Partingtonian patchwork Blifkins the martyr : the domestic trials of a model husband. The modern syntax : Dr. Spooner's experiences in search of the delectable. Partington papers : strippings of the warm milk of human kindness. New and old dips from an unambitious inkstand. Humorous, eccentric, rhythmical |
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FANTINE. |
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II.
FANTINE.
Ne'er did monarch array his queen
Richer than Hugo did Fantine,
With pearls of gold
More manifold
Than she of Egypt wore of old—
More regal than those of the “Queen of the South,”
The gold on her head, the pearls in her mouth.
O, she was fair as nymph or fay,
And she was sweet as flowers in May,
And she was as lithe as a breeze at play,
And she was as mild as a summer day.
She was all alone—
No parents had known,
A waif on the world for charity thrown;
A sad, sad doom,
For beauty and bloom—
Immortal seed on a soil of stone;
The fruit of love's unhallowed chrism,
Denied the right of blest baptism,
Left to shame and human blame,
That follows the fallen like breath of flame,
Called Fantine
By herself—Fantine—
Simply because it was her name.
She knew none else; 'twas at her cast,
Like a bone to a dog, by a beggar who passed—
'Twas Fantine only, first and last.
Richer than Hugo did Fantine,
With pearls of gold
More manifold
Than she of Egypt wore of old—
183
The gold on her head, the pearls in her mouth.
O, she was fair as nymph or fay,
And she was sweet as flowers in May,
And she was as lithe as a breeze at play,
And she was as mild as a summer day.
She was all alone—
No parents had known,
A waif on the world for charity thrown;
A sad, sad doom,
For beauty and bloom—
Immortal seed on a soil of stone;
The fruit of love's unhallowed chrism,
Denied the right of blest baptism,
Left to shame and human blame,
That follows the fallen like breath of flame,
Called Fantine
By herself—Fantine—
Simply because it was her name.
She knew none else; 'twas at her cast,
Like a bone to a dog, by a beggar who passed—
'Twas Fantine only, first and last.
And Fantine loved;
Her heart was moved
With a love more ardent than approved;
But still it was a love as true,
As e'er in human bosom grew,
Fed by Hymen's sacred dew,
And blest in sacerdotal view;
For love is the same in poor and rich,
Working them up to the self-same pitch,
And don't distinguish “t'other from which.”
She loved, with all her little powers
—Hungry love that the heart devours—
A man of wit and ready tin,
But soiled by the world and touch of sin,
With carious teeth and a wrinkled skin,
And bad digestion—how could he win?
His eyes were watery, too, and dim,
But she saw no blemish at all in him:
So true to him
She flew to him,
And stuck like Hilton's glue to him!
But he, the churl, I'm sorry to say,
Didn't love her in that same way.
His was a passion—a baleful flame,
That kindles in fervor and ends in shame;
A blaze that burns with a lurid light,
Then leaves a darkness, as black as night,
Of broken heart and spirit blight;
And poor Fantine,
With anguish keen,
Felt cold desertion's direst harms:
Her first love flown—
Alone—alone—
Bearing her woe in heart—and arms.
Her heart was moved
With a love more ardent than approved;
But still it was a love as true,
As e'er in human bosom grew,
Fed by Hymen's sacred dew,
And blest in sacerdotal view;
For love is the same in poor and rich,
Working them up to the self-same pitch,
And don't distinguish “t'other from which.”
She loved, with all her little powers
184
A man of wit and ready tin,
But soiled by the world and touch of sin,
With carious teeth and a wrinkled skin,
And bad digestion—how could he win?
His eyes were watery, too, and dim,
But she saw no blemish at all in him:
So true to him
She flew to him,
And stuck like Hilton's glue to him!
But he, the churl, I'm sorry to say,
Didn't love her in that same way.
His was a passion—a baleful flame,
That kindles in fervor and ends in shame;
A blaze that burns with a lurid light,
Then leaves a darkness, as black as night,
Of broken heart and spirit blight;
And poor Fantine,
With anguish keen,
Felt cold desertion's direst harms:
Her first love flown—
Alone—alone—
Bearing her woe in heart—and arms.
