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diff --git a/43066-0.txt b/43066-0.txt index 004d337..b667edd 100644 --- a/43066-0.txt +++ b/43066-0.txt @@ -1,39 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Griselda - a society novel in rhymed verse - -Author: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -Release Date: June 30, 2013 [EBook #43066] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43066 *** GRISELDA @@ -2521,366 +2486,4 @@ Page 81: "spendthrifts" was printed as "spendthifts". 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Griselda - a society novel in rhymed verse - -Author: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -Release Date: June 30, 2013 [EBook #43066] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - -GRISELDA - - - - - GRISELDA - - _A SOCIETY NOVEL IN RHYMED VERSE_ - - - "Unnatural? My dear, these things are life: - And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse." - - - LONDON - KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER, & CO. LTD. - PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD - 1893 - - - - -_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._ - - - - -GRISELDA - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - - An idle story with an idle moral! - Why do I tell it, at the risk of quarrel - With nobler themes? The world, alas! is so, - And who would gather truth must bend him low, - Nor fear to soil his knees with graveyard ground, - If haply there some flower of truth be found. - For human nature is an earthy fruit, - Mired at the stem and fleshy at the root, - And thrives with folly's mixon best o'erlaid, - Nor less divinely so, when all is said. - Brave lives are lived, and worthy deeds are done - Each virtuous day, 'neath the all-pitying sun; - But these are not the most, perhaps not even - The surest road to our soul's modern heaven. - The best of us are creatures of God's chance - (Call it His grace), which works deliverance; - The rest mere pendulums 'twixt good and ill, - Like soldiers marking time while standing still. - 'Tis all their strategy, who have lost faith - In things Divine beyond man's life and death, - Pleasure and pain. Of heaven what know we, - Save as unfit for angels' company, - Say rather hell's? We cling to sins confessed, - And say our prayers still hoping for the best. - We fear old age and ugliness and pain, - And love our lives, nor look to live again. - - I do but parable the crowd I know, - The human cattle grazing as they go, - Unheedful of the heavens. Here and there - Some prouder, may be, or less hungry steer - Lifting his face an instant to the sky, - And left behind as the bent herd goes by, - Or stung to a short madness, tossing wild - His horns aloft, and charging the gay field, - Till the fence stops him, and he vanquished too, - Turns to his browsing--lost his Waterloo. - - The moral of my tale I leave to others - More bold, who point the finger at their brothers, - And surer know than I which way is best - To virtue's goal, where all of us find rest, - Whether in stern denial of things sweet, - Or yielding timely, lest life lose its feet - And fall the further. - - A plain tale is mine - Of naked fact, unconscious of design, - Told of the world in this last century - Of man's (not God's) disgrace, the XIXth. We - Have made it all a little as it is - In our own images and likenesses, - And need the more forgiveness for our sin. - - Therefore, my Muse, impatient to begin, - I bid thee fearless forward on thy road: - Steer thou thy honest course 'twixt bad and good. - Know this, in art that thing alone is evil - Which shuns the one plain word that shames the devil. - Tell truth without preamble or excuse, - And all shall be forgiven thee--all, my Muse! - - * * * * * - - In London then not many years ago - There lived a lady of high fashion, who - For her friends' sake, if any still there be - Who hold her virtues green in memory, - Shall not be further named in this true tale - Than as Griselda or the Lady L., - Such, if I err not, was the second name - Her parents gave when to the font she came, - And such the initial letter bravely set - On her coach door, beneath the coronet, - Which bore her and her fortunes--bore, alas! - For, as in this sad world all things must pass, - However great and nobly framed and fair: - Griselda, too, is of the things that were. - - But while she lived Griselda had no need - Of the world's pity. She was proudly bred - And proudly nurtured. Plenty her full horn - Had fairly emptied out when she was born, - And dowered her