Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
 |
|
 | I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. | CANTO II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | Lucile |  |
210
CANTO II.
I. COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED.
‘London, 18—.
‘My dear Alfred,
‘Your last letters put me in pain.
‘This contempt of existence, this listless disdain
‘Of your own life,—its joys and its duties,—the deuce
‘Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse!
‘I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your leg,
‘And compel you to stump through the world on a peg.
‘I wish that you had, like myself (more's the pity!),
‘To sit seven hours on this cursed committee.
‘I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread
‘Of another—(what is it that Dante has said?)
‘And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word,
‘I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd
‘On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause
‘For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws!
‘This pressure against all the purpose of life,
‘This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife,
‘Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth,
‘The richness and strength of the new wine of youth.
‘But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with time,
‘Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavour sublime,
‘It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste,
Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste
‘The better, I take it. And this vice of snarling,
‘Self-love's little lapdog, the over-fed darling
‘Of a hypochondriacal fancy, appears,
‘To my thinking at least, in a man of your years,
‘At the midnoon of manhood, with plenty to do,
‘And every incentive for doing it too,—
‘With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing
‘For prayer, and of joys more than most men for blessing;
‘With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse,—
‘Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse!
‘I wish I could get you at least to agree
‘To take life as it is, and consider with me,
‘If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers;
‘It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears.
‘Do you think none have known but yourself all the pain
‘Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain?
‘And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt,
‘'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that's without?
‘What one of us finds the world just as he likes?
‘Or gets what he wants when he wants it? Or strikes
‘Without missing the thing that he strikes at the first?
‘Or walks without stumbling? Or quenches his thirst
‘At one draught? Bah! I tell you! I, bachelor John,
‘Have had griefs of my own. But what then? I push on
‘All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain
‘Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again.
‘God means every man to be happy, be sure.
‘He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure.
‘Our duty down here is to do, not to know.
‘Live as though life were earnest, and life will be so.
‘Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, come:
‘It will wait to deliver its message; and some
‘Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed
‘A man does, but the way that he does it, should plead
‘For the man's compensation in doing it.
‘This contempt of existence, this listless disdain
‘Of your own life,—its joys and its duties,—the deuce
‘Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse!
‘I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your leg,
‘And compel you to stump through the world on a peg.
‘I wish that you had, like myself (more's the pity!),
‘To sit seven hours on this cursed committee.
‘I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread
‘Of another—(what is it that Dante has said?)
‘And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word,
‘I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd
‘On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause
‘For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws!
‘This pressure against all the purpose of life,
‘This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife,
‘Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth,
‘The richness and strength of the new wine of youth.
‘But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with time,
‘Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavour sublime,
‘It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste,
Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste
211
‘Self-love's little lapdog, the over-fed darling
‘Of a hypochondriacal fancy, appears,
‘To my thinking at least, in a man of your years,
‘At the midnoon of manhood, with plenty to do,
‘And every incentive for doing it too,—
‘With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing
‘For prayer, and of joys more than most men for blessing;
‘With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse,—
‘Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse!
‘I wish I could get you at least to agree
‘To take life as it is, and consider with me,
‘If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers;
‘It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears.
‘Do you think none have known but yourself all the pain
‘Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain?
‘And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt,
‘'Twixt the life that's within, and the life that's without?
‘What one of us finds the world just as he likes?
‘Or gets what he wants when he wants it? Or strikes
‘Without missing the thing that he strikes at the first?
‘Or walks without stumbling? Or quenches his thirst
‘At one draught? Bah! I tell you! I, bachelor John,
‘Have had griefs of my own. But what then? I push on
‘All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain
‘Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again.
‘God means every man to be happy, be sure.
‘He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure.
‘Our duty down here is to do, not to know.
‘Live as though life were earnest, and life will be so.
212
‘It will wait to deliver its message; and some
‘Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed
‘A man does, but the way that he does it, should plead
‘For the man's compensation in doing it.
‘Here,
‘My next neighbour's a man with twelve thousand a year,
‘Who deems that life has not a pastime more pleasant
‘Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheasant.
‘Yet this fellow goes through a contested election,
‘Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejection,
‘All the day through upon a committee, and late
‘To the last, every night, through the dreary debate,
‘As though he were getting each speaker by heart,
‘Though amongst them he never presumes to take part.
‘One asks oneself why, without murmur or question,
‘He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his digestion,
‘For a labour of which the result seems so small.
‘“The man is ambitious,” you say. Not at all.
‘He has just sense enough to be fully aware
‘That he never can hope to be Premier, or share
‘The renown of a Tully;—or even to hold
‘A subordinate office. He is not so bold
‘As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear
‘With patience his modest opinions to hear.
