University of Virginia Library

‘Well, what will Michael Villiers do?’ So one
Spake with another, when some men, his friends,
Talked each and each, a little while gone by
Since William Villiers of Villiers Keep had died.
‘You see, the man's a mere idealist:
All must be whitely, delicately done,
Or not at all: at least so I suppose,
Who judge from things I have sometimes heard him say,
And more from things I have known him leave unsaid.
He will not have to do with politics
Because he would not play upon one string
Of self and interest; all must be so high!
High-flown, I think!’ And then another man;
‘He's a good fellow, Villiers; noble-aimed,
And noble-hearted; but I think he'll fail
In life, because his mother gave him birth
Too soon, a thousand years. A man must be
Child of his time, if somewhat in advance,
Nor spread his wings to soar with marvellous flight
Beyond the moon and stars; and find at last
The wings were only fastened on with wax,
And, the wax melting, down he drops in sloughs
A merely two-legged thing had safe gone by.’

Another said, ‘He's half an Irishman,
He says;—it's arrant nonsense all the same,—
The gallant Home-Rule band would welcome him
To sit upon their benches; give him share
Of bouncing brogue and royal store of bulls,
(The fattest cattle they are owners of!)
And all those delicate amenities
They've paid their twopence for instruction in.
But once I said, half earnest and half jest,
Something like this:—I did not draw a sketch
Of Irish Parliament and Brehon law,
(What Brehon law may be, I do not know,)
With all the Sassenagh expatriate,
And Irish Yankeedoodledom called home
In resonant triumph of its dynamite—
But blandly I supposed it might be true
That Ireland was a nation after all;
Adding, ‘“Why don't you help to make her free?”’

‘Nay, Leigh,’ said Villiers, ‘I have nought to do
With this, for I am but a doubter here,
And doubter turned to doer makes poor work.
A half conviction acted on becomes
A lie: I touch no Irish politics.
I would do something for my mother's land,
If so I might, but cannot help her thus,
She being a house divided against itself.’

‘Well, anyhow, Villiers has done his best
Yonder, to keep the English name from shame!
His tenants pay their rents, the rents he'll take
With more than just abatement for the loss
Of crops and cattle, and badness of the times.
They shoot behind no hedge on his estate—
His uncle's up to now—it's all the same—
Nor hough the cattle, nor burn them in their byres.’

‘Why should they? Michael Villiers loves the men
He calls his countrymen; and I suppose
They love him, and loved his uncle for his sake,
Who tried to look at them through Michael's eyes.’

‘He'll never marry,’ said another man,
‘At least I hear he thinks he may be called
To do some work that likes a bachelor best.
Idealists being mated must give up
Some of their dangerous hobbies; as with us
Often a hunting man leaves break-neck jumps,
For the wife's gentle sake who sits at home.—
Unless he marry one who hunts herself!
Villiers may mate with some idealist,
And set the Thames a-fire at source and mouth.’

‘No woman was ever an idealist!’
Laughed one; ‘ideals are only for the male:
The female sees them but as he reflects.
A woman would not die for any cause,
Unless it were incarnate in a man.’

‘He is too much the thinker,’ said a fifth,
‘To be the man of action; for, you know,
The thinker never was the doer yet.
Thought cripples action; action addles thought;
Your artist lives an inartistic life;
Your preacher is no sermon in himself;
Your poet is no poem; and the State
Would fare but ill with your philosopher.’

Then Arthur Grey, who hearkened, saying nought,
Gave his goodbye to gossips all, and took
His way across the fields to Villiers Keep,
And met his friend half-way, and turned with him,
Praying for leave to speak his mind in full,
For once at least; and Michael gave assent.

‘Michael, it's possible,’ said Arthur Grey,
‘For that poor devil, a conservative,
To have a human heart within his breast;
A pair of eyes set in his muddle head!
It's also possible that he may see,
Just at the very outer verge, you know,
A struggle, and be sorry for his friend,
And wish his friend to look before he leap
Into perhaps some dark abyss, wherefrom
He cannot reascend. Well, Michael, well,
I say because I like you as I like
No other man, revere you too, perhaps,
And would not have you wreck your life with all
That gallant cargo should enrich the world;—
Make your life simple as you please, ay, bare
And meagre outside; sell your uncle's stud,
If so the thought of horses' pedigrees,
Black Prince by Scarlet Runner, out of Pearl,
So on, should make you brood too much upon
The pale horse of the rider whose name is Death:
(One never knows what queer suggestions come
To poets and seers, from ordinary things!)
Or go knight-errant anywhere you like,
Wearing your spurs upon your naked heels,
If you're too good to own a pair of boots!
Stand on a stately butter-tub, and call
Every man brother, minding to except
Poor devils who have money in their purse,
Or know who their grandfathers may have been!
Let 'Arry carve his fate-compelling name
On your wind-breasting oaks of centuries' growth,
Or oust your pelican from her barbarous work
Of tearing her live breast to feed her young!
A stone or two, well shied, will blunt her beak!
Were I a poet, Michael, as I live,
I think I could make something out of that;
But thank the gods, I'm not poetical!
There, I have quoted Shakespere unaware!
Go your way trying hard to make the State
(You'll not succeed; my comfort, scarcely yours!)
A big Committee, sitting evermore,
And sitting out all freedom of the will;
Making all life a heartless, lungless mass;
Itself an ugly unbulliable thing
Without a body to kick, or a soul to damn.
Be faddist to your very heart's content!
But—do not strip your inward life too bare,
Lest the cold strike upon you, and you die!
You know as well as I do what I mean
In saying, do not cross with Nature; she
Being thwarted takes a terrible revenge.

‘Michael, I dare to speak my mind to you!
Forgive the bluntness of my speech. You know
I love you; let my love be my excuse!
They say you will not marry, and yourself
Have thrown out hints thereof: but is there none
Who loves you, whom you love, and yet would lay
Upon some altar-stone, and sacrifice,
Calling it piety? If there be such,
Michael, for once do as the world would do,
The world without a call; the world you scorn;
The world made up of men like us, poor dogs
Who better like to crunch substantial bones
Than wait beneath your table for the crumbs.
Well, Michael, that's enough for me to say!
Digest it, if you will; or strain it out!
But, anyhow, shake hands.’

And Michael gript
The hand that Arthur Grey held out to him;
And the two men looked in each other's face,
Until the woman in them brought the tears
Nearer the shedding than was wont to be.