 | Reuben and Other Poems |  |
Scene II.
The Green before the Inn. The Inn lighted up. Music, dancing and laughter within.Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
How swiftly flies the heart on wings of love!
Mine has been here an hour since, and my feet
Have hardly yet o'ertaken it.—I hear
The beat of Margaret's foot amid the dance.
It comes into my soul like a sweet strain
Play'd in the midst of thunder. As I came
Over the bridge, her gorgeous figure dash'd
Across the lighted blind; my spirit leapt,
And even my arms involuntarily stretch'd
To clasp the instant beauty. O, my brow,
Flaming with thoughts of her, pants to be bathed
In the luxurious bath of her dark hair.
That battery of love, her burning lips,
I almost shrink from touching the first time
After the absence of a day, an age;
The shock of ecstasy runs into pain. (Laughter within.)
'Tis her's, that dulcet laugh that ripples through
The harsh-lipp'd merriment. She is the flute
Amid the brazen music.—Here comes one
Reel'd from the dance, all puffing hot and soil'd,
And beaded as a haggis newly boil'd.
[Exit Reuben into the Inn, passing Spanker, who comes from it.
Hot work! hot work! But O, that maid divine!
Riches of womankind! Yea, each one's good
Collected and transfused into one best!
And now to think, to feel this treasure mine!
Did I not say she'd be a mine, indeed,
That I might work at leisure? Leisure! nay,
She's too impetuous for a laggard's love.
Have at her then: all duties else I throw
Contemptuously aside; and on my knees
Thus give my energies—Bah! that old man.
Enter Bradbury from the Inn, and Spanker retires into the shade.
Bradbury.
How dark! bless me! I cannot see a stime!
When one has lived a comfortable lie,
How blind he is to its opposing truth!
So I, with looking at the glare inside,
Am blind to all the outlines of the night.
We need to live a truth that we may see it;
And when I've look'd a while into the night
I'll see its faintest margins.
Spanker.
Ah! if love
Spurr'd that old ass as hard as it spurs me,
He could not amble thus with an idea.
The knowledge of a fact comes by the brain;
So thinks the world; but the affectional heart
Has more to do with it than the world thinks.
Spanker.
The world's a fool, that's clear, and he a sage.
Bradbury.
Love gives the eyes to see what is unseen
By others in the face of them we love;
It gives the intellect to know their worth:
Thus eyes and intellect without the heart
Are impotent—mere tools without the hand.
We all are better featured than we seem
To the dispassionate external eye:
The heart's eye, it alone, can see the true.
How else amid this troop of dashing youth
Who—for I will admit the fact—outstrip
The falsely seen John Bradbury,—and all
Apparently in madness for her hand,—
How else could she set all aside for me,
Unless John Bradbury, the truly seen,
To her heart's eye, outrivall'd all of them?
I'll bear me more supremely—'tis my right.
Ye eyes of night, look at me, and endorse
What Margaret's consummate taste approves.
Am I not he, the destined man?
Spanker.
I thought
The imagining faculty belong'd to youth.
Bradbury.
Rheumatics seize his shanks! He crosses me
Not only in the rosy ways of love,
But on the glebes of ruminating thought.
The darkness favours me, I will withdraw
Within the sombre shadow of the wall.
Friend.
But, Will, I see you have powerful opposition.
Juniper.
Yes, in numbers; but what of that? Numbers in love, my boy, are not like numbers in war. Here it's every one for himself. Take each singly, and I've no opposition. What are they? That kangaroo who talks so much about Australasia and gold finding; he'll find no gold here, I can tell him. He made his appearance only the other day, and presumes already to hope. He leaps too far at a time, that fool.
Spanker.
(aside)
It won't be too far to leap down your throat, and that's what I may do before all's done.
Juniper.
Then Daddy Bradbury, what's he? My butt, my foil, my background. He serves but to throw me more fully into Margaret's eye. These are a sample
Bradbury.
(aside)
No: for it's not intended you shall win the race. His butt! his foil! his background! If I had but a part of his youth on my side, I'd butt him, and foil him too, and give him a background into the bargain: the dirtiest part of the road should be his background.
Friend.
That may all be well enough; but women's fickleness is proverbial; and sometimes they make such a villainous choice—love being reputed to be blind— that even old Bradbury—
Bradbury./
(aside)
Even! He dare not say that to my face.
Friend.
Who's this comes spinning like a top? Stand aside, or he'll waltz over us.
Enter Hopkins from the Inn.
Hopkins.
The reel, the waltz, the intoxicating whirl,
The pressing bosom of that glorious girl,
The cheeks of ruby and the teeth of pearl,
The sable tresses, their enamouring curl,
The bust that might owe Angelo a debt,
A one in which the graces three are met,
Whom luck calls mine, and I call Margaret!
(Whirls off.)
Friend.
I'll bet you, Will, he robs you of your treasure.
What woman could withstand both rhyme and measure?
Enter Wheeler and Greene from the Inn.