‘“But he wants something!”
‘My next neighbour's a man with twelve thousand a year,
‘Who deems that life has not a pastime more pleasant
‘Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheasant.
‘Yet this fellow goes through a contested election,
‘Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejection,
‘All the day through upon a committee, and late
‘To the last, every night, through the dreary debate,
‘As though he were getting each speaker by heart,
‘Though amongst them he never presumes to take part.
‘One asks oneself why, without murmur or question,
‘He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his digestion,
‘For a labour of which the result seems so small.
‘“The man is ambitious,” you say. Not at all.
‘He has just sense enough to be fully aware
‘That he never can hope to be Premier, or share
‘The renown of a Tully;—or even to hold
‘A subordinate office. He is not so bold
‘As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear
‘With patience his modest opinions to hear.
‘“But he wants something!”
‘What! with twelve thousand a year?
‘What could Government give him would be half so dear
‘To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun
‘Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital run?
‘“No; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain;
‘The man would be more than his neighbours, 'tis plain;
‘And the drudgery drearily gone through in town
‘Is more than repaid by provincial renown.
‘Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose,
‘Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance; the goose,
‘If the Fashion to him open one of its doors,
‘As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors.”
‘Wrong again! if you think so,
‘What could Government give him would be half so dear
213
‘Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital run?
‘“No; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain;
‘The man would be more than his neighbours, 'tis plain;
‘And the drudgery drearily gone through in town
‘Is more than repaid by provincial renown.
‘Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose,
‘Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance; the goose,
‘If the Fashion to him open one of its doors,
‘As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors.”
‘Wrong again! if you think so,
‘For, primo; my friend
‘Is the head of a family known from one end
‘Of his shire to the other, as the oldest; and therefore
‘He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care for
‘A peerage? no truly! Secondo; he rarely
‘Or never goes out: dines at Bellamy's sparely,
‘And abhors what you call the gay world.
‘Is the head of a family known from one end
‘Of his shire to the other, as the oldest; and therefore
‘He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care for
‘A peerage? no truly! Secondo; he rarely
‘Or never goes out: dines at Bellamy's sparely,
‘And abhors what you call the gay world.
‘Then, I ask,
‘What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed task
‘As the life of this man,—but the sense of its duty?
‘And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest beauty
‘Have never inspired in my soul that intense,
‘Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense
‘Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man,
‘As I see him beside me;—there, wearing the wan
‘London daylight away, on his humdrum committee;
‘So unconscious of all that awakens my pity,
‘And wonder—and worship, I might say.
‘To me
‘There seems something nobler than genius to be
‘In that dull patient labour no genius relieves,
‘That absence of all joy which yet never grieves;
‘The humility of it! the grandeur withal!
‘The sublimity of it! And yet, should you call
‘The man's own very slow apprehension to this,
‘He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is!
‘His work is the duty to which he was born;
‘He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn:
‘And this man is no uncommon type (I thank Heaven!)
‘Of this land's common men. In all other lands, even
‘The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 'tis the reason
‘That government oscillates ever 'twixt treason
‘And tyranny elsewhere.
‘What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed task
‘As the life of this man,—but the sense of its duty?
‘And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest beauty
‘Have never inspired in my soul that intense,
‘Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense
‘Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man,
‘As I see him beside me;—there, wearing the wan
‘London daylight away, on his humdrum committee;
‘So unconscious of all that awakens my pity,
‘And wonder—and worship, I might say.
214
‘There seems something nobler than genius to be
‘In that dull patient labour no genius relieves,
‘That absence of all joy which yet never grieves;
‘The humility of it! the grandeur withal!
‘The sublimity of it! And yet, should you call
‘The man's own very slow apprehension to this,
‘He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is!
‘His work is the duty to which he was born;
‘He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn:
‘And this man is no uncommon type (I thank Heaven!)
‘Of this land's common men. In all other lands, even
‘The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 'tis the reason
‘That government oscillates ever 'twixt treason
‘And tyranny elsewhere.
‘I wander away
‘Too far, though, from what I was wishing to say.
‘You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the soul
‘Is immortal; and put this in rhyme, on the whole,
‘Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart
‘Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art:—
‘The Greek Psyche,—that's beauty,—the perfect ideal:
‘But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real,
‘With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale
‘Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail.
‘You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too,
‘Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you.
‘Geology opens the mind. So you know
‘Something also of strata and fossils; these show
‘The bases of cosmical structure: some mention
‘Of the nebulous theory demands your attention;
‘And so on.
‘Too far, though, from what I was wishing to say.
‘You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the soul
‘Is immortal; and put this in rhyme, on the whole,
‘Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart
‘Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art:—
‘The Greek Psyche,—that's beauty,—the perfect ideal:
‘But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real,
‘With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale
‘Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail.
‘You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too,
‘Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you.
‘Geology opens the mind. So you know
‘Something also of strata and fossils; these show
215
‘Of the nebulous theory demands your attention;
‘And so on.
‘In short, it is clear the interior
‘Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior
‘In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire,
‘To that of my poor parliamentary squire;
‘But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat
‘Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incomplete.
‘You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at?
‘My mind is not satisfied quite as to that.
‘An old illustration 's as good as a new,
‘Provided the old illustration be true.
‘We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly,
‘Though we marvel to see them ascending so high;
‘Things slight in themselves,—long-tail'd toys, and no more!
‘What is it that makes the kite steadily soar
‘Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth,
‘But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth?
‘I remember the lessons of childhood, you see,
‘And the hornbook I learn'd on my poor mother's knee.
‘In truth, I suspect little else do we learn
‘From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn,
‘Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace,
‘What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood.
‘Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior
‘In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire,
‘To that of my poor parliamentary squire;
‘But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat
‘Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incomplete.
‘You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at?
‘My mind is not satisfied quite as to that.
‘An old illustration 's as good as a new,
‘Provided the old illustration be true.
‘We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly,
‘Though we marvel to see them ascending so high;
‘Things slight in themselves,—long-tail'd toys, and no more!
‘What is it that makes the kite steadily soar
‘Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth,
‘But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth?
‘I remember the lessons of childhood, you see,
‘And the hornbook I learn'd on my poor mother's knee.
‘In truth, I suspect little else do we learn
‘From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn,
‘Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace,
‘What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood.
‘Your case
‘Is exactly in point.
‘Is exactly in point.
216
‘Fly your kite, if you please,
‘Out of sight: let it go where it will, on the breeze;
‘But cut not the one thread by which it is bound,
‘Be it never so high, to this poor human ground.
‘No man is the absolute lord of his life.
‘You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear wife.
‘If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire,
‘With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire
‘For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair,
‘Some dull winter evening to solace and share
‘With the love which the world its good children allows
‘To shake hands with,—in short, a legitimate spouse,
‘This thought has consoled me: “at least I have given
‘For my own good behaviour no hostage to heaven.”
‘You have, though. Forget it not! faith, if you do,
‘I would rather break stones on a road than be you.
‘If any man wilfully injured, or led
‘That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head,
‘Even though you yourself were the sinner!
‘Out of sight: let it go where it will, on the breeze;
‘But cut not the one thread by which it is bound,
‘Be it never so high, to this poor human ground.
‘No man is the absolute lord of his life.
‘You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear wife.
‘If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire,
‘With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire
‘For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair,
‘Some dull winter evening to solace and share
‘With the love which the world its good children allows
‘To shake hands with,—in short, a legitimate spouse,
‘This thought has consoled me: “at least I have given
‘For my own good behaviour no hostage to heaven.”
‘You have, though. Forget it not! faith, if you do,
‘I would rather break stones on a road than be you.
‘If any man wilfully injured, or led
‘That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head,
‘Even though you yourself were the sinner!
‘And this
‘Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss!)
‘To the matter I meant to have mention'd at once,
‘But these thoughts put it out of my head for the nonce.
‘Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams,
‘Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs,
‘The wolf best received by the flock he devours
‘Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours.
‘At least, this has long been my settled conviction,
‘And I almost would venture at once the prediction
‘That before very long—but no matter! I trust
‘For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust.
‘But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on
‘The score of such men as, with both God and Mammon,
‘Seem so shrewdly familiar.
‘Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss!)
‘To the matter I meant to have mention'd at once,
‘But these thoughts put it out of my head for the nonce.
‘Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams,
‘Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs,
‘The wolf best received by the flock he devours
‘Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours.
‘At least, this has long been my settled conviction,
‘And I almost would venture at once the prediction
217
‘For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust.
‘But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on
‘The score of such men as, with both God and Mammon,
‘Seem so shrewdly familiar.
‘Neglect not this warning.
‘There were rumours afloat in the City this morning
‘Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows? would he fleece
‘At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece?
‘For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune
‘Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune
‘Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner,
‘Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up winner,
‘I say, lose no time! get it out of the grab
‘Of her trustee and relative Ridley MacNab.
‘I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out,
‘And safe at this moment from danger or doubt.
‘A wink is as good as a nod to the wise.
‘Verbum sap. I admit nothing yet justifies
‘My mistrust; but I have in my own mind a notion
‘That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devotion,
‘Have long been the only ostensible capital
‘On which he does business. If so, time must sap it all,
‘Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait,
‘Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late.
