 | The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell |  |
THE GARDEN
Walking slowly away, Philip Vernon takes his sadness deeper into the woods, and wandering far, comes at last to a great garden wall. There he stays awhile, until sweet odors, rising, seem to call him; and with no more thought of what may lie beyond, he leaps the wall, and stands amid the flowers, waist-deep in hollyhock and golden plume.
“I wonder somewhat was my life then gay
When here I chased the butterflies, and trod
These garden lanes, or rolled upon the sod,
A thoughtless boy? I'll take, for memory's sake,
One rose of home.”
When here I chased the butterflies, and trod
These garden lanes, or rolled upon the sod,
A thoughtless boy? I'll take, for memory's sake,
One rose of home.”
Hither into the garden at this moment comes Lord Francis Grey, in red velvet, with a face aflame to match.
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“Ho! Who are you who break
These castle bounds at will? Ho there! Take heed!
Didst hear me?”
These castle bounds at will? Ho there! Take heed!
Didst hear me?”
Philip Vernon.
Yes. Your words, I think, exceed
The owner's power to back his tongue at need.
Lord Grey.
My cousin is the chancellor's ward; none dare
Avenge an insult here.
Philip Vernon.
Then wiser 't were
To keep the tongue in ward. You question one
That hath lost touch of fear beneath the sun.
The chancellor? What care I? Your cousin? Mine?
Now, why not mine? Suppose, to cap the jest,
We fight for cousinship: who wins is best.
And is she fair, this woman? Doth her talk,
Like thine, lack breeding? This smooth garden walk
Is broad enough to serve us. Draw, on guard!
And let my rapier teach your tongue such ward
As hasty manners lack.
Lord Grey.
Have then your will!
Or mad or foolish, you 're a man to kill!
Yet to cross blades with one unknown or base—
Philip Vernon.
Base! By my soul! Were you his very Grace,
This same lord chancellor, his mighty face
Should know my glove!
This same lord chancellor, his mighty face
Should know my glove!
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Lord Grey, having already drawn his sword, advances and lunges smartly at Philip, at the same time crying out:
“By Heaven, you are dead!”
Philip Vernon.
A thing, observe, less easily done than said.
A step more near, a trifle yet more quick,
And you had boasted shrewdly. Oh, the trick
Is stale. In Spain we lunge this wise, and then
A thrust in tierce—Well parried!—good, again!
I take it firmly close to hilt; the wrist
Well up; then deftly, with this cunning twist,
Give point. Your sword-arm? By the Cid, 't is sad!
That stops the sport.
Lord Grey.
'T is not so very bad
But that a day will cure it.
But that a day will cure it.
At this he sees men break through the shrubbery and come running toward them, whereon he says to Philip:
“Get you gone!
There, by the terrace, and across the lawn.”
There, by the terrace, and across the lawn.”
Philip Vernon.
And wherefore?
Lord Grey.
Hasten, leap the brook and fly!
As Philip stands with no mind to escape, the steward and many servants gather around them.
Steward.
What means this brawl? My lady asks, not I.
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'T is but a trifle. Come with me. The blame
I shall stand father to. This way. The dame?—
Steward.
Is in the eastern gallery.
Lord Grey.
Best it were
You tarry here awhile. My cousin fair
Has many humors: which shall be our share
No man has skill to tell. Her No, or Yes,
A hundred years' experience could not guess.
You tarry here awhile. My cousin fair
Has many humors: which shall be our share
No man has skill to tell. Her No, or Yes,
A hundred years' experience could not guess.
With these words Lord Grey leaves Philip Vernon at the entrance of the castle, where, with sudden interest in his face, he looks about him, and at last says:
“How most familiar 't is! There the great hall,
The windowed gallery, and on the wall
The gray stone dial. There the poplars tall.
Now, as I live, the willows and the brook!
And there my father sat the while I took
His great horse o'er it—much I feared the leap.
How memory wakens as if from a sleep!
The stair! Sir Lancelot's armor! That brave lance
Lord Arthur carried to the wars in France.
One night I touched it—on the floor it crashed,
And the fierce strife of Crécy round me clashed
With din of spear and steel, and shock and blow,
And clang of knights that set my heart aglow.”