with all bounties. She was fair - As only children of the noblest are, - And brave and strong and opulent of health, - Which made her take full pleasure of her wealth. - She had a pitying scorn of little souls - And little bodies, levying heavy tolls - On all the world which was less strong than she. - She used her natural strength most naturally, - And yet with due discretion, so that all - Stood equally in bondage to her thrall. - She was of that high godlike shape and size - Which has authority in all men's eyes: - Her hair was brown, her colour white and red, - Nor idly moved to blush. She held her head - Straight with her back. Her body, from the knee - Tall and clean shaped, like some well-nurtured tree, - Rose finely finished to the finger tips; - She had a noble carriage of the hips, - And that proportionate waist which only art - Dares to divine, harmonious part with part. - But of this more anon, or rather never. - All that the world could vaunt for its endeavour - Was the fair promise of her ankles set - Upon a pair of small high-instepped feet, - In whose behalf, though modestly, God wot, - As any nun, she raised her petticoat - One little inch more high than reason meet - Was for one crossing a well-besomed street. - This was the only tribute she allowed - To human folly and the envious crowd; - Nor for my part would I be found her judge - For her one weakness, nor appear to grudge - What in myself, as surely in the rest, - Bred strange sweet fancies such as feet suggest. - We owe her all too much. This point apart, - Griselda, modesty's own counterpart, - Moved in the sphere of folly like a star, - Aloof and bright and most particular. - - By girlish choice and whim of her first will - She had espoused the amiable Lord L., - A worthy nobleman, in high repute - For wealth and virtue, and her kin to boot; - A silent man, well mannered and well dressed, - Courteous, deliberate, kind, sublimely blessed - With fortune's favours, but without pretence, - Whom manners almost made a man of sense. - In early life he had aspired to fame - In the world of letters by the stratagem - Of a new issue, from his private press, - Of classic bards in senatorial dress, - "_In usum Marchionis._" He had spent - Much of his youth upon the Continent, - Purchasing marbles, bronzes, pictures, gems, - In every town from Tiber unto Thames, - And gaining store of curious knowledge too - On divers subjects that the world least knew: - Knowledge uncatalogued, and overlaid - With dust and lumber somewhere in his head. - A slumberous man, in whom the lamp of life - Had never quite been lighted for the strife - And turmoil of the world, but flickered down - In an uncertain twilight of its own, - With an occasional flash, that only made - A deeper shadow for its world of shade. - When he returned to England, all admired - The taste of his collections, and inquired - To whose fair fortunate head the lot should fall - To wear these gems and jewels after all. - But years went by, and still unclaimed they shone, - A snare and stumbling-block to more than one, - Till in his fiftieth year 'twas vaguely said, - Lord L. already had too long delayed. - Be it as it may, he abdicated life - The day he took Griselda to his wife. - - And then Griselda loved him. All agreed, - The world's chief sponsors for its social creed, - That, whether poor Lord L. was or was not - The very fool some said and idiot, - Or whether under cloak of dulness crass, - He veiled that sense best suited to his case, - Sparing his wit, as housewives spare their light, - For curtain eloquence and dead of night; - And spite of whispered tales obscurely spread, - Doubting the fortunes of her nuptial bed, - Here at this word all sides agreed to rest: - Griselda did her duty with the best. - - Yet, poor Griselda! When in lusty youth - A love-sick boy I stood unformed, uncouth, - And watched with sad and ever jealous eye - The vision of your beauty passing by, - Why was it that that brow inviolate, - That virginal courage yet unscared by fate, - That look the immortal queen and huntress wore - To frightened shepherds' eyes in days of yore - Consoled me thus, and soothed unconsciously, - And stilled my jealous fears I knew not why? - How shall I tell the secret of your soul - Which then I blindly guessed, or how cajole - My boyhood's ancient folly to declare - Now in my wisdom the dear maid you were, - Though such the truth? - - Griselda's early days - Of married life were not that fitful maze - Of tears and laughter which betoken aught, - Changed or exchanged, of pain with pleasure bought, - Of maiden freedom conquered and subdued, - Of hopes new born and fears of womanhood. - Those who then saw Griselda saw a child - Well pleased and happy, thoughtlessly beguiled - By every simplest pleasure of her age, - Gay as a bird just issued from its cage, - When every flower is sweet. No eye could trace - Doubt or disquiet written on her face, - Where none there was. And, if the truth be told, - Griselda grieved not that Lord L. was old. - She found it well that her sweet seventeen - Should live at peace with fifty, and was seen - Just as she felt, contented with her lot, - Pleased with what was and pleased with what was not. - She held her husband the more dear that he - Was kind within the bounds of courtesy, - And love was not as yet within her plan, - And life was fair, and wisdom led the van. - - For she was wise--oh, wise! She rose at eight - And played her scales till breakfast, and then sat - The morning through with staid and serious looks, - Counting the columns of her household books, - Her daily labour, or with puzzled head - Bent over languages alive and dead, - Wise as, alas! in life those only are - Who have not yet beheld a twentieth year. - Wealth had its duties, time its proper use, - Youth and her marriage should be no excuse; - Her education must be made complete! - Lord L. looked on and quite approved of it. - The afternoons, in sense of duty done, - Went by more idly than the rest had gone. - If in the country, which Lord L. preferred, - She had her horse, her dogs, her favourite bird, - Her own rose-garden, which she loved to rake, - Her fish to feed with bread crumbs in the lake, - Her schools, old women, poor and almshouses, - Her sick to visit, or her church to dress. - Lord L. was pleased to see her bountiful: - They hardly found the time to find it dull. - - In London, where they spent their second year, - Came occupations suited to the sphere - In which they lived; and to the just pretence - Of our Griselda's high-born consequence, - New duties to the world which no excuse - Admitted. She was mistress of L. House - And heir to its traditions. These must be - Observed by her in due solemnity. - Her natural taste, I think, repelled the noise, - The rush, and dust, and crush of London joys; - But habit, which becomes a second sense, - Had reconciled her to its influence - Even in girlhood, and she long had known - That life in crowds may still be life alone, - While mere timidity and want of ease - She never ranked among youth's miseries. - She had her parents too, who made demand - Upon her thoughts and time, and close at hand - Sisters and friends. With these her days were spent - In simple joys and girlish merriment. - She would not own that being called a wife - Should make a difference in her daily life. - - Then London lacks not of attractions fit - For serious minds, and treasures infinite - Of art and science for ingenious eyes, - And learning for such wits as would be wise, - Lectures in classes, galleries, schools of art: - In each Griselda played conspicuous part-- - Pupil and patron, ay, and patron-saint - To no few poor who live by pens and paint. - The world admired and flattered as a friend, - And only wondered what would be the end. - - And so the days went by. Griselda's face, - Calm in its outline of romantic grace, - Became a type even to the vulgar mind - Of all that beauty means when most refined, - The visible symbol of a soul within, - Conceived immaculate of human sin, - And only clothed in our humanity - That we may learn to praise and better be. - Where'er she went, instinctively the crowd - Made way before her, and ungrudging bowed - To one so fair as to a queen of earth, - Ruling by right of conquest and of birth. - - And thus I first beheld her, standing calm - In the swayed crowd upon her husband's arm, - One opera night, the centre of all eyes, - So proud she seemed, so fair, so sweet, so wise. - Some one behind me whispered "Lady L.! - His Lordship too! and thereby hangs a tale." - - His Lordship! I beheld a placid man, - With gentle deep-set eyes, and rather wan, - And rather withered, yet on whose smooth face - Time seemed to have been in doubt what lines to trace - Of youth or age, and so had left it bare, - As it had left its colour to his hair. - An old young man perhaps, or really old, - Which of the two could never quite be told. - I judged him younger than his years gave right: - His looks betrayed him least by candlelight. - Yet, young or old, that night he seemed to me - Sublime, the priest of her divinity - At whose new shrine I worshipped. But enough - Of me and my concerns! More pertinent stuff - My tale requires than this first boyish love, - Which never found the hour its fate to prove. - My Lady smiling motions with her hand; - The crowd falls back; his Lordship, gravely bland, - Leads down the steps to where his footmen stay - In state. Griselda's carriage stops the way! - - And was Griselda happy? Happy?--Yes, - In her first year of marriage, and no less - Perhaps, too, in her second and her third. - For youth is proud, nor cares its last sad word - To ask of fate, and not unwilling clings - To what the present hour in triumph brings. - It was enough, as I have said, for her - That she was young and fortunate and fair. - The world that loved her was a lovely world, - The rest she knew not of. Fate had not hurled - A single spear as yet against her life. - She would not argue as 'twixt maid and wife, - Where both were woman, human nature, man, - Which held the nobler place in the world's plan. - Her soul at least was single, and must be - Unmated still through its eternity. - And, even here in life, what reason yet - To doubt or question or despair of Fate? - Her youth, an ample web, before her shone - For hope to weave its subtlest fancies on, - If she had cared to dream. Her lot was good - Beyond the common lot of womanhood, - And she would prove her fortune best in this, - That she would not repine at happiness. - Thus to her soul she argued as the Spring - Brought back its joy to each begotten thing-- - Begotten and begetting. Who shall say - Which had the better reason, she or they? - - In the fourth year a half acknowledged grief - Made its appearance in Griselda's life. - Her sisters married, younger both than she, - Mere children she had thought, and happily. - Each went her way engrossed by her new bliss, - Too gay to guess Griselda's dumb distress. - Her home was broken. In their pride they wrote - Things that like swords against her bosom smote, - The detail of their hopes, and loves, and fears. - Griselda read, and scarce restrained her tears. - Her mother too, the latest fledgling flown, - Had vanished from the world. She was alone. - - When she returned to London, earlier - Than was her custom, in the following year, - She found her home a desert, dark and gaunt; - L. House looked emptier, gloomier than its wont. - Griselda sighed, for on the table lay - Two letters, which announced each in its way - The expected tidings of her sisters' joy. - Either was brought to bed--and with a boy. - Her generous heart leaped forth to these in vain, - It could not cheat a first sharp touch of pain, - But yielded to its sorrow. - - That same night, - Lord L., whose sleep was neither vexed nor light, - And who for many years had ceased to dream, - Beheld a vision. Slowly he became - Aware of a strange light which in his eyes - Shone to his vast discomfort and surprise; - And, while perplexed with vague mistrusts and fears, - He saw a face, Griselda's face, in tears - Before him. She was standing by his bed - Holding a candle. It was cold, she said, - And shivered. And he saw her wrap her shawl - About her shoulders closely like a pall. - Why was she there? Why weeping? Why this light, - Burning so brightly in the dead of night? - These riddles poor Lord L.'s half-wakened brain - Tried dimly to resolve, but tried in vain. - - "I cannot sleep to-night," went on the voice, - "The streets disturb me strangely with their noise, - The cabs, the striking clocks." Lord L.'s distress - Struggled with sleep. He thought he answered "Yes." - "What can I do to make me sleep? I am ill, - Unnerv'd to-night. This house is like a well. - Do I disturb you here, and shall I go?" - Lord L. was moved. He thought he answered "No." - "If you would speak, perhaps my tears would stop. - Speak! only speak!" - - Lord L. here felt a drop - Upon his hand. She had put down the light, - And sat upon his bed forlornly white - And pale and trembling. Her dark hair unbound - Lay on her knees. Her lips moved, but their sound - Came strangely to his ears and half-unheard. - He only could remember the last word: - "I am unhappy--listen L.!