‘I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect;
‘I give you my notions. Form yours, and reflect.
‘My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well.
‘I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell
‘Worth your hearing. We think that the government here
‘Will not last out next session. Fitz Funk is a peer,
‘You will see by the Times. There are symptoms which show
‘That the ministers now are preparing to go,
‘And finish their feast of the loaves and the fishes.
‘It is evident that they are clearing the dishes,
‘And cramming their pockets with bon-bons. Your news
‘Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues,
‘Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so,
‘You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman? I know
‘That the man is a sad mauvais sujet. Take care
‘Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there;
‘But, before I am free, you are sure to be gone.
‘Good-bye, my dear fellow.
‘There were rumours afloat in the City this morning
‘Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows? would he fleece
‘At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece?
‘For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune
‘Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune
‘Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner,
‘Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up winner,
‘I say, lose no time! get it out of the grab
‘Of her trustee and relative Ridley MacNab.
‘I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out,
‘And safe at this moment from danger or doubt.
‘A wink is as good as a nod to the wise.
‘Verbum sap. I admit nothing yet justifies
‘My mistrust; but I have in my own mind a notion
‘That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devotion,
‘Have long been the only ostensible capital
‘On which he does business. If so, time must sap it all,
‘Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait,
‘Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late.
‘I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect;
‘I give you my notions. Form yours, and reflect.
218
‘I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell
‘Worth your hearing. We think that the government here
‘Will not last out next session. Fitz Funk is a peer,
‘You will see by the Times. There are symptoms which show
‘That the ministers now are preparing to go,
‘And finish their feast of the loaves and the fishes.
‘It is evident that they are clearing the dishes,
‘And cramming their pockets with bon-bons. Your news
‘Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues,
‘Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so,
‘You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman? I know
‘That the man is a sad mauvais sujet. Take care
‘Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there;
‘But, before I am free, you are sure to be gone.
‘Good-bye, my dear fellow.
‘Yours, anxiously,
‘John.’
II.
This is just the advice I myself would have given
To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, which, heaven
Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed
In an unlucky hour, and received little heed.
A half-languid glance was the most that he lent at
That time to these homilies. Primum dementat
Quem Deus vult perdere. Alfred in fact
Was behaving just then in a way to distract
Job's self had Job known him. The more you'd have thought
The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would have caught,
The more did his aspect grow listless to hers,
And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers.
And Matilda, the less she found love in the look
Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the Duke.
With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, heart from heart,
Woke to feel themselves further and further apart.
More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the table,
Play'd high: and lost more than to lose he was able.
He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse,—
And here I must mention, what made matters worse,
That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel
With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell
That they all saw too much of each other. The weather
Was so fine that it brought them each day all together
In the garden,—to listen, of course, to the band.
The house was a sort of phalanstery; and
Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover
A mutual passion for music. Moreover
The Duke was an excellent tenor: could sing
‘Ange si pure’ in a way to bring down on the wing
All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord
Would also at times, when he was not too bored,
Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not ill;
With some little things of his own, showing skill.
For which reason, as well as for some others too,
Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendez-vous.
Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless coquette!)
All the mischief she could not but mark?
To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, which, heaven
Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed
In an unlucky hour, and received little heed.
A half-languid glance was the most that he lent at
That time to these homilies. Primum dementat
219
Was behaving just then in a way to distract
Job's self had Job known him. The more you'd have thought
The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would have caught,
The more did his aspect grow listless to hers,
And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers.
And Matilda, the less she found love in the look
Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the Duke.
With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, heart from heart,
Woke to feel themselves further and further apart.
More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the table,
Play'd high: and lost more than to lose he was able.
He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse,—
And here I must mention, what made matters worse,
That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel
With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell
That they all saw too much of each other. The weather
Was so fine that it brought them each day all together
In the garden,—to listen, of course, to the band.
The house was a sort of phalanstery; and
Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover
A mutual passion for music. Moreover
The Duke was an excellent tenor: could sing
‘Ange si pure’ in a way to bring down on the wing
All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord
Would also at times, when he was not too bored,
Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not ill;
With some little things of his own, showing skill.
220
Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendez-vous.
Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless coquette!)
All the mischief she could not but mark?
Patience yet!
III.
In that garden, an arbour, withdrawn from the sun,
By laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun,
Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when the heat
Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat.
And here, with some friends of their own little world,
In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd
From the feet of the lindens, and crept thro' the grass,
Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass.
The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring,
Undeterr'd by tobacco, their work there, and sing
Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the bee
Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there was tea
(A luxury due to Matilda), and ice,
Fruit, and coffee. Ω Εσπερε, παντα φ/ερεισ.
Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided
O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided,
With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a thick head,
And an old Russian Countess both witty and wicked,
And two Austrian Colonels,—that Alfred, who yet
Was lounging alone with his last cigarette,
Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow
'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro,
And joining her, cried, ‘Thank the good stars, we meet!
‘I have so much to say to you!’
By laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun,
Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when the heat
Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat.
And here, with some friends of their own little world,
In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd
From the feet of the lindens, and crept thro' the grass,
Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass.
The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring,
Undeterr'd by tobacco, their work there, and sing
Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the bee
Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there was tea
(A luxury due to Matilda), and ice,
Fruit, and coffee. Ω Εσπερε, παντα φ/ερεισ.
Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided
O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided,
With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a thick head,
And an old Russian Countess both witty and wicked,
And two Austrian Colonels,—that Alfred, who yet
Was lounging alone with his last cigarette,
Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow
'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro,
221
‘I have so much to say to you!’
‘Yes?..’ with her sweet
Serene voice, she replied to him .. ‘Yes? and I too
‘Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you.’
She was paler just then than her wont was. The sound
Of her voice had within it a sadness profound.
‘You are ill?’ he exclaim'd.
Serene voice, she replied to him .. ‘Yes? and I too
‘Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you.’
She was paler just then than her wont was. The sound
Of her voice had within it a sadness profound.
‘You are ill?’ he exclaim'd.
‘No!’ she hurriedly said,
‘No, no!’
‘No, no!’
‘You alarm me!’
She droop'd down her head.
‘If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to divine
‘The purpose of what has been passing in mine,
‘My farewell can scarcely alarm you.’
Lord Alfred.
‘If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to divine
‘The purpose of what has been passing in mine,
‘My farewell can scarcely alarm you.’
Lucile!
Your farewell! you go!
The Countess
Yes, Lord Alfred.
Lord Alfred.
Reveal
The cause of this sudden unkindness.
The Countess.
Unkind?
Lord Alfred.
Yes! what else is this parting?
222
No, no! are you blind?
Look into your own heart and home. Can you see
No reason for this, save unkindness in me?
Look into the eyes of your wife—those true eyes
Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise
The sweet soul shining thro' them.
Lord Alfred.
Lucile! (first and last
Be the word, if you will!) let me speak of the past.
I know now, alas! tho' I know it too late,
What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate.
Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet! let it be!
I but say what is due to yourself—due to me,
And must say it.
Be the word, if you will!) let me speak of the past.
I know now, alas! tho' I know it too late,
What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate.
Nay, nay, interrupt me not yet! let it be!
I but say what is due to yourself—due to me,
And must say it.
He rush'd incoherently on,
Describing how, lately, the truth he had known,
To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd her before,
All the complicate coil wound about him of yore,
All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was fled,
‘And then, O Lucile, what was left me,’ he said,
‘When my life was defrauded of you, but to take
‘That life, as 'twas left, and endeavour to make
‘Unobserved by another, the void which remain'd
‘Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd,
‘I have striven. One word of unkindness has never
‘Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever
‘Received my submission. And if, of a truth,
‘I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth,
‘I at least have been loyal to what I do feel,
‘Respect, duty, honour, affection. Lucile,
‘I speak not of love now, nor love's lone regret:
‘I would not offend you, nor dare I forget
‘The ties that are round me. But may there not be
‘A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me?
‘O Lucile, answer yes! say, indeed, must I deem
‘That dream of the Greek nothing more than a dream,
‘Which, of yore, in our youth, ere it could be for us
‘Aught, in truth, save a theme it was sweet to discuss
‘With all else of those loved Grecian teachers of ours,—
‘That dream of two souls, from the same parent powers,
‘Which, tho' virgin in heart, are yet married in mind,
‘Like those twin stars which seem, tho' so distant, combined?
‘Is this creed a delusion in faith, and in act
‘A crime? or, Lucile, may we be not, in fact,
‘To each other yet friends—friends the dearest?’
Describing how, lately, the truth he had known,
To explain how, and whence, he had wrong'd her before,
All the complicate coil wound about him of yore,
All the hopes that had flown with the faith that was fled,
‘And then, O Lucile, what was left me,’ he said,
‘When my life was defrauded of you, but to take
‘That life, as 'twas left, and endeavour to make
‘Unobserved by another, the void which remain'd
‘Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd,
‘I have striven. One word of unkindness has never
‘Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish has ever
‘Received my submission. And if, of a truth,
‘I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth,
223
‘Respect, duty, honour, affection. Lucile,
‘I speak not of love now, nor love's lone regret:
‘I would not offend you, nor dare I forget
‘The ties that are round me. But may there not be
‘A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me?