The windowed gallery, and on the wall
The gray stone dial. There the poplars tall.
Now, as I live, the willows and the brook!
And there my father sat the while I took
His great horse o'er it—much I feared the leap.
How memory wakens as if from a sleep!
The stair! Sir Lancelot's armor! That brave lance
Lord Arthur carried to the wars in France.
One night I touched it—on the floor it crashed,
And the fierce strife of Crécy round me clashed
With din of spear and steel, and shock and blow,
And clang of knights that set my heart aglow.”
A Servant.
My lady bids me say for her, Sir Knight,
She waits you in the gallery. Here, to right.
She waits you in the gallery. Here, to right.
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Philip Vernon enters the picture-gallery, and sees at the far end Elizabeth Vernon speaking with Lord Grey.
Lord Grey.
The errant knight waits yonder.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Let him wait;
'T is a man's business. Now, I pray you, state
What means this quarrel?
Lord Grey.
Ask of yonder man.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Man! Why not gentle, cousin? Never ran
Mean blood in one like him, who there, at ease,
In courteous silence stands. Now, an you please,
What more, my lord?
Lord Grey.
I found the man you see
A-picking roses 'neath your balcony.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Why, this should hang him on the nearest tree!
And my blunt cousin picked, for company,
A quarrel. That is easier than a rose.
He found a thorn, as rather plainly shows
That crimsoned sleeve.
Lord Grey.
Now look you, Cousin Bess,
Your jest is but ill-timed. Let me confess
I made this quarrel when, my heart aflame,
You left me stinging with your words. The blame
Is yours, fair cousin. Shafts in anger sent
May find mad errands ere their force be spent.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Now, by our Lady!
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Nay, but hear me still;
And let your servants know at least your will
That yonder venturer go on his way,
And no such words escape as haply may
Breed risks for me.
Elizabeth Vernon.
I shall consider first
When I have questioned him, nor shall the worst
Be worse, my lord, than what has chanced. You claim
Such license here as men may justly blame.
Best choose a fitter place, a feebler prey,
To hawk at with your anger.
When I have questioned him, nor shall the worst
Be worse, my lord, than what has chanced. You claim
Such license here as men may justly blame.
Best choose a fitter place, a feebler prey,
To hawk at with your anger.
At this Lord Grey, turning to one side, mutters to himself as he glances down the hall at Philip:
“He shall pay
His debt and yours, my lady. Those who court
Tongue-tilts with wounded creatures, find the sport
A doubtful venture. ‘By the Cid,’ he swore;
Mocked me with Spanish sword-play. Ah! my score
Is easily settled.”
His debt and yours, my lady. Those who court
Tongue-tilts with wounded creatures, find the sport
A doubtful venture. ‘By the Cid,’ he swore;
Mocked me with Spanish sword-play. Ah! my score
Is easily settled.”
Elizabeth Vernon.
You are silent, sir?
Lord Grey.
I school my hurt heart to soft words, for her
Whose lightest word my very blood can stir;
And if in aught I have exceeded, rest
Assured I meant it not. Were it not best
I set this errant knight without your gate?
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No. I would speak with him. Pray do not wait:
My temper's of the shortest. On your way
Send me the gentleman; and, cousin, stay!—
I'll have no gossip.
My temper's of the shortest. On your way
Send me the gentleman; and, cousin, stay!—
I'll have no gossip.
Lord Grey, sullenly walking down the hall, pauses beside Philip Vernon:
“We shall meet again!
My lady waits. And for those tricks of Spain
I shall be readier. Good-day.”
My lady waits. And for those tricks of Spain
I shall be readier. Good-day.”
Philip Vernon.
T' is plain
I was imprudent.
I was imprudent.
As he moves up the hall toward Elizabeth Vernon, she watches him, speaking to herself the while:
“Where saw I those eyes,
Large, gray, and watchful? Some elate surprise
Is in their gaze.
Large, gray, and watchful? Some elate surprise
Is in their gaze.
I pray you pardon us
This most uncourteous hour. It is not thus
We welcome unknown comers. I have heard
You would be nameless: so is every bird
That wings my garden. And 't is said you stole
A rose or two. If that be all—the whole
Of this last hour's sin—I hold you shriven;
Ay, and that lesson to a fool forgiven.”
