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diff --git a/1393-0.txt b/1393-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73b6f7b --- /dev/null +++ b/1393-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1626 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1393 *** + +AMOURS DE VOYAGE + + +Arthur Hugh Clough + +1903 Macmillan edition + + + Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, + And taste with a distempered appetite! + --Shakspeare + + + Il doutait de tout, meme de l'amour. + --French Novel + + + Solvitur ambulando. + Solutio Sophismatum. + + Flevit amores + Non elaboratum ad pedem. + + --Horace + + + + +AMOURS DE VOYAGE. + + + + +Canto I. + + + Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, + Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, + Come, let us go,--to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, + Where every breath even now changes to ether divine. + Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world that we live in, + Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib; + 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel; + Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; + 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser; + 'Tis but to go and have been.'--Come, little bark! let us go. + + + I. Claude to Eustace. + + Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer, + Or at the least to put us again en rapport with each other. + Rome disappoints me much,--St Peter's, perhaps, in especial; + Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please me: + This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is horrid. + Greece must be better, surely; and yet I am feeling so spiteful, + That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and Mount Sinai, + Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also. + Rome disappoints me much; I hardly as yet understand it, but + RUBBISHY seems the word that most exactly would suit it. + All the foolish destructions, and all the sillier savings, + All the incongruous things of past incompatible ages, + Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of present and future. + Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a cleaner sweep of it! + Would to Heaven some new ones would come and destroy these churches! + However, one can live in Rome as also in London. + It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, of + All one's friends and relations,--yourself (forgive me!) included,-- + All the assujettissement of having been what one has been, + What one thinks one is, or thinks that others suppose one; + Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English. + Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him,-- + Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn. + + + II. Claude to Eustace. + + Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it. + Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression + Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me + Feel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickwork. + Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo, + Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots. + Ye gods! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed, + Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in? + What do I find in the Forum? An archway and two or three pillars. + Well, but St. Peter's? Alas, Bernini has filled it with sculpture! + No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum. + Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement, + This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea? + Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant: + 'Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!' their Emperor vaunted; + 'Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!' the Tourist may answer. + + + III. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----. + + At last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address you. + Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes, + Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and Susan: + Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with St. Peter's, + And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di Spagna. + Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you about it; + Not very gay, however; the English are mostly at Naples; + There are the A.'s, we hear, and most of the W. party. + George, however, is come; did I tell you about his mustachios? + Dear, I must really stop, for the carriage, they tell me, is waiting; + Mary will finish; and Susan is writing, they say, to Sophia. + Adieu, dearest Louise,--evermore your faithful Georgina. + Who can a Mr. Claude be whom George has taken to be with? + Very stupid, I think, but George says so VERY clever. + + + IV. Claude to Eustace. + + No, the Christian faith, as at any rate I understood it, + With its humiliations and exaltations combining, + Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements, + Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth and + In our poor selves to something most perfect above in the heavens,-- + No, the Christian faith, as I, at least, understood it, + Is not here, O Rome, in any of these thy churches; + Is not here, but in Freiburg, or Rheims, or Westminster Abbey. + What in thy Dome I find, in all thy recenter efforts, + Is a something, I think, more RATIONAL far, more earthly, + Actual, less ideal, devout not in scorn and refusal, + But in a positive, calm, Stoic-Epicurean acceptance. + This I begin to detect in St. Peter's and some of the churches, + Mostly in all that I see of the sixteenth-century masters; + Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws, + Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of childhood, + Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing needful, + By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard. + Curious work, meantime, re-entering society: how we + Walk a livelong day, great Heaven, and watch our shadows! + What our shadows seem, forsooth, we will ourselves be. + Do I look like that? you think me that: then I AM that. + + + V. Claude to Eustace. + + Luther, they say, was unwise; like a half-taught German, he could not + See that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance; + Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses; + Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, the Poets, + Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away the + Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas Aquinas: + He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wittenberg lungs, and + Bring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon Europe: + Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it fell; the + Waters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty; + Are they abating at last? the doves that are sent to explore are + Wearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of promise,-- + Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost vessel,-- + Fain to re-enter the roof which covers the clean and the unclean,-- + Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn't see how things were going; + Luther was foolish,--but, O great God! what call you Ignatius? + O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians, + Alaric, Attila, Genseric;--why, they came, they killed, they + Ravaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards, + These are here still,--how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante? + These, that fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release not + This, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see them,-- + Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesu, + Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,-- + Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,-- + Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing, + Michael Angelo's Dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven, + Raphael's Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo! + + + VI. Claude to Eustace. + + Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marry + Is not a thing to be known; for our friend is one of those natures + Which have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic, + So that he trifles with Mary's shawl, ties Susan's bonnet, + Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina, + Who is, however, TOO silly in my apprehension for Vernon. + I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little; + Not that I like them much or care a bajocco for Vernon, + But I am slow at Italian, have not many English acquaintance, + And I am asked, in short, and am not good at excuses. + Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not wholly + Pure of the taint of the shop; will at table d'hote and restaurant + Have their shilling's worth, their penny's pennyworth even: + Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth! + Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to know, well connected; + Doubtless somewhere in some neighbourhood have, and are careful to keep, some + Threadbare-genteel relations, who in their turn are enchanted + Grandly among county people to introduce at assemblies + To the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent fortunes. + Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth! + + + VII. Claude to Eustace. + + Ah, what a shame, indeed, to abuse these most worthy people! + Ah, what a sin to have sneered at their innocent rustic pretensions! + Is it not laudable really, this reverent worship of station? + Is it not fitting that wealth should tender this homage to culture? + Is it not touching to witness these efforts, if little availing, + Painfully made, to perform the old ritual service of manners? + Shall not devotion atone for the absence of knowledge? and fervour + Palliate, cover, the fault of a superstitious observance? + Dear, dear, what do I say? but, alas! just now, like Iago, + I can be nothing at all, if it is not critical wholly; + So in fantastic height, in coxcomb exaltation, + Here in the garden I walk, can freely concede to the Maker + That the works of His hand are all very good: His creatures, + Beast of the field and fowl, He brings them before