‘O Lucile, answer yes! say, indeed, must I deem
‘That dream of the Greek nothing more than a dream,
‘Which, of yore, in our youth, ere it could be for us
‘Aught, in truth, save a theme it was sweet to discuss
‘With all else of those loved Grecian teachers of ours,—
‘That dream of two souls, from the same parent powers,
‘Which, tho' virgin in heart, are yet married in mind,
‘Like those twin stars which seem, tho' so distant, combined?
‘Is this creed a delusion in faith, and in act
‘A crime? or, Lucile, may we be not, in fact,
‘To each other yet friends—friends the dearest?’
‘Alas!’
‘She replied, ‘for one moment, perchance, did it pass
‘Thro' my own heart, that dream which for ever hath brought
‘To those who indulge it in innocent thought
‘So fatal and evil a waking! But no.
‘For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-tree would grow
‘On the borders of Hades: beyond it, what lies?
‘The wheel of Ixion, alas! and the cries
‘Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us,
‘Are the days when with innocence we could discuss
‘Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams of my life!
‘Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife.
‘And I—in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow
‘To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow
‘Not one blush when I first took her hand. With no blush
‘Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you.
‘She replied, ‘for one moment, perchance, did it pass
‘Thro' my own heart, that dream which for ever hath brought
‘To those who indulge it in innocent thought
‘So fatal and evil a waking! But no.
‘For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-tree would grow
‘On the borders of Hades: beyond it, what lies?
‘The wheel of Ixion, alas! and the cries
‘Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us,
‘Are the days when with innocence we could discuss
224
‘Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife.
‘And I—in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow
‘To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow
‘Not one blush when I first took her hand. With no blush
‘Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you.
‘Hush! hush!
‘I would say what I wish'd to have said when you came.
‘Do not think that years leave us and find us the same!
‘The woman you knew long ago, long ago,
‘Is no more. You yourself have within you, I know,
‘The germ of a joy in the years yet to be,
‘Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me,
‘I go my own way,—onward, upward!
‘I would say what I wish'd to have said when you came.
‘Do not think that years leave us and find us the same!
‘The woman you knew long ago, long ago,
‘Is no more. You yourself have within you, I know,
‘The germ of a joy in the years yet to be,
‘Whereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me,
‘I go my own way,—onward, upward!
‘O yet,
‘Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret,
‘When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,—
‘The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead,
‘But it is not corrupted. I too have at last
‘Lived to learn that love is not—(such love as is past,
‘Such love as youth dreams of at least)—the sole part
‘Of life, which is able to fill up the heart;
‘Even that of a woman. Whoever indeed
‘Is useful cannot be unhappy. This creed
‘Fills the void of existence. Between you and me
‘Heaven fixes a gulf, over which, you must see,
‘That our guardian angels can bear us no more.
‘We each of us stand on an opposite shore.
‘One step forward, and down the abyss we should sink.
‘Oh, the day will come yet, and more soon than you think,
‘When life's hopes will all be new born in your heart.
‘And I see in it, hidden, yet ready to start
‘Into blossom, more brightly than ever, the flower
‘Which you deem to be wither'd. For who knows the power
‘Of self-renovation in man? What is more,
‘You will wake up and find, when this slumber is o'er,
‘At your right hand a heart destined, trust me, to prove
‘The fulfilment of all you have dream'd of in love.
‘Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn,
‘By an instinct men never attain, to discern
‘Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair,
‘Matilda is young—see her now, sitting there!—
‘How tenderly fashion'd—(oh, is she not, say,)
‘To love and be loved?’
‘Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret,
‘When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled,—
‘The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead,
‘But it is not corrupted. I too have at last
‘Lived to learn that love is not—(such love as is past,
‘Such love as youth dreams of at least)—the sole part
‘Of life, which is able to fill up the heart;
‘Even that of a woman. Whoever indeed
‘Is useful cannot be unhappy. This creed
‘Fills the void of existence. Between you and me
‘Heaven fixes a gulf, over which, you must see,
‘That our guardian angels can bear us no more.
‘We each of us stand on an opposite shore.
225
‘Oh, the day will come yet, and more soon than you think,
‘When life's hopes will all be new born in your heart.
‘And I see in it, hidden, yet ready to start
‘Into blossom, more brightly than ever, the flower
‘Which you deem to be wither'd. For who knows the power
‘Of self-renovation in man? What is more,
‘You will wake up and find, when this slumber is o'er,
‘At your right hand a heart destined, trust me, to prove
‘The fulfilment of all you have dream'd of in love.
‘Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn,
‘By an instinct men never attain, to discern
‘Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair,
‘Matilda is young—see her now, sitting there!—
‘How tenderly fashion'd—(oh, is she not, say,)
‘To love and be loved?’