In heaven above or earth below
A purer love none e'er may know,
Than in the mother's breast doth glow;
Irrespective of sin or shame,
Glorying still in the mother's name,
Nature asserting its holy claim,
In fortune's light,
In poverty's blight,
In sorrow's night,
It burns forever and burns the same;
And sweet Fantine
Loved her poor wean
As 'twere a child of loftier fame.
A purer love none e'er may know,
Than in the mother's breast doth glow;
Irrespective of sin or shame,
Glorying still in the mother's name,
Nature asserting its holy claim,
In fortune's light,
In poverty's blight,
In sorrow's night,
It burns forever and burns the same;
185
Loved her poor wean
As 'twere a child of loftier fame.
On a dusty day
O'er a public way
Was Fantine and her child astray,
Weary and sad, and most forlorn,
Bound for the town where she was born,
Hoping an honest living to win,
Outside the vortex of deadly sin,
When she arrived at a wayside inn.
'Twas a queer, old nook,
With forbidding look;
But there before it, in a swing,
Two children, bright as flowers in spring,
Rocked to and fro,
While, soft and low,
The mother a gentle air did sing;
And Fantine felt
Her motherly heart within her melt,
As she looked upon the beautiful thing.
The mothers, with a motherly pride,
Put their children side by side,
And poor Fantine,
As she viewed the scene,
Thought of her fatherless babe, and cried.
“What will Mrs. Grundy say?”
She said to herself, in a tearful way;
For she dreaded the folk of M. sur M.,
And dreaded the lies she must tell to them.
So she gave up all of her little hoard,
And a promise of more than she could afford,
In payment for the baby's board;
Then with a heart of grief and pain,
And falling tears, like summer rain,
With empty pocket and giddy brain,
She wandered forth on her walk again,
Leaving her babe, without a fear,
With Mr. and Mrs. Thernardier,
By prudent folk considered queer,
Because Fantine
Must surely have seen
They didn't respectable appear.
O'er a public way
Was Fantine and her child astray,
Weary and sad, and most forlorn,
Bound for the town where she was born,
Hoping an honest living to win,
Outside the vortex of deadly sin,
When she arrived at a wayside inn.
'Twas a queer, old nook,
With forbidding look;
But there before it, in a swing,
Two children, bright as flowers in spring,
Rocked to and fro,
While, soft and low,
The mother a gentle air did sing;
And Fantine felt
Her motherly heart within her melt,
As she looked upon the beautiful thing.
The mothers, with a motherly pride,
Put their children side by side,
And poor Fantine,
As she viewed the scene,
Thought of her fatherless babe, and cried.
“What will Mrs. Grundy say?”
She said to herself, in a tearful way;
For she dreaded the folk of M. sur M.,
And dreaded the lies she must tell to them.
So she gave up all of her little hoard,
And a promise of more than she could afford,
In payment for the baby's board;
186
And falling tears, like summer rain,
With empty pocket and giddy brain,
She wandered forth on her walk again,
Leaving her babe, without a fear,
With Mr. and Mrs. Thernardier,
By prudent folk considered queer,
Because Fantine
Must surely have seen
They didn't respectable appear.
M. Madeleine
Had made great gain
By a patent he had chanced obtain;
Godsend to those of M. sur M.,
An El Dorado 'twas to them.
The little place
Grew up apace,
Under his grave and watchful care,
And industry grew,
And virtue, too,
And Fantine found employment there.
Her toil beguiled
By thought of her child,
That there in the distance lived and smiled.
But she kept her story within her breast,
And none her weighty secret guessed.
But gossips were round,—
They always abound,
Like canker worms, to curse the ground,
As clearly, in a moral way,
As the worms the farmer's hope to-day,
Filling his heart with dire dismay,—
Gossips who saw her proper life,
Who knew not were she maid or wife,
And whispered this and whispered that,
In hours of sly, malicious chat,
Until, alas for poor Fantine!
One came among them—her child had seen!