me; I name them; + That which I name them, they are,--the bird, the beast, and the cattle. + But for Adam,--alas, poor critical coxcomb Adam! + But for Adam there is not found an help-meet for him. + + + VIII. Claude to Eustace. + + No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian! canst not, + Strip and replaster and daub and do what they will with thee, be so! + Here underneath the great porch of colossal Corinthian columns, + Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian belfries above them? + Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, till thy whole vast + Round grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I repeople thy niches, + Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, and Virgins, and children, + But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer worship; + And I recite to myself, how + Eager for battle here + Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno, + And with the bow to his shoulder faithful + He who with pure dew laveth of Castaly + His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia + The oak forest and the wood that bore him, + Delos' and Patara's own Apollo. [*] + + * Hic avidus stetit + Vulcanus, hic matrona Juno, et + Nunquam humeris positurus arcum; + Qui rore puro Castaliae lavit + Crines solutos, qui Lyciae tenet + Dumeta natalemque silvam, + Delius et Patareus Apollo. + + + IX. Claude to Eustace. + + Yet it is pleasant, I own it, to be in their company; pleasant, + Whatever else it may be, to abide in the feminine presence. + Pleasant, but wrong, will you say? But this happy, serene coexistence + Is to some poor soft souls, I fear, a necessity simple, + Meat and drink and life, and music, filling with sweetness, + Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies strange overwhelming, + All the long-silent strings of an awkward, meaningless fabric. + Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with children; to have those + Pure and delicate forms encompassing, moving about you, + This were enough, I could think; and truly with glad resignation + Could from the dream of Romance, from the fever of flushed adolescence, + Look to escape and subside into peaceful avuncular functions. + Nephews and nieces! alas, for as yet I have none! and, moreover, + Mothers are jealous, I fear me, too often, too rightfully; fathers + Think they have title exclusive to spoiling their own little darlings; + And by the law of the land, in despite of Malthusian doctrine, + No sort of proper provision is made for that most patriotic, + Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor uncle. + + + X. Claude to Eustace. + + Ye, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte Cavallo + Stand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your motionless movement, + Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil regardant faces, + Stand as instinct with life in the might of immutable manhood,-- + O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones of Hellas. + Are ye Christian too? to convert and redeem and renew you, + Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has set up on the apex + Of the Egyptian stone that o'ertops you, the Christian symbol? + And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious marble, + Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican chambers, + Juno and Ceres, Minerva, Apollo, the Muses and Bacchus, + Ye unto whom far and near come posting the Christian pilgrims, + Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic Christian Pontiff, + Are ye also baptized? are ye of the kingdom of Heaven? + Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient and Modern! + Am I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel of Sixtus? + + + XI. Claude to Eustace. + + These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire (a + Little embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family place in + Cornwall, of course; 'Papa is in business,' Mary informs me; + He's a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The mother + Is--shall I call it fine?--herself she would tell you refined, and + Greatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and maladroit manners; + Somewhat affecteth the blue; would talk to me often of poets; + Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold; but also appreciates Wordsworth; + Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion diverges; + Questions me much about Oxford; and yet, in her loftiest flights still + Grates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile accent. + + Is it contemptible, Eustace--I'm perfectly ready to think so,-- + Is it,--the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people? + I am ashamed of my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful, + That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom. + I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,-- + I, who have always failed,--I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns; + I, believe me,--great conquest, am liked by the country bankers. + And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly. + So it proceeds; laissez faire, laissez aller,--such is the watchword. + Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant, + Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polish + Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn. + Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,-- + Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition? + + + XII. Claude to Eustace. + + But I am in for it now,--laissez faire, of a truth, laissez aller. + Yes, I am going,--I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it,-- + Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts of relations, + Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, I know one thing, + Will, and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken,-- + Broken with painful remorses, with shrinkings of soul, and relentings, + Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish renewals. + But I have made the step, have quitted the ship of Ulysses; + Quitted the sea and the shore, passed into the magical island; + Yet on my lips is the moly, medicinal, offered of Hermes. + I have come into the precinct, the labyrinth closes around me, + Path into path rounding slyly; I pace slowly on, and the fancy, + Struggling awhile to sustain the long sequences, weary, bewildered, + Fain must collapse in despair; I yield, I am lost, and know nothing; + Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue; I shall use it. + Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the fissure; I sink, yet + Inly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me; + Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, or + Floor of cavern untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, I know I + Yet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about me,-- + Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest in; and though the + Rope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag unto crag re- + Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths, ere the end I + Yet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I quit, shall + Feel underneath me again the great massy strengths of abstraction, + Look yet abroad from the height o'er the sea whose salt wave I have tasted. + + + XIII. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----. + + Dearest Louisa,--Inquire, if you please, about Mr. Claude ----. + He has been once at R., and remembers meeting the H.'s. + Harriet L., perhaps, may be able to tell you about him. + It is an awkward youth, but still with very good manners; + Not without prospects, we hear; and, George says, highly connected. + Georgy declares it absurd, but Mamma is alarmed, and insists he has + Taken up strange opinions, and may be turning a Papist. + Certainly once he spoke of a daily service he went to. + 'Where?' we asked, and he laughed and answered, 'At the Pantheon.' + This was a temple, you know, and now is a Catholic church; and + Though it is said that Mazzini has sold it for Protestant service, + Yet I suppose this change can hardly as yet be effected. + Adieu again,--evermore, my dearest, your loving Georgina. + + P.S. by Mary Trevellyn. + + I am to tell you, you say, what I think of our last new acquaintance. + Well, then, I think that George has a very fair right to be jealous. + I do not like him much, though I do not dislike being with him. + He is what people call, I suppose, a superior man, and + Certainly seems so to me; but I think he is terribly selfish. + + + -------------------- + + Alba, thou findest me still, and, Alba, thou findest me ever, + Now from the Capitol steps, now over Titus's Arch, + Here from the large grassy spaces that spread from the Lateran portal, + Towering o'er aqueduct lines lost in perspective between, + Or from a Vatican window, or bridge, or the high Coliseum, + Clear by the garlanded line cut of the Flavian ring. + Beautiful can I not call thee, and yet thou hast power to o'ermaster, + Power of mere beauty; in dreams, Alba, thou hauntest me still. + Is it religion? I ask me; or is it a vain superstition? + Slavery abject and gross? service, too feeble, of truth? + Is it an idol I bow to, or is it a god that I worship? + Do I sink back on the old, or do I soar from the mean? + So through the city I wander and question, unsatisfied ever, + Reverent so I accept, doubtful because I revere. + + + + +Canto II. + + + Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages, + Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide? + Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not, + Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide? + Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single, + Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine, + E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin, + E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not? + Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine, + Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare? + Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger, + Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate? + + + I. Claude to Eustace. + + What do the people say, and what does the government do?