IV.
He turn'd sharply away—
‘Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair;
‘Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware;
‘But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child;
‘Matilda loves not—’
‘Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair;
‘Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware;
‘But Matilda's a statue, Matilda's a child;
‘Matilda loves not—’
Lucile quietly smiled
As she answer'd him:—‘Yesterday, all that you say
‘Might be true; it is false, wholly false, though, to-day.’
As she answer'd him:—‘Yesterday, all that you say
‘Might be true; it is false, wholly false, though, to-day.’
‘How?—what mean you?’
226
‘I mean that to-day,’ she replied,
‘The statue with life has become vivified:
‘I mean that the child to a woman has grown:
‘And that woman is jealous.’
‘The statue with life has become vivified:
‘I mean that the child to a woman has grown:
‘And that woman is jealous.’
‘What! she?’ with a tone
Of ironical wonder, he answer'd—‘what, she!
‘She jealous!—Matilda!—of whom, pray?—not me!’
Of ironical wonder, he answer'd—‘what, she!
‘She jealous!—Matilda!—of whom, pray?—not me!’
‘My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you
‘Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too,
‘That so lately this passion within her hath grown.
‘For who shall declare, if for months she had known
‘What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear,
‘That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear?’
‘Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, too,
‘That so lately this passion within her hath grown.
‘For who shall declare, if for months she had known
‘What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear,
‘That knowledge perchance might have cost you more dear?’
‘Explain! explain, madam!’ he cried in surprise;
And terror and anger enkindled his eyes.
And terror and anger enkindled his eyes.
‘How blind are you men!’ she replied. ‘Can you doubt
‘That a woman, young, fair, and neglected—’
‘That a woman, young, fair, and neglected—’
‘Speak out!’
He gasp'd with emotion. ‘Lucile! you mean—what?
‘Do you doubt her fidelity?’
He gasp'd with emotion. ‘Lucile! you mean—what?
‘Do you doubt her fidelity?’
‘Certainly not.
‘Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to explain
‘Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain
‘From touching a subject so fragile. However,
‘Bear with me a while, if I frankly endeavour
‘To invade for one moment your innermost life.
‘Your honour, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife,
‘Are dear to me,—most dear! And I am convinced
‘That you rashly are risking that honour.’
‘Listen to me, my friend. What I wish to explain
‘Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain
‘From touching a subject so fragile. However,
‘Bear with me a while, if I frankly endeavour
‘To invade for one moment your innermost life.
‘Your honour, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife,
227
‘That you rashly are risking that honour.’
He winced,
And turn'd pale, as she spoke.
And turn'd pale, as she spoke.
She had aim'd at his heart,
And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start,
That her aim had not miss'd.
And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start,
That her aim had not miss'd.
‘Stay, Lucile!’ he exclaim'd,
‘What in truth do you mean by these words, vaguely framed
‘To alarm me? Matilda?—my wife?—do you know?’—
‘What in truth do you mean by these words, vaguely framed
‘To alarm me? Matilda?—my wife?—do you know?’—
‘I know that your wife is as spotless as snow.
‘But I know not how far your continued neglect
‘Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect.
‘Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere
‘Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear,
‘Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece
‘Which surrounded and hid the celestials in Greece
‘From the glances of men, would disperse and depart
‘At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart,—
‘For jealousy is to a woman, be sure,
‘A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure;
‘And the heart left too long to its ravage, in time
‘May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime.’
‘But I know not how far your continued neglect
‘Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect.
‘Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere
‘Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear,
‘Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece
‘Which surrounded and hid the celestials in Greece
‘From the glances of men, would disperse and depart
‘At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart,—
‘For jealousy is to a woman, be sure,
‘A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure;
‘And the heart left too long to its ravage, in time
‘May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime.’
V.
‘Such thoughts could have never,’ he falter'd, ‘I know,
‘Reach'd the heart of Matilda.’
‘Reach'd the heart of Matilda.’
‘Matilda? oh no!
‘But reflect! when such thoughts do not come of themselves
‘To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves
‘That seek lonely places,—there rarely is wanting
‘Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting
‘To conjure them to her.’
228
‘To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves
‘That seek lonely places,—there rarely is wanting
‘Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting
‘To conjure them to her.’
‘O lady, beware!
‘At this moment, around me I search everywhere
‘For a clue to your words’—
‘At this moment, around me I search everywhere
‘For a clue to your words’—
‘You mistake them,’ she said,
Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made.
‘I was putting a mere hypothetical case’—
Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made.
‘I was putting a mere hypothetical case’—
With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face.
