 | Eclogues and monodramas |  |
25
THE NAMELESS PICTURE.
You say this picture never had a name?
I like it best in all the gallery:
More than the faces of Italian saints,
More than the genial Flemings by their fire,
Its plaintive and most touching pensiveness
Prevails upon my fancy: this must mean
A portrait surely: the reality
Of desolation in those girlish eyes
Is no ideal study. Can it be
A family picture? you reply, that these
Are hung together in the entrance hall.
The style and dress would give some thirty years
Since this was painted. Why, you told me now
That you had been a servant in this house
More time than that: come, you know more of this:
I am a stranger here, and from to-day
Return no more: this confidence is safe
With one who cannot break it: tell me all.’
I like it best in all the gallery:
More than the faces of Italian saints,
More than the genial Flemings by their fire,
Its plaintive and most touching pensiveness
Prevails upon my fancy: this must mean
A portrait surely: the reality
Of desolation in those girlish eyes
Is no ideal study. Can it be
A family picture? you reply, that these
Are hung together in the entrance hall.
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Since this was painted. Why, you told me now
That you had been a servant in this house
More time than that: come, you know more of this:
I am a stranger here, and from to-day
Return no more: this confidence is safe
With one who cannot break it: tell me all.’
Then the old servant faltered and refused;
But more the stranger pressed him, and at last
He spake to this effect:
But more the stranger pressed him, and at last
He spake to this effect:
‘Some thirty years, ay, more than thirty years,
That painting I remember: then it hung
In my young master's room where first he saw
It waking: and whole days when he was sad,
And that, poor boy, was often, or the squire
Had vexed his son with crotchets and ill pride—
Then, days and days, a silken veil concealed
The painted features: now the veil is gone.’
That painting I remember: then it hung
In my young master's room where first he saw
It waking: and whole days when he was sad,
And that, poor boy, was often, or the squire
Had vexed his son with crotchets and ill pride—
Then, days and days, a silken veil concealed
The painted features: now the veil is gone.’
27
‘And I remember how a rumour grew
That Robert, the old man had plann'd it long,
Should wed a neighbour heiress, and she came
To visit with her people in full trim,
And we supposed the thing as good as done.
But Robert on the morning that they left
Went to his father's study: in an hour
He came upon me with a stormy face,
And bade me pack for London on that night;
But the old squire left not his room again
Till we were gone: I never saw him more.
That Robert, the old man had plann'd it long,
Should wed a neighbour heiress, and she came
To visit with her people in full trim,
And we supposed the thing as good as done.
But Robert on the morning that they left
Went to his father's study: in an hour
He came upon me with a stormy face,
And bade me pack for London on that night;
But the old squire left not his room again
Till we were gone: I never saw him more.
‘We had not been in town above a week—
It might be more: I think it was a week—
I was alone with Robert in the house,
His only servant, and the house was small;
When at the edge of dusk a lady came
And wished to see my master: at her face
I started as at some unearthly thing,
The face had left its canvas at the hall.
It might be more: I think it was a week—
I was alone with Robert in the house,
His only servant, and the house was small;
When at the edge of dusk a lady came
And wished to see my master: at her face
I started as at some unearthly thing,
The face had left its canvas at the hall.
28
‘When she had talked with Robert for a time
He led her down to go; and as they past
My room she seem'd to pause, and then these words—
I could not choose but listen, for the voice
Drave some strange power upon me, and the sounds
Seemed one by one to burn into my brain
And could not be forgotten. Thus she spoke:
He led her down to go; and as they past
My room she seem'd to pause, and then these words—
I could not choose but listen, for the voice
Drave some strange power upon me, and the sounds
Seemed one by one to burn into my brain
And could not be forgotten. Thus she spoke:
‘“True friend, forget me: I am not mine own:
Seek out some worthier one and leave this dream:
Forget the gentle time that we have known.
You know I have forgiven long ago:
Nay, what should I forgive? You made me love
And have been very true: shall love and truth
Demand forgiveness? What had been my life
Without thee and before thee? O mine own,
My one true love, shall I complain of thee
Noble and young, to whom my passionate heart
Fled tremulously happy; over-blest
That thou wouldst smile upon so mean a thing,
Unworthy thee save in her utter love?