--you + Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; and + I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it. + I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,--I who sincerely + Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot, + Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a + New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heaven + Right on the Place de la Concorde,--I, nevertheless, let me say it, + Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shed + One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic; + What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon, + Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion? + France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish England,-- + You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, you + Could not, of course, interfere,--you, now, when a nation has chosen---- + Pardon this folly! The Times will, of course, have announced the occasion, + Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in error + When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee, + You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia. + + + II. Claude to Eustace. + + Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,--to + Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yet + Still, individual culture is also something, and no man + Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on, + Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world that + Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here; + Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely; + On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certain + Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in general + Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation; + Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive; + Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall. + So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster, + Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe our + Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purpose + Nature intended,--a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not. + Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but, + On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I sha'n't. + + + III. Claude to Eustace. + + Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly, + Hardly think so; and yet----He is come, they say, to Palo, + He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa + He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma, + She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,--The Daughter of Tiber, + She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee! + Will they fight? I believe it. Alas! 'tis ephemeral folly, + Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures, + Statues, and antique gems!--Indeed: and yet indeed too, + Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,--tell it not in St. James's, + Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!--yet did I, waking, + Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes heros, la + Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prets a se battre; + Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental, + Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me. + + + IV. Claude to Eustace. + + Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier + Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny + (Where the family English are all to assemble for safety), + Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female? + Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little, + All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit. + Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for good manners, + Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention. + No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there; + Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger, + Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's freedom, + Sooner far by the side of the d----d and dirty plebeians. + Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady---- + Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation. + Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection, + Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina, + And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, and + Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended. + Oh, and of course, you will say, 'When the time comes, you will be ready.' + Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so? + What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel? + Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct? + Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception? + Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight, + For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action? + Must we, walking our earth, discerning a little, and hoping + Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,-- + Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present, + Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour, + To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim? + And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining, + Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent? + + + V. Claude to Eustace. + + Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual, + Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffe Nuovo; + Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather, + Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray, + And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles; + Caffe-latte! I call to the waiter,--and Non c'e latte, + This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle. + So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else more + Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero, + Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons, + Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and + Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,--withdrawing + Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket + Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual, + Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine + Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty, + Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso + Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti. + Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English, + Germans, Americans, French,--the Frenchmen, too, are protected,-- + So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower; + So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's, + Smoke, from the cannon, white,--but that is at intervals only,-- + Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri; + And we believe we discern some lines of men descending + Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming. + Every ten minutes, however,--in this there is no misconception,-- + Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, and + After a space the report of a real big gun,--not the Frenchman's!-- + That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture. + Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's, + Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us; + So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.-- + All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside, + It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses. + Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent, + Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing: + So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very. + Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly, + Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of + National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows, + English, American, Danish,--and, after offering to help an + Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny, + After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling + Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters, + Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter. + But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices + Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken; + And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.-- + This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the battle. + + + VI. Claude to Eustace. + + Victory! Victory!--Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion, + Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together; + Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth. + Victory! Victory! Victory!--Ah, but it is, believe me, + Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr + Than to indite any paean of any victory. Death may + Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion. + While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over, + Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven, + Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar, + Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour. + So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled with + Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises, + Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col- + Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers + Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, but + I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten. + + + VII. Claude to Eustace. + + So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others! + Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain, + And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it. + But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw + Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something. + I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual, + Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and + Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when + Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious + Of a sensation of movement opposing me,--tendency this way + (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is + Coming and not yet come,--a sort of noise and retention); + So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers + Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner. + Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza, + Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters, + Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the + Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is + Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it? + Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voices + Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are + Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting, + Hewing, chopping--At what? In the air once more upstretched? And-- + Is it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then? + Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation? + While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points of + Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a + Mercantile-seeming bystander, 'What is it?' and he, looking always + That way, makes me answer, 'A Priest, who was trying to fly to + The Neapolitan army,'--and thus explains the proceeding. + You didn't see the dead man? No;--I began to be doubtful; + I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't happen,-- + But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub, + Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,--and + Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and + Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body. + You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter. + Whom should I tell it to else?