‘Woe to him,...’ he exclaim'd... ‘woe to him that should feel
‘Such a hope! for I swear, if he did but reveal
‘One glimpse,—it should be the last hope of his life!’
The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'd the strife
She had roused in his heart.
‘Woe to him,...’ he exclaim'd... ‘woe to him that should feel
‘Such a hope! for I swear, if he did but reveal
‘One glimpse,—it should be the last hope of his life!’
The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'd the strife
She had roused in his heart.
‘You forget,’ she began,
‘That you menace yourself. You yourself are the man
‘That is guilty. Alas! must it ever be so?
‘Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go,
‘And fight our own shadows for ever? O think!
‘The trial from which you, the stronger ones, shrink,
‘You ask woman, the weaker one, still to endure;
‘You bid her be true to the laws you abjure;
‘To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder,
‘With the force that has fail'd you; and that too, when under
‘The assumption of rights which to her you refuse,
‘The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse!
‘Where the contract exists, it involves obligation
‘To both husband and wife, in an equal relation.
‘You unloose, in asserting your own liberty,
‘A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free.
‘Then, O Alfred! be juster at heart: and thank Heaven
‘That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given
‘That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit
‘You have cause to reproach your own self, could you see it!’
‘That you menace yourself. You yourself are the man
‘That is guilty. Alas! must it ever be so?
‘Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go,
‘And fight our own shadows for ever? O think!
‘The trial from which you, the stronger ones, shrink,
‘You ask woman, the weaker one, still to endure;
‘You bid her be true to the laws you abjure;
‘To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder,
‘With the force that has fail'd you; and that too, when under
229
‘The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse!
‘Where the contract exists, it involves obligation
‘To both husband and wife, in an equal relation.
‘You unloose, in asserting your own liberty,
‘A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free.
‘Then, O Alfred! be juster at heart: and thank Heaven
‘That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given
‘That you have not wherewith to reproach her, albeit
‘You have cause to reproach your own self, could you see it!’
VI.
In the silence that follow'd the last word she said,In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head,
Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to impart
A new germ of motion and life to that heart
Of which he himself had so recently spoken
As dead to emotion—exhausted, or broken!
New fears would awaken new hopes in his life.
In the husband indifferent no more to the wife
She already, as she had foreseen, could discover
That Matilda had gain'd, at her hands, a new lover.
So after some moments of silence, whose spell
They both felt, she extended her hand to him....
VII.
‘Well?’VIII.
‘Lucile,’ he replied, as that soft quiet hand
In his own he clasp'd warmly, ‘I both understand
‘And obey you.’
In his own he clasp'd warmly, ‘I both understand
230
‘Thank Heaven!’ she murmur'd.
‘Oh yet,
‘One word, I beseech you! I cannot forget,’
He exclaim'd, ‘we are parting for life. You have shown
‘My pathway to me: but say, what is your own?’
The calmness with which until then she had spoken
In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly broken.
She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly.
‘One word, I beseech you! I cannot forget,’
He exclaim'd, ‘we are parting for life. You have shown
‘My pathway to me: but say, what is your own?’
The calmness with which until then she had spoken
In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly broken.
She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly.
‘Nay,
‘I know not,’ she murmur'd, ‘I follow the way
‘Heaven leads me; I cannot foresee to what end.
‘I know only that far, far away it must tend
‘From all places in which we have met, or might meet.
‘Far away!—onward—upward!’
‘I know not,’ she murmur'd, ‘I follow the way
‘Heaven leads me; I cannot foresee to what end.
‘I know only that far, far away it must tend
‘From all places in which we have met, or might meet.
‘Far away!—onward—upward!’
A smile strange and sweet
As the incense that rises from some sacred cup
And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up
Her whole face, with those words.
As the incense that rises from some sacred cup
And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up
Her whole face, with those words.
‘Wheresoever it be,
‘May all gentlest angels attend you!’ sigh'd he,
‘And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are!’
And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd.
‘May all gentlest angels attend you!’ sigh'd he,
‘And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are!’
And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd.
IX.
From afar
That kiss was, alas! by Matilda beheld
With far other emotions: her young bosom swell'd,
And her young cheek with anger was crimson'd.
That kiss was, alas! by Matilda beheld
With far other emotions: her young bosom swell'd,
231
The Duke
Adroitly attracted towards it her look
By a faint but significant smile.
Adroitly attracted towards it her look
By a faint but significant smile.
X.
Much ill-construed,Renown'd Bishop Berkley has fully, for one, strew'd
With arguments page upon page to teach folks
That the world they inhabit is only a hoax.
But it surely is hard, since we can't do without them,
That our senses should make us so oft wish to doubt them!
| Lucile | |