 | Romance and revery |  |
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SISTER BRENDA.
(A luxurious room, fire-lit in the early evening dusk. Two women sit together, one young and beautiful. The latter speaks.)
Yes, friend, I should be happy,
For life has used me kindly;
Its easy and wealthful favors
Are mine in plenteous measure.
And more is mine,—a husband
Unfaltering in his fondness.
Yet you divine some secret
Whose meaning still eludes you;
And though, when I have told it,
You bitterly despise me,
At least you shall have pitied
The anguish it has cost me!
For life has used me kindly;
Its easy and wealthful favors
Are mine in plenteous measure.
And more is mine,—a husband
Unfaltering in his fondness.
Yet you divine some secret
Whose meaning still eludes you;
And though, when I have told it,
You bitterly despise me,
At least you shall have pitied
The anguish it has cost me!
That portrait is my sister's ...
The firelight's red caprices
Reveal what ample amber
Waves in the silken tresses,
And show by fitful glimpses
How creamy are throat and bosom.
I had not half her beauty,
Though livelier wit endowed me
And speech of daintier phrasing.
Her virginal composure,
Chaste as embodied moonlight,
Made Brenda like a goddess.
Her spirit felt no tempests,
To assail the large and dreaming
Tranquillity of its waters;
Yet here lay depth, translucence,
And heaven's reflected candors!
Above my worldlier nature
She rose, ideally perfect.
I, fallible, frail, human,
Was clay beside her marble!
The firelight's red caprices
Reveal what ample amber
Waves in the silken tresses,
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How creamy are throat and bosom.
I had not half her beauty,
Though livelier wit endowed me
And speech of daintier phrasing.
Her virginal composure,
Chaste as embodied moonlight,
Made Brenda like a goddess.
Her spirit felt no tempests,
To assail the large and dreaming
Tranquillity of its waters;
Yet here lay depth, translucence,
And heaven's reflected candors!
Above my worldlier nature
She rose, ideally perfect.
I, fallible, frail, human,
Was clay beside her marble!
We two had lived since childhood
There in the wide old stillness
Of one New England homestead,
With pastoral thrift about us,
And calms of dimpling country,
Where half the world's big echoes
Came lost in drowsy rumor.
Our mother, scarce remembered,
Had died when we were children.
Our father, cold and loveless,
Had ever ruled us harshly,
And driven our only brother,
Impetuous high-strung Edmund,
Forth from his home in anger.
There in the wide old stillness
Of one New England homestead,
With pastoral thrift about us,
And calms of dimpling country,
Where half the world's big echoes
Came lost in drowsy rumor.
Our mother, scarce remembered,
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Our father, cold and loveless,
Had ever ruled us harshly,
And driven our only brother,
Impetuous high-strung Edmund,
Forth from his home in anger.
An artist came, one summer,
To linger among our meadows
And paint our dawns and sunsets,
Our foliage-broken hillsides,
Our glens and groves and hazes,
Our loops of loitering river
That beamed by farm and orchard.
He was not then the famous
Paul Morion that you know him,
But to myself and Brenda
No boon of earthly laurel
Could make his genius nobler.
To linger among our meadows
And paint our dawns and sunsets,
Our foliage-broken hillsides,
Our glens and groves and hazes,
Our loops of loitering river
That beamed by farm and orchard.
He was not then the famous
Paul Morion that you know him,
But to myself and Brenda
No boon of earthly laurel
Could make his genius nobler.
And now, as weeks went onward,
I saw that Brenda loved him.
She could not hide her passion
From me who clearlier read it,
Since I had given with fervor
My heart where hers went also!
But he (as men will sometimes
Not search their own souls wisely)
Wavered for days, I doubt not,
Between myself and Brenda.
Far holier was the feeling
Her purity had wakened;
I saw this truth and faced it
With torments of conviction!
I saw that Brenda loved him.
She could not hide her passion
From me who clearlier read it,
Since I had given with fervor
My heart where hers went also!
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Not search their own souls wisely)
Wavered for days, I doubt not,
Between myself and Brenda.
Far holier was the feeling
Her purity had wakened;
I saw this truth and faced it
With torments of conviction!
At last it fell, one morning,
That Paul and I, together,
Had strolled where one low hill-top
O'erbrowed a long green level.
Beneath us towered an elm-tree,
Folding the sward in shadow
With arches like a cloister's;
And girt with shadow, at converse,
Were Brenda and my brother.
That Paul and I, together,
Had strolled where one low hill-top
O'erbrowed a long green level.
Beneath us towered an elm-tree,
Folding the sward in shadow
With arches like a cloister's;
And girt with shadow, at converse,
Were Brenda and my brother.
I saw Paul Morion watch them
And flush with consternation
As he who stood by Brenda
Now kissed her like a lover.
Paul knew that our one brother
Dwelt somewhere at a distance,
But knew not of the moments
When stolen and joyous meetings
Had given to poor fond Edmund,
As now below the elm-tree,
His favorite treasured sister.
And flush with consternation
As he who stood by Brenda
Now kissed her like a lover.