--these girls?--the Heavens forbid it!-- + Quidnuncs at Monaldini's--Idlers upon the Pincian? + If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when + Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army + First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers, + Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two. On that evening + Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered + Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; others + Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated, + Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna: + History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine! + But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to + Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful. + Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, I + Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges, + So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards + Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum, + Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit. + + + VIII. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----. + + Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!-- + * * * * * * * * + George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on + Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him: + This is a man, you know, who came from America with him, + Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting, + Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine; + This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle, + Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them: + Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian. + Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude BEING SELFISH; + He was MOST useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April. + Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence: + We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses; + All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini + + P.S. + Mary has seen thus far.--I am really so angry, Louisa,-- + Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending? + I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment, + Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him. + + + IX. Claude to Eustace. + + It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in + Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people. + Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil; + And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, that + Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering + Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffe, + Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava, + Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion. + Ah, 'tis an excellent race,--and even in old degradation, + Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating, + E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people. + Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!--but clearly + That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals, + Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer! + Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini! + + + X. Claude to Eustace. + + I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so. + I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so. + I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you + It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift, + Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can + Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking, + Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment, + Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to + Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain + Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind. + No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; 'tis + Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded, + Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning. + I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly. + + + XI. Claude to Eustace. + + There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction: + One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy, + And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you. + I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter. + I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing, + There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished. + I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action + Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious, + Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process; + We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty. + + + XII. Claude to Eustace. + + Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted! + Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present! + Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing! + Drive me not out yet, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden, + Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration! + Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ, + Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort, + Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration? + + + XIII. Claude to Eustace. + + Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it IS so. + She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me. + Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways? + Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly? + 'Tis not her fault; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them: + 'Tis not her fault; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me. + Hopeless it seems,--yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it: + She goes--therefore I go; she moves,--I move, not to lose her. + + + XIV. Claude to Eustace. + + Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing; + 'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you, + Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero; + She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,-- + Knowledge, O ye Gods!--when did they appreciate knowledge? + Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it. + Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me! + (Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?) + But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant; + Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her; + Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence, + Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me. + Not that I care very much!--any way I escape from the boy's own + Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy. + Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, and + Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit, + Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it; + It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures, + Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly; + We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle, + Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general, + Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us, + Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us. + Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it. + All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is, + Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance. + You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her? + + + XV. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----. + + ...... To-morrow we're starting for Florence, + Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors; + Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we by vettura + Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn. + Then---- Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking! + You will imagine my feelings,--the blending of hope and of sorrow. + How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters? + Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust me + Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina. + + P.S. by Mary Trevellyn. + + ....... 