 | The bells |  |
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IV. SCENE OF BLANCHETTE.
133
BLANCHETTE.
Wilt thou not
Finish, Ivan, the sad tale that thou wert
Telling me last eve? I feel my path
Has been a bridge of flowers, when I think
Of thy captivity.
IVAN.
Where left I off?
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'Twas where they dragged thee in a noisome cave
After the battle, faint with heavy chains,
And streaked with thine own blood.
IVAN.
O, let the Past
Sleep in a shroud! Why should we ever strew
The thorns of olden sorrows on our way—
The memory of wilted hopes—when joys
Of present blossoming, like roses, wait
For plucking?
BLANCHETTE.
It is these sombre phases
Of our lives that make the bright seem brighter.
In the soft blending of the light and shade
All of the limner's cunning lies. We find
No joy till we have had a twilight on
The heart. We cannot see the sun, 'less
It is partly dimmed with clouds, for it would
Dazzle us. And if bliss should, like rivers,
Ever through our beings leap, we would grow
Surfeited and sick, like pet canaries
Fed on lucious sweets. Is it not so?
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O, thou canst see God's hand in sunshine and
In shade! To thee, whose spirit wears on earth
A pure touch of heaven's divinity,
Those things are plain, that unto coarser souls
Seem swathed in darkness. O my better heart!
My soul-philosopher! teach me thy faith,
Thy subtle faith, that sees in every wo
An Angel masking or a Joy disguised!
BLANCHETTE.
Wilt thou not tell the tale? 'Tis such a one
As should be told at sunset, when the clouds
Turn their flushed faces on departing day,
And then grow sad and sadder by degrees,
As the great orb hides underneath the earth!
Tell me it quickly! or the dusk will set
Its signet on the zenith, and the night
Will cap it with a moon.
IVAN.
'Twas a great cave
Where sunbeams never were, and night and day
Were one; full of dark precipices,
Yawning and moaning ever, and deep streams
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Stalagmites centuries old. Echo roamed
Through all the caverns like a demon king,
With lips brimful of startling cadences.
In the unearthly light of burning brands,
Forms, more horrible than those of Comus
And his crew, dug in the rocky-veinéd ribs
And in the bowels of their prison house,
Bringing forth precious jewels. Men were there
Who never saw the sun, nor felt the breath
Of evening on their cheeks. Born in that realm
Of Cerberus, at tales of planates poised
In viewless air; earth's ragged cloak of snow;
The Sister Months, and crystal tides, and ships
They'd ope their eyes with wonderment; and birds
With hearts of melody were myths to them.
Here did I dwell the long and lonely years;
The hours went by as slow and sombrely
As funeral trains—each bore a dead hope
With it. Even now, in this rich moment
Of serenest bliss, the thoughts of that drear
Cave, fall on my heart like clouds, darkening it.
I'll not let these cold and clammy mem'ries
Finger the gilt from off this golden hour!
No more! no more! I'm all too weary, love,
Of this dark episode in my heart's Life!
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What! leave it all unfinished like a strain
Of music broken by the wind? Oh, no!
Tell what kind angel took thee by the hand
And through those palaces, stalactite hung,
Led thee to rosy daylight and to me.
IVAN.
An angel! Ah, thou sayest rightly, for
It was. If ever God sent angel to
This earth, Madene was one. A miner's child,
Born in the rocky navel of that cave,
She grew up with strange thoughts, wild joys, and tears
Ran thro' her being like rare music thro'
A dream. Her soul lay in her hazel eyes
Like a white lily in a brook. There was
An atmosphere of purity around
Her, and of love, a tenderness, a grace
That loving nature robed her with, not art.
She was a star in that dark spot, a light
Gilding the darkness.
BLANCHETTE.
And you loved her?
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Very much. She nursed me in my sickness
With the gentlest care, and sang low songs
And soothed me like a child. 'Tis not 'mid thrones
And palaces we find the noblest hearts.
Costlier diamonds are hid in the earth
Than ever yet have decked a coronal.
In the lone paths and by-ways of this world,
Souls, rich in their own wealth, spring up and die
Like flowerets unnoticed. She was one
That shall make heaven beautiful, and earth
Is lovelier while she lives. Through weary,
Weary nights and days o' pain she tended me.