And then the rout,
The virtuous shout,
To think that she had been found out!
Then were the arrows of hatred hurled,
And poor Fantine was thrown on the world.
Alas for her,
Sweet sufferer!
No friends to call on, far or near;
And how could she pay Thernardier?
He was pressing her for his pay,
Said the child was pining away,
Driving her crazed with fears each day;
Besides, her landlord wanted his rent,
But she had expended her last red cent;
Had even sold
The precious gold
That covered her head to raise the dimes,
And the bright pearls, too,
In her mouth that grew,
But not at premium of later times.
Had made great gain
By a patent he had chanced obtain;
Godsend to those of M. sur M.,
An El Dorado 'twas to them.
The little place
Grew up apace,
Under his grave and watchful care,
And industry grew,
And virtue, too,
And Fantine found employment there.
Her toil beguiled
By thought of her child,
That there in the distance lived and smiled.
But she kept her story within her breast,
And none her weighty secret guessed.
But gossips were round,—
They always abound,
Like canker worms, to curse the ground,
As clearly, in a moral way,
As the worms the farmer's hope to-day,
Filling his heart with dire dismay,—
Gossips who saw her proper life,
187
And whispered this and whispered that,
In hours of sly, malicious chat,
Until, alas for poor Fantine!
One came among them—her child had seen!
And then the rout,
The virtuous shout,
To think that she had been found out!
Then were the arrows of hatred hurled,
And poor Fantine was thrown on the world.
Alas for her,
Sweet sufferer!
No friends to call on, far or near;
And how could she pay Thernardier?
He was pressing her for his pay,
Said the child was pining away,
Driving her crazed with fears each day;
Besides, her landlord wanted his rent,
But she had expended her last red cent;
Had even sold
The precious gold
That covered her head to raise the dimes,
And the bright pearls, too,
In her mouth that grew,
But not at premium of later times.
Dante mentions the rapid pace,
And the easy trip to a certain place,
When mortals fall from a state of grace;
'Twas certainly thus in Fantine's case.
It makes the heart of the virtuous bleed
The record of her shame to read—
Till she fell in the hands of the hard Javert,
And was brought before his honor the mayor,
Whose face she spat in then and there!
But no angry glow
Did his honor show,
Who told Javert to let her go.
Then she, astounded, heard him tell
That he was one who wished her well;
Hadn't known she had left his mill;
That 'twas others who had dealt her ill;
Then had her conveyed,
For hospital aid,
Where the Sisters their heavenly mission fill,
Promising bliss in store for her yet
In union sweet with her little Cosette.
And the easy trip to a certain place,
When mortals fall from a state of grace;
'Twas certainly thus in Fantine's case.
It makes the heart of the virtuous bleed
The record of her shame to read—
Till she fell in the hands of the hard Javert,
And was brought before his honor the mayor,
188
But no angry glow
Did his honor show,
Who told Javert to let her go.
Then she, astounded, heard him tell
That he was one who wished her well;
Hadn't known she had left his mill;
That 'twas others who had dealt her ill;
Then had her conveyed,
For hospital aid,
Where the Sisters their heavenly mission fill,
Promising bliss in store for her yet
In union sweet with her little Cosette.
Sad, ah, sad was the closing scene
Of the little life of poor Fantine.
Crushed, and broken, and poor, and ill,
She saw her measure of sorrow fill;
Her hope deferred, till her wasted breath
Became as one with the airs of death,
Then sunk to rest, and never met
The fond embrace of her dear Cosette.
Her last shocked gaze, with her closing gasp,
Showing Jean Valjean,
Her Madeleine,
Held like a vise in Javert's grasp.
Of the little life of poor Fantine.
Crushed, and broken, and poor, and ill,
She saw her measure of sorrow fill;
Her hope deferred, till her wasted breath
Became as one with the airs of death,
Then sunk to rest, and never met
The fond embrace of her dear Cosette.
Her last shocked gaze, with her closing gasp,
Showing Jean Valjean,
Her Madeleine,
Held like a vise in Javert's grasp.
| Partingtonian patchwork | |