'Do I like Mr. Claude any better?' + I am to tell you,--and, 'Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?' + This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him. + All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me. + There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive. + So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriage + Surely will do in one year for the family you would establish + Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second. + + P.S. by Georgina Trevellyn. + + Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better; + He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too SHILLY-SHALLY,-- + So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matte is going on fairly. + I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something. + Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together! + + + ------------------------------- + + Is it Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer, + E'en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old, + Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden, + Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget? + Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,-- + He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go! + Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee! + She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee! + + + + +Canto III. + + + + Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda, + Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls, + Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us, + Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme; + Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us; + Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain; + Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.-- + Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war, + Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle, + Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind, + Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles, + Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply, + Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated, + Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,-- + Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city, + Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee! + + + I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--on the way to Florence. + + Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.--We don't know, + You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles; + But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason,-- + He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us. + Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so + Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,-- + Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended: + I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so. + Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly + Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my + Pen will not write any more;--let us say nothing further about it. + * * * * * * * * + Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive; + So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression + Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me. + Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you? + Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas + That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy; + I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.-- + When does he make advances?--He thinks that women should woo him; + Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted. + She that should love him must look for small love in return,--like the ivy + On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, and + E'en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces. + + + II. Claude to Eustace,--from Rome. + + Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the furrow, + Did it not truly accept as its summum and ultimum bonum + That mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in? + Would it have force to develop and open its young cotyledons, + Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another? + Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functions + Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence? + While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita Vecchia, + Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba, + Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel, + Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows, + 'This is Nature,' I said: 'we are born as it were from her waters; + Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for, + Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge, + Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed.' + This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the steamer; + And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne, + Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble. + It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer. + Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages. + + + III. Claude to Eustace. + + Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannot + Fight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although I + Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers, + What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters? + Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle; + No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it. + Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what's the + Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic? + Why not fight?--In the first place, I haven't so much as a musket; + In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use it; + In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient marbles; + In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country; + In the fifth--I forget, but four good reasons are ample. + Meantime, pray let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion. + So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs! + Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiae; though it would seem this + Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind: + Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere! + Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother! + + + IV. Claude to Eustace. + + Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration, + Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in; + But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden, + Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever, + Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,-- + Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom. + Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine, + Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus + Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia, + Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining, + Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city, + Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter. + Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces, + Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions, + Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not, + Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow, + Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to, + Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination! + Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages. + + + V. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--from Florence. + + Dearest Miss Roper,--Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, and + You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing! + We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles. + Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over; + Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city. + Do you see Mr. Claude?--I thought he might do something for you. + I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful. + What is he doing? I wonder;--still studying Vatican marbles? + Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better. + + + VI. Claude to Eustace. + + Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition? + Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer, + And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended, + Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one; + And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect, + Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven. + Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion! + Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only! + Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion, + Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge! + But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance, + Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession? + But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service? + But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract? + But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?-- + Ah, but the bride, meantime,--do you think she sees it as he does? + But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence, + Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action? + But for assurance within a limitless ocean divine, o'er + Whose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surface + Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,-- + But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it, + Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here? + Ah, but the women,--God bless them! they don't think at all about it. + Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beings + Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract, + Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding, + Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not, + Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,-- + Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided. + Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet. + Ah, but the women, alas! they don't look at it that way. + Juxtaposition is great;--but, my friend, I fear me, the maiden + Hardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her, + Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up with,-- + Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told her + That she is but for a space, an ad-interim solace and pleasure,-- + That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something, + Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,-- + Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not + Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting, + Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you? + Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you, + Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and--leave