This most uncourteous hour. It is not thus
We welcome unknown comers. I have heard
You would be nameless: so is every bird
That wings my garden. And 't is said you stole
A rose or two. If that be all—the whole
Of this last hour's sin—I hold you shriven;
Ay, and that lesson to a fool forgiven.”
Philip Vernon.
I thank you, madam.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Am I, sir, a book,
That you would read me with that eager look?
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Oft have I read you. I am wont to share
My idle hours with you.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Indeed, sir?
Philip Vernon.
Where
The chase o'erhangs your garden, oft I sit
And read you page by page, nor want I wit
To comment on your sweetness.
Elizabeth Vernon.
You are bold
Past nurtured manners.
Philip Vernon.
Pardon me, I told
But half my heart says.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Sir, an hour ago
We were but strangers.
Philip Vernon.
Ere the sand shall flow
Another hour, we shall be strange once more,
And ever strange.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Is this some Quixote, mad,
That loved and lost, and cannot live it o'er?
—By all the saints, I think it very sad
To see good wits astray.
Philip Vernon.
Are mine astray?
It seems they wandered wisely. Let them say
What saner wits would shun. The shyest maid
That ever loved, and, loving, grew afraid,
Would braver be to set her love in words.
Mine hath uncertain wings, like new-born birds,
And may not think on heaven. Forgive, forget!
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In some freaked tale of eld—a prince of fay
That came, and loved, and lost, and rode away.
Elizabeth Vernon.
That's a wilde riddle.
Philip Vernon.
Time owns not the hour
Shall give some buds the answer of a flower.
You have been very gentle with a man
Who dare not name himself, who never can
Do more than thank your kindness. I am one
Accursed and nameless till my days be done.
How you have helped me you may never know,
Nor what you saved us both. I came your foe;
More than your friend I leave. Just Heaven knows
How sad my life has been. Let this one rose
I took for—well, no matter—let me guard
This rose for memory. It will make less hard
The strife of days to come.
Elizabeth Vernon.
You speak like one
By some strange cruelty of fate undone.
Be plain.
Philip Vernon.
I may not further.
Elizabeth Vernon.
Then take hence
A woman's prayer for peace. There's no offence.
In honest words, and none did ever speak
Words that more sadly touched me. I am weak
Where women should be. There's no need to say
'T is but mere weakness. Must you, then, away?
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I dare not—must not—linger. Here to stay
Were to tempt folly. Ah, you may divine
All that my honor bids my heart resign.
So fades another dream. Alack! alack!
Dreams are but dreams—we may not dream them back.
Take you an exile's thanks. This gracious hour
Shall live remembered.
Were to tempt folly. Ah, you may divine
All that my honor bids my heart resign.
So fades another dream. Alack! alack!
Dreams are but dreams—we may not dream them back.
Take you an exile's thanks. This gracious hour
Shall live remembered.
As he walks away, Elizabeth Vernon whispers to herself:
“Still those eyes have power
To tease dull memory with some strange surmise.
And trouble expectation.”
To tease dull memory with some strange surmise.
And trouble expectation.”
Philip, walking down the gallery and seeing the portraits on the walls, stops abruptly; whereupon Elizabeth Vernon adds:
“What surprise
So moves this stranger?”
So moves this stranger?”
Philip Vernon.
There's the Lady Blanche,
That held the castle; there the baron stanch,
Who rode to battle laughing. Am I heir,
Through him, of that mad merriment I share
When swords are out and death is in the air?
My father's face! So gracious too!—by Heaven!
Now I can say, “Be all thy sin forgiven!”
And thank the gentle hand that swept away
The desperate counsels of a darker day.
That held the castle; there the baron stanch,
Who rode to battle laughing. Am I heir,
Through him, of that mad merriment I share
When swords are out and death is in the air?
My father's face! So gracious too!—by Heaven!
Now I can say, “Be all thy sin forgiven!”
And thank the gentle hand that swept away
The desperate counsels of a darker day.
For a moment he stands before the portrait, and then goes slowly down the gallery, and leaves the castle.
| The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell | |