University of Virginia Library

VI. BLANCHE AND ADA.

PERSONS.

• Old Man.
• Arthur
• Edwin
• Blanche, Daughter to Old Man.
• Ada.

Scene: A Garden. Enter Blanche (singing).
[Exit.
Arthur.
The sun rides high: the mid-day weariness,
The stillness of full noontide is on earth:
A feverish hum, dense insect-life, pervades
This spiky growth of upward shooting plants:
Below the lawn, betwixt us and the breadth
Of hot horizons, moving in its sleep,
Th' uneasy streamlet slumbers, and the reek
Blots the near landscape. Let us to the cool:
Perchance the dew may greet us, as a friend
For friends delaying.

Edwin.
Well, when all is said,
The practical conclusion gilds the speech.
Your sudden seriousness, dear friend (a plague
On all descriptions!) took me with surprise.
Haste! or the freshness of your welcoming
May dry with time. Haste; when the heart has flown
The breath flies with it. Sure o'er all the world
Your fair ones smile our English calmness down,
And mar the philosophic even breath,
As one, whoe'er she be, no other cause,
As one does yours.

Arthur.
My brother! But you claim
A traveller's licence, as of one long wont
To skate from heart to heart, and reap no warmth
Save that inspired by healthy exercise.
Ay, smile: In sober seriousness, my thought
Was but to guide you to that aged friend,
Lord of the fields and mansion; him we named
Of old, Laertes, ten years back, when first
An orphan pair from hot Algiers returning,
He came with welcome forth to cheer the boys,
And bade his little Blanche smile down the gloom
That darken'd round the strangers. Come! I see him
Within his orchard, where the blossom snows
Of our late spring upon the trees are caught,
That o'er the turf hang forth dishevell'd boughs,
And promise fruit for snow flakes.

Edwin.
Hush! I thought so:
'Tis e'en the same old man, by country tastes
Among his orchards rooted, confident
That here at least all things are as they were,
And so will be for ever.

Arthur.
We may speak;
The rising gale that meets us as we gaze
Will shield us.

Edwin.
Blow, fresh gale, for ever blow,
If ever on thy wings wilt bear, as now,
The morning songs of Blanche! 'Tis she, I know her,
Veil'd in that snowy mist of falling blooms
From pear and apple shower'd, a silver swarm
Thick on the golden ringlets, nursery-bright:—
While all else promised in the child has won
A maiden consummation, as the rose
Perfected from the rosebud.

Arthur.
What, my traveller!
My young Ulysses! all the boasted calm,
That hoarded philosophic apathy
Dissolved among the quiet scenes of home!
Now call the man up, Edwin; lo, the breeze
Already with her careless song is fraught,
And thro' the orchard all her soul is streaming!