you? + + + VII. Claude to Eustace. + + Juxtaposition is great,--but, you tell me, affinity greater. + Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser, + Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition, + Potent, efficient, in force,--for a time; but none, let me tell you, + Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah, + None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect. + Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess, + Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,-- + Vir sum, nihil faeminei,--and e'en to the uttermost circle, + All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Nature's. + Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition, + That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at: + I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers; + I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window, + On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard, + Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me; + Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful assurance, + E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forest, + Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me; + And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perversions, + Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence, + Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces. + + + VIII. Claude to Eustace. + + And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling; + Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful, + All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled. + Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at; + As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing, + As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures, + Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only + This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving, + Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction. + + + IX. Claude to Eustace. + + Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters: + So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, a + Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honour. + But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming and shouting, + Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood, + And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings + Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'er + Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters. + Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not, + No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it! + Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly + Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour, + Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no! + I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me. + No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things, + This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing. + No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied; + Bind and engage myself deep;--and lo, on the following morning + It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing. + Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performance + At the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of evasion, + When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements, + Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,-- + Stood unexpecting, unconscious. SHE spoke not of obligations, + Knew not of debt--ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons. + + + X. Claude to Eustace. + + HANG this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil! + Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's chamber, + Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing. + What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have compassion; + Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge; + Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers, + Tranquilly, happily lie,--and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar! + + + XI. Claude to Eustace. + + Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio + Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence; + Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever, + With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain, + Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:-- + So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I, + Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl, + Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me; [*] + Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, + Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters, + Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro + (Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows, + Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces). + Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations, + Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:-- + So not seeing I sang; so now--Nor seeing, nor hearing, + Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces, + Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro, + Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters, + But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the + Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens, + Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,-- + But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains, + Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,-- + But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me, + Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist. + + * -- domus Albuneae resonantis, + Et praeceps Anio, et Tibuni lucus, et uda + Mobilibus pomaria rivis + + + XII. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper. + + Dear Miss Roper,--It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, said + Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions. + Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina. + It is SO disagreeable and SO annoying to think of! + If it could only be known, though we may never meet him again, that + It was all George's doing, and we were entirely unconscious, + It would extremely relieve--Your ever affectionate Mary. + + P.S. (1) + Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted. + So you have seen him,--indeed, and guessed,--how dreadfully clever! + What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly? + Charming!--but wait for a moment, I haven't read through the letter. + + P.S. (2) + Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it. + If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so. + Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage. + It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for. + Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you. + Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter. + Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret, + That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it. + + P.S. (3) + I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday. + Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manage + Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter. + It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactly + As if it had not occurred: and I do not think he would like it. + I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is over + We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan; + There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce di Malta + Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England. + + + XIII. Claude to Eustace. + + Yes, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city,-- + So it appears; though then I was quite uncertain about it. + So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding. + I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to Florence. + Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon + Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging together, + As to intentions forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded, + Horrified quite; and obtaining just then, as it happened, an offer + (No common favour) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection, + Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must excuse me. + How could I go? Great Heavens! to conduct a permitted flirtation + Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers! + Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries, + Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman, + Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for removal, + That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown,--not, I think, by Georgina: + She, however, ere this,--and that is the best of the story,-- + She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and gone--honey-mooning. + So--on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city. + Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had dreamt of; + Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep en- + Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace; + Tibur I shall not see;--but something better I shall see. + Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses; + Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be a failure. + + + Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyarded ruins! + Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and domes! + Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic Albano, + Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and Aesula's hills! + Ah, could we once, ere we go, could we stand, while, to ocean descending, + Sinks o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the yellow broad sun, + Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once in the champaign, + Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts umbrageous and old, + E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy beautiful hollow, + Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill!-- + Therefore farewell, ye plains, and ye hills, and the City Eternal! + Therefore farewell! We depart, but to behold you again! + + + + +Canto IV. + + + Eastward, or Northward, or West? I wander and ask as I wander; + Weary, yet eager and sure, Where shall I come to my love? + Whitherward hasten to seek her? Ye daughters of Italy, tell me, + Graceful and tender and dark, is she consorting with you? + Thou that out-climbest the torrent, that tendest thy goats to the summit, + Call to me, child of the Alp, has she been seen on the heights? + Italy, farewell I bid thee! for whither she leads me, I follow. + Farewell the vineyard! for I, where I but guess her, must go; + Weariness welcome, and labour, wherever it be, if at last it + Bring me in mountain or plain into the sight of my love. + + + I. Claude to Eustace,--from Florence. + + Gone from Florence; indeed! and that is truly provoking;-- + Gone to Milan, it seems; then I go also to Milan. + Five days now departed; but they can travel but slowly;-- + I quicker far; and I know, as it happens, the home they will go to.-- + Why, what else should I do? Stay here and look at the pictures, + Statues and churches? Alack, I am sick of the statues and pictures!-- + No, to Bologna, Parma, Piacenza, Lodi, and Milan, + Off go we to-night,--and the Venus go to the Devil! + + + II. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. + + Gone to Como, they said; and I have posted to Como. + There was a letter left; but the cameriere had lost it. + Could it have been for me? They came, however, to Como, + And from Como went by the boat,--perhaps to the Spluegen,-- + Or to the Stelvio, say, and the Tyrol; also it might be + By Porlezza across to Lugano, and so to the Simplon + Possibly, or the St. Gothard,--or possibly, too, to Baveno, + Orta, Turin, and elsewhere. Indeed, I am greatly bewildered. + + + III. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. + + I have been up the Spluegen, and on the Stelvio also: + Neither of these can I find they have followed; in no one inn, and + This would be odd, have they written their names. I have been to Porlezza; + There they have not been seen, and therefore not at Lugano. + What shall I do? Go on through the Tyrol, Switzerland, Deutschland, + Seeking, an inverse Saul, a kingdom to find only asses? + There is a tide, at least, in the LOVE affairs of mortals, + Which, when taken at flood, leads on to the happiest fortune,-- + Leads to the marriage-morn and the orange-flowers and the altar, + And the long lawful line of crowned joys to crowned joys succeeding.-- + Ah, it has ebbed with me! Ye gods, and when it was flowing, + Pitiful fool that I was, to stand fiddle-faddling in that way! + + + IV. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. + + I have returned and found their names in the book at Como. + Certain it is I was right, and yet I am also in error. + Added in feminine hand, I read, By the boat to Bellaggio.-- + So to Bellaggio again, with the words of he writing to aid me. + Yet at Bellaggio I find no trace, no sort of remembrance. + So I am here, and wait, and know every hour will remove them. + + + V. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. + + I have but one chance left,--and that is going to Florence. + But it is cruel to turn. The mountains seem to demand me,-- + Peak and valley from far to beckon and motion me onward. + Somewhere amid their folds she passes whom fain I would follow; + Somewhere amid those heights she haply calls me to seek her. + Ah, could I hear her call! could I catch the glimpse of her raiment! + Turn, however, I must, though it seem I turn to desert her; + For the sense of the thing is simply to hurry to Florence, + Where the certainty yet may be learnt, I suppose, from the Ropers. + + + VI. Mary Trevellyn, from Lucerne, to Miss Roper, at Florence. + + Dear Miss Roper,--By this you are safely away, we are hoping, + Many a league from Rome; ere long we trust we shall see you. + How have you travelled? I wonder;--was Mr. Claude your companion? + As for ourselves, we went from Como straight to Lugano; + So by the Mount St. Gothard; we meant to go by Porlezza, + Taking the steamer, and stopping, as you had advised, at Bellaggio, + Two or three days or more; but this was suddenly altered, + After we left the hotel, on the very way to the steamer. + So we have seen, I fear, not one of the lakes in perfection. + Well, he is not come, and now, I suppose, he will not come. + What will you think, meantime? and yet I must really confess it;-- + What will you say? I wrote him a note. We left in a hurry, + Went from Milan to Como, three days before we expected. + But I thought, if he came all the way to Milan, he really + Ought not to be disappointed: and so I wrote three lines to + Say I had heard he was coming, desirous of joining our party;-- + If so, then I said, we had started for Como, and meant to + Cross the St. Gothard, and stay, we believed, at Lucerne, for the summer. + Was it wrong? and why, if it was, has it failed to bring him? + Did he not think it worth while to come to Milan? He knew (you + Told him) the house we should go to. Or may it, perhaps, have miscarried? + Any way, now, I repent, and am heartily vexed that I wrote it. + + + There is a home on the shore of the Alpine sea, that upswelling + High up the mountain-sides spreads in the hollow between; + Wilderness, mountain, and snow from the land of the olive conceal it; + Under Pilatus's hill low by the river it lies; + Italy, utter the word, and the olive and vine will allure not,-- + Wilderness, forest, and snow will not the passage impede; + Italy, unto thy cities receding, the clue to recover, + Hither, recovered the clue, shall not the traveller haste? + + + + + +Canto V. + + + There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno, + Under Fiesole's heights,--thither are we to return? + There is a city that fringes the curve of the inflowing waters, + Under the perilous hill fringes the beautiful bay,-- + Parthenope, do they call thee?--the Siren, Neapolis, seated + Under Vesevus's hill,--are we receding to thee?-- + Sicily, Greece, will invite, and the Orient;--or are we turn to + England, which may after all be for its children the best? + + + + I. Mary Trevellyn, at Lucerne, to Miss Roper, at Florence. + + So you are really free, and living in quiet at Florence; + That is delightful news; you travelled slowly and safely; + Mr. Claude got you out; took rooms at Florence before you; + Wrote from Milan to say so; had left directly for Milan, + Hoping to find us soon;--if he could, he would, you are certain.-- + Dear Miss Roper, your letter has made me exceedingly happy. + You are quite sure, you say, he asked you about our intentions; + You had not heard as yet of Lucerne, but told him of Como.-- + Well, perhaps he will come; however, I will not expect it. + Though you say you are sure,--if he can, he will, you are certain. + O my dear, many thanks from your ever affectionate Mary. + + + II. Claude to Eustace. + + Florence. + Action will furnish belief,--but will that belief be the true one? + This is the point, you know. However, it doesn't much matter. + What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action, + So as to make it entail, not a chance belief, but the true one. + Out of the question, you say; if a thing isn't wrong we may do it. + Ah! but this WRONG, you see--but I do not know that it matters. + Eustace, the Ropers are gone, and no one can tell me about them. + + Pisa. + Pisa, they say they think, and so I follow to Pisa, + Hither and thither inquiring. I weary of making inquiries. + I am ashamed, I declare, of asking people about it.-- + Who are your friends? You said you had friends who would certainly know them. + + Florence. + But it is idle, moping, and thinking, and trying to fix her + Image once more and more in, to write the whole perfect inscription + Over and over again upon every page of remembrance. + I have settled to stay at Florence to wait for your answer. + Who are your friends? Write quickly and tell me. I wait for your answer. + + + III. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper.--at Lucca Baths. + + You are at Lucca baths, you tell me, to stay for the summer; + Florence was quite too hot; you can't move further at present. + Will you not come, do you think, before the summer is over? + Mr. C. got you out with very considerable trouble; + And he was useful and kind, and seemed so happy to serve you. + Didn't stay with you long, but talked very openly to you; + Made you almost his confessor, without appearing to know it,-- + What about?--and you say you didn't need his confessions. + O my dear Miss Roper, I dare not trust what you tell me! + Will he come, do you think? I am really so sorry for him. + They didn't give him my letter at Milan, I feel pretty certain. + You had told him Bellaggio. We didn't go to Bellaggio; + So he would miss our track, and perhaps never come to Lugano, + Where we were written in full, To Lucerne across the St. Gothard. + But he could write to you;--you would tell him where you were going. + + + IV. Claude to Eustace. + + Let me, then, bear to forget her. I will not cling to her falsely: + Nothing factitious or forced shall impair the old happy relation. + I will let myself go, forget, not try to remember; + I will walk on my way, accept the chances that meet me, + Freely encounter the world, imbibe these alien airs, and + Never ask if new feelings and thoughts are of her or of others. + Is she not changing herself?