I have dared to see thee once, I have dared to speak,
And tell thee that this marriage shall not cease
For one like me. I will not drag thee down,
I love thee far too much to drag thee down,
Or hold thee from thy station to resume
The pleasant hours beside me: not for me
Thy people shall reproach thee: truest friend,
I know thy utter fealty to refuse
The sacrifice, if any choice were thine,
So I have left thee none: the die is cast.
He is a worthy man—my husband—I
Am better so, than plaguing thee, a clog
About the neck I love, too lowly born
To wed with thee, and yet too fondly proud
To bar thee from advancement and thy right.
Fear not for me, if I can say farewell,
Truest and best and dearest, long farewell.”
Seek out some worthier one and leave this dream:
Forget the gentle time that we have known.
You know I have forgiven long ago:
Nay, what should I forgive? You made me love
And have been very true: shall love and truth
Demand forgiveness? What had been my life
Without thee and before thee? O mine own,
My one true love, shall I complain of thee
Noble and young, to whom my passionate heart
Fled tremulously happy; over-blest
That thou wouldst smile upon so mean a thing,
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I have dared to see thee once, I have dared to speak,
And tell thee that this marriage shall not cease
For one like me. I will not drag thee down,
I love thee far too much to drag thee down,
Or hold thee from thy station to resume
The pleasant hours beside me: not for me
Thy people shall reproach thee: truest friend,
I know thy utter fealty to refuse
The sacrifice, if any choice were thine,
So I have left thee none: the die is cast.
He is a worthy man—my husband—I
Am better so, than plaguing thee, a clog
About the neck I love, too lowly born
To wed with thee, and yet too fondly proud
To bar thee from advancement and thy right.
Fear not for me, if I can say farewell,
Truest and best and dearest, long farewell.”
‘Then silence; and I heard her lessening feet:
The door was closed, and then, methought, there came
A sound of heavy falling, and I went
And found my master senseless on the stone.
Poor lad, he never rallied from that day,
Altho' he seemed to all the world but me
The same as ever, only somewhat still,
And paler than his wont. From day to day
He fought his sorrow down, but still it grew
And mastered: in his absent way he said
Half to himself one night, and half to me:
“I wish I had the heart to face again
My father: they have written, the old man
Is very feeble lately: he and I
Are lonely in the world, and shame it is
To bicker with each other, for of friends
We have not many else.” And that day week
A letter came to tell the squire was dead.
30
A sound of heavy falling, and I went
And found my master senseless on the stone.
Poor lad, he never rallied from that day,
Altho' he seemed to all the world but me
The same as ever, only somewhat still,
And paler than his wont. From day to day
He fought his sorrow down, but still it grew
And mastered: in his absent way he said
Half to himself one night, and half to me:
“I wish I had the heart to face again
My father: they have written, the old man
Is very feeble lately: he and I
Are lonely in the world, and shame it is
To bicker with each other, for of friends
We have not many else.” And that day week
A letter came to tell the squire was dead.
‘Then we returned to this old place with speed.
And the old squire was buried, with a score
Of coaches, lines of tenants, in the pomp
Of a great landlord. Robert lived alone
Thereafter many years—that room was his.
Poor lad, I wondered that he lived so long.
He ever seemed to carry where he went
A weight of evil: and a vague suspense
Held in his eyes, as if he waited long
For something that should come but never came:
And yet a gentler master with it all
I think we shall not find—But I am long:
He died a young man still, and then the place
Past to a distant cousin. The old breed
Is gone and ended out, and these I serve
Are strangers: not unkind, for me they kept,
I had been here so long and here would die.
And now you know the little I can tell
About the portrait.’
And the old squire was buried, with a score
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Of a great landlord. Robert lived alone
Thereafter many years—that room was his.
Poor lad, I wondered that he lived so long.
He ever seemed to carry where he went
A weight of evil: and a vague suspense
Held in his eyes, as if he waited long
For something that should come but never came:
And yet a gentler master with it all
I think we shall not find—But I am long:
He died a young man still, and then the place
Past to a distant cousin. The old breed
Is gone and ended out, and these I serve
Are strangers: not unkind, for me they kept,
I had been here so long and here would die.
And now you know the little I can tell
About the portrait.’
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