Blanche sings.
Sudden she ceased: for now from shaken leaves
A mimic shower the dewy boughs sent forth,
Quick sideway gleaming pearls, that fled the steps
Of those two brothers:
Whom the old Laertes
With earnest welcome greeted: him the most
Whose ruddier tints proclaim'd a traveller's dues
To rain and air and sunshine.
But the maid,
Before whose eyes the playmate of her youth,
Long years of absence o'er, stood unexpected,
Just falter'd out a greeting, e'en as though
A space so short had flown since last they met
As scarce made greeting needful.
But she smiled,
(As if some happy secret shared together
Made one of two) on Arthur:—
‘Happy boy!’
Thought Edwin, ‘bless'd, yet careless:’—
And the soul
That with a Briton's frank and thoughtless bearing
Thro' foreign crowds had elbow'd on a way,
E'en when it sought them, seeming to despise
The marvels of the land, gave up its strength,
Shot thro' with sudden pain, and quick access
Of earlier tenderness.
The pride of heart,
The plans of settled calmness, that would watch
His love, long left, as tho' he loved her not,
Fell from him instant, and th' impetuous flood
Of troubled thoughts, by sight of Blanche half stay'd,
There as she stood, broke o'er him.
But again
Amid the linnet-notes, that fill'd the hush,
Sweet symphonies of Nature, when the heart
Stays in its music, and the pause affrights:—
Gaily that old man greeted him: then said:—
‘Things are not so with us, in this calm nook
Of quiet hearts, as ofttime 'tis with those
Whose chattering chorus welcomes in a friend,
While telling equals asking:—we have all
To learn from you: little or nought to give:
That little, yours already. Long, too long,
And Bianca will confirm it,—for this day
We've waited. Now 'tis here. Well. Why, 'tis well:
Time's hand was weighty on me. Satis. Hence:
The summer-house, your old unalter'd haunt
Again should hear your voice:—your feet, I see,
Themselves would guide you thither.’
And they moved
In silent file: as oft the Indian tracks
His game thro' forests, while the gloom of firs
Is whiten'd in the snow-blink: so that band
Among the shower'd blossoms.
But ere long
Within that arbour seated (she by him
Whose presence each scann'd eager)—from his lips
Again in utterance parted, flow'd the tale
Rich with the sights and thoughts of other lands.
Rivers, he said, had borne him, which had kept
One individual life, a youth in age,
One being, since their waves first wash'd the feet
Of crown'd imperial Rome: or bore the pride
Of legions southward, when from vanquish'd Gaul
They sought Brundusian moorings, or the ports
Of sea-engulf'd Altina:—next, the waves
That gleam'd, a burnish'd wake, beneath the throne,
The golden bark where Cleopatra lay,
And gods beheld her, envying.—Further east,
The stream that fed the garden, work of God
Ere yet man was, his broad advance delaying,
Strain'd thro' the marshes, where Semiramis
Outvied Memphitic splendour, and old Thebes,
Had murmur'd in his ears, a voice of grief,
A tale of the departed.
‘But my words
Are of the Past,’ he cried, ‘they weary you:
The Present has its dues, I now would pay
In duty bound, well pleased, to you, fair maid,
The genius of the Present.’
‘Be it so,’
She said, and smiled: arch smile! while on her head
The perfect face was propp'd:—his downcast eyes
There, where the gentle heart heaved waves of grace,
The lines of maiden beauty, fell, then closed
In tender haste withdrawing.
‘I forget
Where I was in my journey—well—from Egypt
Westward, thro' Spain: where life's full pilgrimage
Is imaged forth by nature: long waste plains
That sleep and pant beneath a giant heat,
For daily travel: evenings, in the heart
Of some gay city spent, while shadow and song
Fall from the window'd heights, where beauty sits
Dark-eyed amid the latticed jessamines:
And from high doors, the strains, that pierce the skies,
Float outwards on the incense.’
‘Happy hours!’
Said Blanche:—‘And yet, amid the crowds unknown,
Uncared for and uncaring, you have felt
That scarcely-conscious sinking of the heart
That sighs to view its peopled solitude.’
‘I know not—no—perhaps I knew not then
That any thoughts might watch my steps from England.
And I have seen, the more I paced this earth,
How one great heart beats thro' it: custom-veil'd:
Here older in its pulses: younger there:
Yet still the same, thro' all.—And something too
Befell—the tale was at my lips e'en now—
That show'd Eve's daughters sisters everywhere.
For as you know, Blanche, dear, in boyhood's days
Our home was Algiers once.’
‘She recollects it,’
Laertes said, ‘She must:—there was a chain,
Your ten year's gift to the young maid of ten,
Gold network, pendant amber-drops; she wore
I saw, at Arthur's—why not now? why, Blanche?
She wears it oft.’
Arthur.

Edwin.

Arthur.
‘So would I; but the fear
Restrain'd me, lest the sight of all that bliss,
Bliss undeserved, which Heaven had stored for me—
(Excuse me, father! if I plead his cause,
Using the style he would)—should pierce his heart
With thought of all he was, and all he hoped,
In th' unforgotten days of youthfulness.’
—Whereto in answer, with a smile that breathed
The ineffaceable sweetness of a life
Calm'd by pure thoughts, the sire of Blanche replied:
‘I know it; I know it all. Ah, deem not Blanche
(I know her heart—none better: who should better?)
Indifferent, or forgetful, has received
Our long-expected exile. 'Neath the calm
Of that first greeting—'neath the words of mirth,
(Oft our best aid in weakness)—lay the soul
Fluttering and panting in that strong influx
Of inexpressive bliss. 'Tis often so:
These calm streams run the deepest. Edwin's heart
Well match'd with hers, thou know'st—more quick in mood,
E'en now perchance, with sudden jealousy
Touch'd toward his brother—left so long with her
For whom he cares to live: more self-tormenting,
As less capacious of that vast reliance,
Undoubting love, unfearing, woman's strength
And weakness. Let us rise. Bring Ada forth:
—Your brother with a brother's love will greet
His southern fugitive: from her bright lips
Fitliest will learn her story: and what else
Woman, on woman's love most eloquent,
A willing tongue in willing ears may pour.’