--the old image would only delude me. + I will be bold, too, and change,--if it must be. Yet if in all things, + Yet if I do but aspire evermore to the Absolute only, + I shall be doing, I think, somehow, what she will be doing;-- + I shall be thine, O my child, some way, though I know not in what way, + Let me submit to forget her; I must; I already forget her. + + + V. Claude to Eustace. + + Utterly vain is, alas! this attempt at the Absolute,--wholly! + I, who believed not in her, because I would fain believe nothing, + Have to believe as I may, with a wilful, unmeaning acceptance. + I, who refused to enfasten the roots of my floating existence + In the rich earth, cling now to the hard, naked rock that is left me,-- + Ah! she was worthy, Eustace,--and that, indeed, is my comfort,-- + Worthy a nobler heart than a fool such as I could have given her. + + -------------------- + + Yes, it relieves me to write, though I do not send, and the chance that + Takes may destroy my fragments. But as men pray, without asking + Whether One really exist to hear or do anything for them,-- + Simply impelled by the need of the moment to turn to a Being + In a conception of whom there is freedom from all limitation,-- + So in your image I turn to an ens rationis of friendship, + Even so write in your name I know not to whom nor in what wise. + + -------------------- + + There was a time, methought it was but lately departed, + When, if a thing was denied me, I felt I was bound to attempt it; + Choice alone should take, and choice alone should surrender. + There was a time, indeed, when I had not retired thus early, + Languidly thus, from pursuit of a purpose I once had adopted, + But it is all over, all that! I have slunk from the perilous field in + Whose wild struggle of forces the prizes of life are contested. + It is over, all that! I am a coward, and know it. + Courage in me could be only factitious, unnatural, useless. + + -------------------- + + Comfort has come to me here in the dreary streets of the city, + Comfort--how do you think?--with a barrel-organ to bring it. + Moping along the streets, and cursing my day as I wandered, + All of a sudden my ear met the sound of an English psalm-tune, + Comfort me it did, till indeed I was very near crying. + Ah, there is some great truth, partial, very likely, but needful, + Lodged, I am strangely sure, in the tones of the English psalm-tune. + Comfort it was at least; and I must take without question + Comfort, however it come, in the dreary streets of the city. + + -------------------- + + What with trusting myself and seeking support from within me, + Almost I could believe I had gained a religious assurance, + Formed in my own poor soul a great moral basis to rest on. + Ah, but indeed I see, I feel it factitious entirely; + I refuse, reject, and put it utterly from me; + I will look straight out, see things, not try to evade them; + Fact shall be fact for me, and the Truth the Truth as ever, + Flexible, changeable, vague, and multiform, and doubtful.- + Off, and depart to the void, thou subtle, fanatical tempter! + + -------------------- + + I shall behold thee again (is it so?) at a new visitation, + O ill genius thou! I shall at my life's dissolution + (When the pulses are weak, and the feeble light of the reason + Flickers, an unfed flame retiring slow from the socket), + Low on a sick-bed laid, hear one, as it were, at the doorway, + And, looking up, see thee standing by, looking emptily at me; + I shall entreat thee then, though now I dare to refuse thee,-- + Pale and pitiful now, but terrible then to the dying.-- + Well, I will see thee again, and while I can, will repel thee. + + + VI. Claude to Eustace. + + Rome is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medici taken, + Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has lost il Moro;-- + Rome is fallen; and fallen, or falling, heroical Venice. + I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single small chit of a girl, sit + Moping and mourning here,--for her, and myself much smaller. + Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, + Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them? + Are they upborne from the field on the slumberous pinions of angels + Unto a far-off home, where the weary rest from their labour, + And the deep wounds are healed, and the bitter and burning moisture + Wiped from the generous eyes? or do they linger, unhappy, + Pining, and haunting the grave of their by-gone hope and endeavour? + All declamation, alas! though I talk, I care not for Rome nor + Italy; feebly and faintly, and but with the lips, can lament the + Wreck of the Lombard youth, and the victory of the oppressor. + Whither depart the brave?--God knows; I certainly do not. + + + VII. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper. + + He has not come as yet; and now I must not expect it. + You have written, you say, to friends at Florence, to see him, + If he perhaps should return;--but that is surely unlikely. + Has he not written to you?--he did not know your direction. + Oh, how strange never once to have told him where you were going! + Yet if he only wrote to Florence, that would have reached you. + If what you say he said was true, why has he not done so? + Is he gone back to Rome, do you think, to his Vatican marbles?-- + O my dear Miss Roper, forgive me! do not be angry!-- + You have written to Florence;--your friends would certainly find him. + Might you not write to him?--but yet it is so little likely! + I shall expect nothing more.--Ever yours, your affectionate Mary. + + + VIII. Claude to Eustace. + + I cannot stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter. + Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished + (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first time) + Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever, + Chicken-hearted, past thought. The caffes and waiters distress me. + All is unkind, and, alas! I am ready for anyone's kindness. + Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection, + If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness + It is the need of it,--it is this sad, self-defeating dependence. + Why is this, Eustace? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell you. + But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression, + Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose. + All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something. + Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks, + Is not I WILL, but I MUST. I must,--I must,--and I do it. + + -------------------- + + After all, do I know that I really cared so about her? + Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image; + For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter's, + Or the Pantheon facade, or Michel Angelo's figures, + Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum,-- + But that face, those eyes,--ah, no, never anything like them; + Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline, + And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to. + After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it; + I have had pain, it is true: I have wept; and so have the actors. + + -------------------- + + At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting; + I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries. + Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me. + Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain; + All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be changed. + It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it; + I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us; + For it is certain enough I met with the people you mention; + They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even; + Stayed a week, saw me often; departed, and whither I know not. + Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence partly. + What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered. + Ah, no, that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion. + I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances. + Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering. + + + IX. Claude to Eustace. + + Shall we come out of it all, some day, as one does from a tunnel? + Will it be all at once, without our doing or asking, + We shall behold clear day, the trees and meadows about us, + And the faces of friends, and the eyes we loved looking at us? + Who knows? Who can say? It will not do to suppose it. + + + X. Claude to Eustace,-from Rome. + + Rome will not suit me, Eustace; the priests and soldiers possess it; + Priests and soldiers:--and, ah! which is the worst, the priest or the soldier? + Politics, farewell, however! For what could I do? with inquiring, + Talking, collating the journals, go fever my brain about things o'er + Which I can have no control. No, happen whatever may happen, + Time, I suppose, will subsist; the earth will revolve on its axis; + People will travel; the stranger will wander as now in the city; + Rome will be here, and the Pope the custode of Vatican marbles. + I have no heart, however, for any marble or fresco; + I have essayed it in vain; 'tis in vain as yet to essay it: + But I may haply resume some day my studies in this kind; + Not as the Scripture says, is, I think, the fact. Ere our death-day, + Faith, I think, does pass, and Love; but Knowledge abideth. + Let us seek Knowledge;--the rest may come and go as it happens. + Knowledge is hard to seek, and harder yet to adhere to. + Knowledge is painful often; and yet when we know we are happy. + Seek it, and leave mere Faith and Love to come with the chances. + As for Hope,--to-morrow I hope to be starting for Naples. + Rome will not do, I see, for many very good reasons. + Eastward, then, I suppose, with the coming of winter, to Egypt. + + + XI. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper. + + You have heard nothing; of course I know you can have heard nothing. + Ah, well, more than once I have broken my purpose, and sometimes, + Only too often, have looked for the little lake steamer to bring him. + But it is only fancy,--I do not really expect it. + Oh, and you see I know so exactly how he would take it: + Finding the chances prevail against meeting again, he would banish + Forthwith every thought of the poor little possible hope, which + I myself could not help, perhaps, thinking only too much of; + He would resign himself, and go. I see it exactly. + So I also submit, although in a different manner. + Can you not really come? We go very shortly to England. + + + -------------------- + + + So go forth to the world, to the good report and the evil! + Go, little book! thy tale, is it not evil and good? + Go, and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer. + Go, and if curious friends ask of thy rearing and age, + Say, 'I am flitting about many years from brain unto brain of + Feeble and restless youths born to inglorious days: + But,' so finish the word, 'I was writ in a Roman chamber, + When from Janiculan heights thundered the cannon of France.' + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Amours de Voyage, by Arthur Hugh Clough + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1393 *** |