Paul knew that our one brother
Dwelt somewhere at a distance,
But knew not of the moments
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Had given to poor fond Edmund,
As now below the elm-tree,
His favorite treasured sister.
To me, an instant after,
Paul turned with eager questions ...
And suddenly, as I heard him,
A dark temptation seized me.
I saw the sin's full horror,
And yet my soul reeled near it
In giddy and headlong ruin.
Paul turned with eager questions ...
And suddenly, as I heard him,
A dark temptation seized me.
I saw the sin's full horror,
And yet my soul reeled near it
In giddy and headlong ruin.
So, to my shame eternal,
The lie leapt forth and cursed me.
And he who heard believed it,
And from that hour I held him
In ever-deepening bondage,
While through my feverish rapture
Remorse coiled like a serpent!
The lie leapt forth and cursed me.
And he who heard believed it,
And from that hour I held him
In ever-deepening bondage,
While through my feverish rapture
Remorse coiled like a serpent!
The tranquil eyes of Brenda
Pierced me with cruel poignance;
I longed to fly the unconscious
Arraignment of their glances.
From Paul, the unknown young painter,
My father, straightway doubting,
Had shrunk with disapproval.
Our marriage, if I urged it,
Would summon, I was certain,
His cold immediate veto. ...
And so by stealth, one evening,
I fled from home, was wedded,
And on through weeks that followed,
Lived with my toiling husband
Here in the far-off city.
Pierced me with cruel poignance;
I longed to fly the unconscious
Arraignment of their glances.
From Paul, the unknown young painter,
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Had shrunk with disapproval.
Our marriage, if I urged it,
Would summon, I was certain,
His cold immediate veto. ...
And so by stealth, one evening,
I fled from home, was wedded,
And on through weeks that followed,
Lived with my toiling husband
Here in the far-off city.
No tidings from the homestead,
No word from Brenda reached us,
Till suddenly Edmund sought me
And told me she was dying!
I knew what blow had stricken
The lily of her sweet girlhood,
And flew, in guilty terror,
To find her white and speechless.
No word from Brenda reached us,
Till suddenly Edmund sought me
And told me she was dying!
I knew what blow had stricken
The lily of her sweet girlhood,
And flew, in guilty terror,
To find her white and speechless.
That night I watched beside her ...
A faint light clad the chamber
In gray phantasmal dimness.
Outside, the winds of Autumn
Were sweeping chill and plaintive.
Her eyes that long had shown me
No ray of recognition,
At last were softly altered;
She looked on me and murmured
My name, and while it sounded,
I sank in self-abasement,
Low-cowering at the bedside!
A faint light clad the chamber
In gray phantasmal dimness.
Outside, the winds of Autumn
Were sweeping chill and plaintive.
Her eyes that long had shown me
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At last were softly altered;
She looked on me and murmured
My name, and while it sounded,
I sank in self-abasement,
Low-cowering at the bedside!
That night, while Brenda waited
On life's last awful boundary,
I told her my wrongdoing.
With fiery tears I told it,
With stormy sobs that racked me,—
Moaning, when I had ended,
For one least word of pardon.
On life's last awful boundary,
I told her my wrongdoing.
With fiery tears I told it,
With stormy sobs that racked me,—
Moaning, when I had ended,
For one least word of pardon.
Then, from the gathering shadow
That death had wrought about her,
She spoke, and to my vision
A saintly unearthly splendor
Made all her face like morning.
To me, who knelt beside her
In misery of contrition,
Quite calmly she responded,
“Sister, I will forgive you!” ...
And the Autumn dawn, soon after,
Turning the chamber ghostly,
Came in and looked on Brenda,
Pale as itself, and lifeless.
That death had wrought about her,
She spoke, and to my vision
A saintly unearthly splendor
Made all her face like morning.
To me, who knelt beside her
In misery of contrition,
Quite calmly she responded,
“Sister, I will forgive you!” ...
And the Autumn dawn, soon after,
Turning the chamber ghostly,
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Pale as itself, and lifeless.
She pardoned—yes, divinely!
But what of my own spirit?
What of the wrathful conscience
That mercilessly presses
Its thorn-crown on these temples?
Below the costly garments
Paul Morion's wealth has bought me,
A shirt of serge frets always,
With unrelaxing penance!
But what of my own spirit?
What of the wrathful conscience
That mercilessly presses
Its thorn-crown on these temples?
Below the costly garments
Paul Morion's wealth has bought me,
A shirt of serge frets always,
With unrelaxing penance!
Now, friend, you know my story ...
And you—can you forgive me?
Ah, well, I shall not blame you,
However cold your answer.
We cannot all, we mortals,
Be great, like sister Brenda!
And you—can you forgive me?
Ah, well, I shall not blame you,
However cold your answer.
We cannot all, we mortals,
Be great, like sister Brenda!
The portrait? That was painted
From memory, two years later ...
Oh, yes, my husband made it ...
Some call it his great picture.
From memory, two years later ...
Oh, yes, my husband made it ...
Some call it his great picture.
| Romance and revery | |