Wheeler.
I told you I should make it all right for you.
Greene.
She's got the ring on, I see.
Wheeler.
Yes, and did you see how her attention was divided between it and you?
Greene.
You'll drink at my expense to-night, Jack.
Wheeler.
O dear, no—that would be too much.
Greene.
You shall. She's a splendid girl, Margaret, eh?
Well, but it's not for a brother, you know, to praise her over much.
Greene.
When it does come off, Jack, you'll be best man, of course. Don't you think she would come out and take a walk with us? It's so oppressively hot inside! Besides, there's so many, I can't get spoken with her.
Wheeler.
Well—ah—I'll try. Just walk you over the bridge there.
[Exit Greene.]
What a monstrously silly fool that is! He has not cut his eye-teeth yet, or he
would see through my glaring deceptions. The
breach that was between her and me is now completely
fill'd up by his ruins—the broken-down walls
of his suit. They must not speak together, though.
I'll after him and send him a wool-gathering, so that
they may not meet to-night at all. By to-morrow
night, please the pigs, she'll be too much mine to care
for him or any one else.
Bradbury.
They know I'm here, and have made up this among them—pure envy at seeing an elderly man preferred.
Juniper
(to friend.)
His name is Wheeler—empty as a bell—all talk
Spanker.
Surely there can be no reality in all this. She would not, could not speak to me, look at me,—yea, let me approach her as she does, and at the same time afford these fellows the inlet to her affections they seem to have got. No; it's a silly piece of tomfoolery made up among them, for what purpose I know not. —Here comes a decent country fellow. Surely he is not one of them.
Enter Car from the Inn.
Car.
Well, we're keepin' it up ony way. Them town chaps is squeezin' Merget rayther more till I like though; but yet a-wouldn't gie the wink hoo casts me at every turn for all their squeezin's. I'll have all that to mysel' in another week. Aigh isn't hoo pritty the neet, wi' her glossy black heur dancin' at her cheeks? —Wain't I be proud when I see my name abuv that door? A peanter might mann it better till me too; but them raskets is like cobblers. Gie a cobbler your shoes to heel and he soles them as weel, and nails you into three-and-sixpence, instead o' ninepence. Merget would pay it certainly: but it's all one for that; what's hoo's is mine.
Spanker.
Even this simpleton is into the trick. Can it be
Car.
Ay, I doan't mind if I do: I never likes to refuse nowt.
Spanker.
Before we go in, tell me now—there's a good fellow— What's the meaning of so many of you coming out and talking about Miss Riccard in this way—Margaret, as you call her—and zounds! each one of you pretending to be on the point of getting married to her?
Car.
Did thee hear it up in the town?
Spanker.
Hear what?
Car.
That hoo was baund to wed me. It's pritty well known now, I daresay. Them things will out.
Spanker.
That'll do, that'll do; don't think you've caught a flounder.
Car.
Flounder! Call Merget a flounder? I'll make a flounder o' thee—flat enough too!
Spanker.
There now, that's enough: a joke may be carried
Car.
Well, dash it! be my friend. What does thee want?
Spanker.
I want to know who set you on to this, and is it aimed at me?
Car.
I doan't know what thee means.
Spanker.
Why, this: You know very well that Margaret—Miss Riccard—would not take the like of you, and that—
Car.
Get out, you foreign Portuguese!
Hopkins.
(coming forward)
Pardon me, sir; but am I to understand that you, sir, have any expectations in that quarter?
Spanker.
Excuse me, sir, I don't know you; but if you, sir, pretend to any expectations, I beg politely to remark that it's no use, it won't fit, and the sooner your name is Walker, the better.
Your politeness is insulting, sir, and I beg to say that the sooner your name is Walker, the better.
Bradbury.
(coming forward)
Gentlemen, you are exceedingly polite; but I beg
to inform you
[Enter Greene]
that if Margaret—Miss Riccard—be the lady in dispute, you may keep
your politeness for another; for she is engaged.
Greene.
Yes, gentlemen, to me.
Bradbury.
To me, sir; who are you?
Juniper.
(Coming forward and knocking their heads together.)
You lie, Daddy, she's mine.
Car.
Yours, you snig! (striking him).
Or yours! (striking Bradbury).
Or yours either!
(striking Greene).
Greene.
Holloa! here, Jack! help! help! thieves! they'll carry her away! help, Jack!
Get out, you're a set of poppies; I'll lick you all.
(Hits them right and left, a general melée ensues, all striking one another, and enter Wheeler, who beats Greene.)
Greene.
Murder! Jack! Margaret! Any one! any one!
[Exeunt all into the Inn, fighting and shouting.
Enter Margaret, followed by Reuben.
Margaret.
What's all this noise?
Reuben.
Ah, now we are alone!
Margaret.
Hold off!
Reuben.
You do not know me in the dark!
Look, Margaret, 'tis I!
Margaret.
I know, begone!
[Exit into the Inn, shutting the door after her.
Reuben.
Begone! was that the word? or was it come?
Bear witness, as she spoke that word, the moon
Look'd o'er the edge of yonder bank of cloud,
The light fell on her face, and I could see
A very fiend glare at me, with no trace
Of love or beauty left: it was Begone!
O what a devil's glare! There's no such thing
As outward beauty: no, the heavenliest sace
Puts on at once hell's features if a fiend
Takes up abode inside.—Hold off! Begone!
Ah, whither could I go? These words have ta'en
The very earth from me, with all its hopes:
Life holds me only by one thread—despair.
So have I felt in dreams, and waked with shrieks;
But after thanking God, have slept again.
Would I could shriek, and turn me, and forget
This night as 'twere a dream!—And may I not?
How know I it was Margaret? We danced
A reel together scarce a minute since!
And as we swept between the admiring lines
My soul drank love from her upturnëd eyes:
Yea, from her willing lips I snatched a kiss.
Amid the scramble of the breaking-up dance
And forming of a new, she left the room.
I follow'd. Some disturbance brought her here.
'Twas nothing when we came: and seeing her
Alone, and even, I thought, expecting me,
I rush'd to press her to my heart—Hold off!—
Methinks it was not Margaret at all.
In coming out I've miss'd her in the crush,
And this has been some other. O fool, fool!
They whisper even now inside the door.
Suspicion justifies me if I listen,
To be still more assured it was not she. (Listens.)
His love is not ethereal: that voice
Has never yet been touch'd with the soft oil
Wherewith love's angels trim their wings for flight.
Ah, now she'll speak.—Curst be my ears! that sigh
Was Margaret's; and, death! it is her voice!
She loves another! O, infernal thought!
It leaps like fire within me. Would to God
That from the calendar this night would drop,
And Time close up the blank! What have I done,
Or left undone, that from her heaven of love
Thus suddenly, unwarn'd, she casts me out?
And who is he that she has made a god?
'Twere well I saw him—saw him with her eyes—
That I might know the attribute I want.
Ah, if she bear him only half the love
She seem'd to hold for me! she does not—no!
All love has gone from her—love that imparts
The angel to humanity. That thing
That stood before me in sheer ugliness,
And croak'd the fiendish words Hold off! Begone!
Retains no love for any one: for love
Reflects itself, and makes all else beloved:
The heart that thoroughly loves one loves all,
And could not be a fiend to any one.
Joseph.
O ho! and that's her game! If I were him—
As, praise be blest, I am not,—Reuben, eh?
Why, I've been looking for you up and down,
In every room and corner of the house.
Reuben.
What for?
Joseph.
For company. The mirth is up,
And twice they've knock'd down Reuben for a song.
No Reuben answers, nor is Margaret there;
And so, 'mid jealous looks, the whisper runs
That she and you have other fish to fry.
Reuben.
Our fish is fried and eaten, and the bones
Stick in my throat.
Joseph.
I could have guess'd as much.
Reuben.
You guess'd? From what?
Joseph.
From what to-night I've seen.
She hath a score of wooers in that house.
I know; but what of that? they make no speed.
Joseph.
Love blinds you, Reuben—they make speed enough:
Her lips are common as a village green,
And all the geese graze on them.
Reuben.
Rogue, you lie!
I know it is a lie. 'Tis true they seek,
Ay, scramble for that luxury; but they
Taste not the fervid lips she gives to me.
Joseph.
I saw her even now, behind that door,
Close bosom'd with a man.
Reuben.
What kind of man?
Joseph.
A publican and sinner, both in one;—
Cutely they call him, he that keeps the inn
Up there in Fleukergate; who beat his wife—
Ay, beat her, so they say, till she, poor soul,
Was fain to quit that blacken'd tenement
Her body, which he buried some three weeks since.
Reuben.
I'll not believe it, Joseph. Two round years
Have fann'd her beauty with impassion'd sighs;
I have not miss'd a night, yet never once
Have seen that man on the contested ground.
Besides, in him there's no attraction—none!
Joseph.
There's money, boy, money—lots of that!
Reuben.
That I had gain'd what money could not buy:
If she can set a price upon herself,
She stands not in my market. So adieu,
My pretty huckster, get what price you can.
The moonlight paves a meditative walk.
We who have ever been the last to move
When Mirth and quiet Humour at the board
Sat President and Vice; who oft ourselves
Have added an appendix to the night,—
For once shall be the first.—I know not which,
Wisdom or Folly, draws us most; we've been
True knights of both perhaps, but now I feel
A desperate inclining to be wise.
Joseph.
God help our wisdom, and our learning too!
Your Latin mends a pen, my Greek a shoe;
We be not classic, but plain English fools,
And none can call us debtors to the schools.
God's universal book is writ in thoughts:
The Tongues have merely turn'd it into words.
We cannot read translations, and are forced
To go to the original. That's all
The secret of their scholarship. Let's go.
[Exeunt.
| Reuben and Other Poems | |