less than the rest.
Who can dissect all the principles which our feelings determine,
Fancy who can control, sympathy who can direct?
I know no reason to give, except individual humour,
What brings a smile to the one brings to the other a tear.
She who the letter had sent, by name was Elizabeth Burton,
Writing from England, I think, much in the following terms:
“Humbly I beg of your lordship not to reject my petition,
Merely to forward this note, which I have made very small;
'Tis to my landlord I write, but one little line of entreaty,
Just to take care of my room, saying that I shall return.
Ah! how little I dreamt, when but for three days I left Paris,
So many months would elapse ere I should see it again!
Not until now have I realised what a home Paris was for me;
Nor, till I saw it no more, how I that little room loved.
Carefully locking the door, I carried the key into exile;
There on the table it lies, useless but dear old friend.
Summer was hot when I left; the window remained all wide open;
Now it is bitterly cold; snowstorm and rain must drive in.
Ah! how the scene must be desolate, where all was lately so happy!
Dead are the flowers I loved; starved are the birds in the cage.
Would I were back in the capital; fain would I share its privations,—
Sew for the soldiers all day—sit by the wounded all night.
Maybe of all that I left the landlord has taken possession
For the arrears of rent, thinking I shall not return.”
As I this letter perused, and noted the writer's entreaties,
Sorrow indeed did I feel that she had written in vain.
Much would I gladly have sacrificed but for the means to assist her.
Twice I the letter re-read, then put it by with the rest.
Who was Elizabeth Burton, who thus to high persons official
Wrote in a tone of romance, and to their feelings appealed?
Clearly the letter showed character, and a poetical nature:
Doubtless the writer was young—new to the ways of the world.
Why did she live by herself, in one little room, unattended?
All in the letter proclaimed, free from all sin was her life.
Was she an artist perhaps, and studying painting or music?
Or a strange runaway girl, living alone and concealed?
Poor the maiden was probably—poor in worldly possessions—
But all the richer in mind, if my own instinct told true.
Thus did I let my thoughts carry me, till an ideal Eliz'beth
Grew and took shape in my mind, fair as the dawning of day.
Beautiful power of Fancy! Such are the slender materials
Which for the poet suffice, forming the base of his dream.
Still dost thou live in my memory, fair little airy enchantress,—
Such as I wished thee to look—such as I thought thee to be.
Sickened and fagged with my work—surrounded by minds uncongenial—
Loathing convention and forms—yearning for leisure and friends—
Oh! in thy plain little room, how often in thought I took refuge,
Taking my place by thy side, tending thy flowers and birds!
Say, wast thou not a reality, when from afar I beheld thee?
Comfort and friend of those days, say, wast thou only a dream?

II.

Nearly a year had gone by, and Paris had fought and surrendered;
Those that were in had streamed out, those that were out had streamed in.
France was again with her capital, after their long separation,
Proud of its useless defence, eager to soften its wounds.
'Twas but a respite from suffering for the unfortunate city;
Yet had the worst to be felt, still had the Commune to come.
Light-headed Daughter of Misery, born in the gutter and sewer,
Perfect indeed was thy work, sure thy incendiary torch!
When will the stateliest palaces, lately the models of beauty,
Now shells empty and black, rise from their ashes again?
Shattered the trees in the Tuileries, headless the statues of marble,
Marked by the bullets each house, close as the holes in a sieve.
Split was the frame of society down to its lowest foundation.
Sullen and cowed were the poor; not reassured were the rich:
Lost was the sense of stability, gone men's belief in the future.
Everything still seemed to lurch, after the earthquake had passed.
Yet to this dreary wilderness life was not long in returning.
Quick was the mind that creates, busy the hand that repairs.
Scarcely the ever re-echoing deep-voiced cannon was silent,
Industry took to her looms, Commerce reopened her shops.
Luxury, treading uneasily in the late home of starvation,
Slily returned in disguise, where she had openly reigned.
Pleasure, quite modest at first, and shy 'mid the general mourning,
Now, by unnoticed degrees, sought her habitual haunts.
Scattered about by the hurricane, men were still seeking each other.
Friend was still looking for friend, nay, often father for son.
Doctors were seeking their patients, lawyers were seeking their clients,
Anxious to know who was ruined, anxious to know who was dead.
Tradesmen were seeking their customers, teachers were seeking their pupils:
Who could retie, in a day, all that the war had cut through?
Since my return to the capital, where all was still so exciting,
Seeing new faces each day, meeting again with old friends,
Seldom indeed did my memory turn to the fair Correspondent
Whom I had seen in my dreams during my stay at Bordeaux.
Still, in her youth and simplicity, fair as an opening flower,
Did she return now and then such as she there had appeared;
And I would catch myself wondering whether I ever should meet her,
Now that she doubtless was back in her beloved little room.
As I was sitting one day, engaged on official despatches,
One of the servants came in holding a card in his hand,
Saying a lady was there who asked to see me on business:
Brief would she be, had she said; only a minute—no more.
Carelessly taking the card, I read, Miss Elizabeth Burton.
Written in ink were the words, in the same hand as of yore.
As she those simple words wrote, but little indeed she suspected
What an effect they would have, how many thoughts they would wake.
Little she guessed I should hesitate ere I the waiting-room entered,
Hearing the beat of my heart as I the door-handle turned.
She was alone in the room, nor heard she my step as I entered;
But at the window she stood, watching intently the street,
Where all the opposite houses, by fire and bullets disfigured,
Still, with a terrible truth, told of the great city fight.
There as she stood unsuspecting, graceful enough was her figure;
Yet, ere I looked on her face, instinct had told me the truth:
Poor ideal Elizabeth! Youthful and beautiful being!
Thou that my heart had conceived, thou wast a thing of the past.
This was the end of the mystery! This was the end of the idyl!
Angry I felt with myself, angry—God help me!—with her.
How did she dare to be otherwise than as my fancy had painted?
Or, at least, why had she come? Why had she broken the charm?
But as I looked on the dress, all shabby and worn, she was clad in,
And on that pale and thin face, worthier feelings returned.
Might she not once have been fair, as fair as my day-dream had seen her,
Ere she was faded by time, ere she was faded by want?
And my ideal Elizabeth, were she now standing before me,
Would she not wither one day, would she not look even thus?
Softened I hope was my voice, and gentle I hope was my manner,
As I the window approached where the poor visitor stood.
Simple and short was her narrative: she was a teacher of English,
And had been teaching for years when the great war-storm burst forth.
Little she earned by her work—her pupils were all of the humblest;
Still she had managed to live, till all was wrecked by the siege.
During the long months of idleness, all her small savings had perished;
All she had left in her room, landlord had sold for the rent;
Sold was her small stock of books, all presents from dear old pupils;
Sold was her small store of dress, cruelly needed, alas!
All her old pupils were gone and scattered in different directions;
Some in the war had been killed, some in the siege had been ruined.
Vainly for new ones she sought; who cared to take lessons in English?
No one had leisure to learn, no one had money to spare.
Therefore she offered her services, if I required a copyist,
Or to do any small work, so as a trifle to earn.
Poor, pale, real Elizabeth! frail withered leaf in the tempest!
As I looked into her face, almost my dream I forgot.
Something I gave her to do; and secretly vowed to befriend her,
Half for reality's sake, half for the sake of a myth.