When strength returned, my grateful lips were filled
With language; but how beggared 'twas to clothe
The promptings of my soul. I spoke to her
Of “home”—“dear home” framed like a picture in
My thought; of one that waited for me, with
Heart-trembles and most anxious eyes; and she
Would drink my words in with a thirsty ear.
When thro' the toil of day, I'd sit me down
Upon the margent of some inky stream,
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She'd find me ever, and sit at my feet.
Once, as I told her of thee, Blanch, starting
From out a seeming reverie, she cried,
“Tell me no more of this dark-tressèd one!
I love thee, stranger of the outer world!
Have loved since first our glances met; my mouth
Has burned upon thy forehead in thy sleep;
Mine eyes have fed on thee while wrapped in dreams!”
“O, say not so,” I whispered, “say not so!
Thou art much dearer to me than my life;
'Twere thine could it but serve thee;—but my love—
I beg thee do not ask it.” Her hand fell
Coldly on my own. “'Twas a wild, wild dream,”
She said, “but over now. We will no more
Of it. From this time forward I have one
Great aim in life—thy liberty; for she
Thou lovest must be worthy thee.” I could
Have worshiped her, so full of holiness
She seemed, so full of paradise. Blanchette,
I do believe this world is linked to that
Next better world by souls like her's.
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And I.
She must have fallen through the fingers of
The angels, (never meant for earth) into
That cave; and they, mayhap, have ever since
Been searching for her. I am listening.
IVAN.
'Twas two years after this she came one night
And drew me from a labyrinth of dreams.
“Come,” she spoke wildly, “I have seen a light,
Not like the torches that we use, but soft
And clear and lovely as an eye.” We went.
It was a star she saw glimmering through
A rupture in the rock, half hidden by
A fallen tree, and creeping vines, and leaves
Of many summer times. My heart was full.
I felt Æolus' lips upon my brow,
And I could hear, among the trees without,
The wind's wild symphonies. I turned to bless
Her—she was gone. Men hurried to and fro
In the rotunda of the cave with lights.
My absence was discovered; at a bound
I gained the opening, and thrust back the leaves,
And stood out in the night—glorious night!
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I hid me in the woods, and cooled my lips
With mangos, sweetest fruit Pomona hangs
Upon the trees. I slept in shady glens
By day, and traveled under covert of
The night. The war had broken out afresh.
I joined my comrades on a battle eve;
Once more I led them in victorious
Charge. The fame, the wealth, the rank
I won, I lay them at thy feet! ****
(An hour later, sunset; a mist seen on the mountains.)
BLANCHETTE.
The birds are mute, and all the winding streams,
With pebbly eyes, flow on subdued. The woods
Are spotted o'er with carmine, ribbed with gold,
And the great sun goes rippling down the West!
IVAN.
And Twilight, like some dark Egyptian Queen,
Stalks down the mountain side!
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Soon Night will come,
Cloud-capped and starry-eyed, with Saturn, Mars
And Venus in her train!
IVAN.
How like a dream
It is! The town below us slumbering
In the dusk, and the faint throbbing of its
Many hearts; the mournful curfew stealing
On the night, and the sweet bulbul singing
To the rose; and thou, my love, thou seemest
The most unreal of all.
BLANCHETTE.
There is a sad,
Dim beauty in the scene that touches me.
Morn walking o'er the coral-grottoed deep,
Is not so 'witching as the dreamy haze
That cloaks this landscape; and I would not match
One scintillation of mild Hesperus
'Gainst all his amber beams. The village lamps
Are lighted; darkness screens the chimney-tops,
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Save twinkling lamps, except when some gude-wife
The window curtain lifts, and watches for
Her husband; then a gleam of light runs out,
Spanning the darkness like a fairy bridge!
IVAN.
And Castle Craige, looms 'mid the shadows up,
With window eyes of fire; but Edenwold
Is bleak and gloomy as a blasted tree.
Come, love, let's leave these quiet, quiet graves;
A church-yard is a dismal place at night,
And we should not be sad. Ere Evening sweeps
In purple robes again across the sky.
The sweet-lipped bell that silent, drowsy hangs
In yon old belfry of the ivied church,
Shall tune its tongue and chime our marriage morn.
To-morrow, love! to-morrow!
| The bells | |