[Exeunt.
Edwin
(alone).
[A pause.

Edwin.
Rich thy childhood's promise, dearest, with thine earlier years advancing:
Rich its bright fulfilment, as the golden days pass onward glancing.
When a child, I've often watch'd thee, with thy maiden thoughtlessness
Love for love returning freely, in a sweet unconsciousness.
Like a fountain overflowing ceaselessly with pure delight:
Turning everything to brightness, robing it in cheerful light.
Like an angel-presence, with thy lightning smiles and day-long gladness,
Sunny smiles and radiant hair—no child of mortal gloom or sadness.
Fearless for thine own sweet self, while all around were fearing for thee:
Thought of danger at thy blithesome presence fled away before thee.
Thou wast gayest of the gay, love; thou wast bravest of the brave:
Young amongst the young and bright: but wise and thoughtful with the grave.
Ah, that I from boyhood should have known and watch'd this living treasure!
Ah, that I thro' countless days should here have placed my deepest pleasure!
Ah, that all should be in vain! that I should see the prize with sorrow!
Ah, that such a dreamful night of joy should wake to such a morrow!

Ada, at some distance, singing.
He heard, but reck'd not of the song:—so deep
The billows had gone o'er him. Yet the notes,
Rich in the ripen'd fulness of the South,
An old remember'd air of Moslem land,
Fez, or Marocco, wrought within his ear,
And touch'd the outer sense, that guards the soul
Within her secret chamber.
Up he started
As one in sleep, that knows not why, nor, waken'd,
Finds what had waked him.
Ada sought the spot,
Fearful, when Edwin fled:—and gathering up
Some scatter'd note-book fragments, that lay round,
Rejoin'd the rest, within the trellis shade
In earnest conclave seated.
‘See!’ she cried:
‘I bring you traces of the fugitive:—
I fled him once: he me—’ then blithesome first,
But soon with deepening voice, and eye downcast
That caught infection from the words she read,
And their fix'd earnest glances, Ada thus
Reveal'd the broken music of despair.
A moment's pause—a stir—and as of old
Orestes, when Erinnys glared behind,
Went onwards aye, and knew not where he went,
So now came Edwin; so; then at the sight
Half-caught, of those he fled from, backward stept
Trembling.
But Blanche sprang forth, and drew him in,
With streaming locks, and eyes of fond request,
That look'd a volume of unutter'd words,
As—‘Come; 'twas in our sport we thus deceived you:
Come; all is well:’—But he, yet blind with fears,
Put by the gentle hand, in act to flee;
When Ada, lowly crouch'd at Arthur's feet,
Through happy tears smiled on him.
Edwin, there,
There where he stood, strong in the strength of youth,
Upon his darling bow'd: the lightning flash
Of recognition smiting all the soul
Irresistible:—one moment;—then to wake
Untranced, enfranchised, Love without disguise
Assured in many blushes innocent:
All Paradise at once, and at her side
Regain'd: to wake upon the smile, that now,
Now once again, and struggling into day,
But beaming to full brightness, shone on eyes
Irradiate with clear love, and moisten'd glances.
O then with one long cry, that echo'd full
From boyhood, summing up in that deep breath
The music of the heaven-directed years,
He clasp'd her to himself; one soul with his
Henceforth for ever. And
‘O long, long sought—
Long sought, and lately won: light of the eyes,’
He murmur'd—‘Heart's desire: mine only love:
Mine—in one word all happiness—my Blanche—
Look on me: faint not: lest this flood of life
On long drought pouring, should o'erbear itself,
Failing beneath its own deliciousness.
Look on me:—O thou flower, that long desired,
Long sigh'd for, long beheld, long clasp'd in dreaming,
Giv'st all thy drooping self to my embraces;
Unclose the tender lids, that fall and float
On eyes that through the years have lighted me:
Unclose the crimson lips, that bar out love:
And crown him with the kisses, that are love,
The love of love—and to himself restore him:—
Once—once, again!’
And with the thought, the touch,
Harmonious words went through him: or the notes
Of some forgotten melody revived
In th' exquisite crowning moment, and he said—