--alone." - She touched his shoulder and he gave a groan. - "This is too much. You do not hear me. See, - I cannot stop these tears. Too much!" - - And he - Now well awake, looked round him. He could catch - A gleam of light just vanished, and the latch - Seemed hardly silent. This was all he knew. - He sat some moments doubting what to do, - Rose, went out, shivered, hearing nothing, crept - Back to his pillow, where the vision wept - Or seemed to weep awhile ago, and then - With some disquiet went to sleep again. - - Next morning, thinking of his dream, Lord L. - Went down to breakfast in intent to tell - The story of his vision. But he met - With little sympathy. His wife was late, - And in a hurry for her school of art. - His lordship needed time to make a start - On any topic, and no time she gave. - Griselda had appointments she must save, - And could not stop to hear of rhyme or reason-- - The dream must wait a more convenient season. - And so it was not told. - - Alas, alas! - Who shall foretell what wars shall come to pass, - What woes be wrought, what fates accomplishèd, - What new dreams dreamt, what new tears vainly shed, - What doubts, what anguish, what remorse, what fears - Begotten in the womb of what new years!-- - And all because of this, that poor Lord L. - Was slow of speech, or that he slept too well! - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - - Thus then it was. Griselda's childhood ends - With this untoward night; and what portends - May only now be guessed by those who read - Signs on the earth and wonders overhead. - I dare not prophesy. - - What next appears - In the vain record of Griselda's years - Is hardly yet a token, for her life - Showed little outward sign of change or strife, - Though she was changed and though perhaps at war. - Her face still shone untroubled as a star - In the world's firmament, and still she moved, - A creature to be wondered at and loved. - Her zeal, her wit, her talents, her good sense - Were all unchanged, though each seemed more intense - And lit up with new passion and inspired - To active purpose, valiant and untired. - She faced the world, talked much and well, made friends, - Promoted divers schemes for divers ends, - Artistic, social, philanthropical: - She had a store of zeal for each and all. - She pensioned poets, nobly took in hand - An emigration plan to Newfoundland, - Which ended in disaster and a ball. - She visited St. George's hospital, - The Home for Fallen Women, founded schools - Of music taught on transcendental rules. - L. House was dull though splendid. She had schemes - Of a vast London palace on the Thames, - Which should combine all orders new and old - Of architectural taste a house could hold, - And educate the masses. Then one day, - She fairly wearied and her soul gave way. - - Again she sought Lord L., but not to ask - This time his counsel in the thankless task - She could no more make good, the task of living. - He was too mere a stranger to her grieving, - Her needs, her weakness. All her woman's heart - Was in rebellion at the idle part - He played in her sad life, and needed not - Mere pity for a pain to madness wrought. - She did not ask his sympathy. She said - Only that she was weary as the dead, - And needed change of air, and life, and scene: - She wished to go where all the world had been-- - To Paris, Florence, Rome. She could not die - And not have seen the Alps and Italy. - Lord L. had tried all Europe, and knew best - Where she could flee her troubles and find rest. - Such was her will. Lord L., without more goad, - Prepared for travel--and they went abroad. - - I will not follow here from day to day - Griselda's steps. Suffice it if I say - She found her wished-for Paris wearisome, - Another London and without her home, - And so went on, as still the fashion was, - Some years ago, e'er Pulman cars with gas - And quick night flittings had submerged mankind - In one mad dream of luggage left behind, - By the Rhone boat to Provence. This to her - Seemed a delicious land, strange, barren, fair, - An old-world wilderness of greys and browns, - Rocks, olive-gardens, grim dismantled towns, - Deep-streeted, desolate, yet dear to see, - Smelling of oil and of the Papacy. - Griselda first gave reins to her romance - In this forgotten corner of old France, - Feeding her soul on that ethereal food, - The manna of days spent in solitude. - Lord L. was silent. She, as far away - Saw other worlds which were not of to-day, - With cardinals, popes, Petrarch and the Muse. - She stopped to weep with Laura at Vaucluse, - Where waiting in the Mistral poor Lord L., - Who did not weep, sat, slept and caught a chill; - This sent them southwards on through Christendom, - To Genoa, Florence, and at last to Rome, - Where they remained the winter. - - Change had wrought - A cure already in Griselda's thought, - Or half a cure. The world in truth is wide, - If we but pace it out from side to side, - And our worst miseries thus the smaller come. - Griselda was ashamed to grieve in Rome, - Among the buried griefs of centuries, - Her own sweet soul's too pitiful disease. - She found amid that dust of human hopes - An incantation for all horoscopes, - A better patience in that wreck of Time: - Her secret woes seemed chastened and sublime - There in the amphitheatre of woe. - She suffered with the martyrs. These would know, - Who offered their chaste lives and virgin blood, - How mortal frailty best might be subdued. - She saw the incense of her sorrow rise - With theirs as an accepted sacrifice - Before the face of the Eternal God - Of that Eternal City, and she trod - The very stones which seemed their griefs to sound - Beneath her steps, as consecrated ground. - In face of such a suffering hers must be - A drop, a tear in the unbounded sea - Which girds our lives. Rome was the home of grief, - Where all might bring their pain and find relief, - The temple of all sorrows: surely yet, - Sorrow's self here seemed swallowed up in it. - - 'Twas thus she comforted her soul. And then, - She had found a friend, a phoenix among men, - Which made it easier to compound with life, - Easier to be a woman and a wife. - - This was Prince Belgirate. He of all - The noble band to whose high fortune fall - The name and title proudest upon earth - While pride shall live by privilege of birth, - The name of Roman, shone conspicuous - The head and front of his illustrious house, - Which had produced two pontiffs and a saint - Before the world had heard of Charles le Quint; - A most accomplished nobleman in truth, - And wise beyond the manner of his youth, - With wit and art and learning, and that sense - Of policy which still is most intense - Among the fertile brains of Italy, - A craft inherited from days gone by. - As scholar he was known the pupil apt - Of Mezzofanti, in whose learning lapped - And prized and tutored as a wondrous child, - He had sucked the milk of knowledge undefiled - While yet a boy, and brilliantly anon - Had pushed his reputation thus begun - Through half a score of tongues. In art his place - Was as chief patron of the rising race, - Which dreamed new conquests on the glorious womb - Of ancient beauty laid asleep in Rome. - The glories of the past he fain would see - Wrought to new life in this new century, - By that continuous instinct of her sons, - Which had survived Goths, Vandals, Lombards, Huns, - To burst upon a wondering world again - With full effulgence in the Julian reign. - - In politics, though prudently withdrawn - From the public service, which he held in scorn, - As being unworthy the deliberate zeal - Of one with head to think or heart to feel; - And being neither priest, nor soldier, nor - Versed in the practice of Canonic lore, - He made his counsels felt and privately - Lent his best influence to "the Powers that be,"-- - Counsels the better valued that he stood - Alone among the youth of stirring blood, - And bowed not to that Baal his proud knee, - The national false goddess, Italy. - He was too stubborn in his Roman pride - To trick out this young strumpet as a bride, - And held in classic scorn who would become - Less than a Roman citizen in Rome. - A man of heart besides and that light wit - Which leavens all, even pedantry's conceit. - None better knew than he the art to shew - A little less in talk than all he knew. - His manner too, and voice, and countenance, - Imposed on all, and these he knew to enhance - By certain freedoms and simplicities - Of language, which set all his world at ease. - A very peer and prince and paragon, - Griselda thought, Rome's latest, worthiest son, - An intellectual phoenix. - - On her night - A sudden dawn had broke, portentous, bright. - Her soul had found its fellow. From the day - Of their first meeting on the Appian Way, - Beside Metella's tomb, where they had discussed - The doubtful merit of a new found bust, - And had agreed to differ or agree, - I know not which, a hidden sympathy - Had taken root between them. Either mind - Found in the other tokens of its kind - Which spoke in more than words, and naturally - Leaned to its fellow-mind as tree to tree. - Lord L., who had known the prince in other days, - While riding home had spoken in his praise, - And won Griselda's heart and patient smile, - For divers threadbare tales of blameless guile - Among the virtuosi, where the prince - Had played his part with skill and influence, - His sworn ally. Lord L. grew eloquent, - Finding her ears such rapt attention lent, - And could have gone on talking all his life - About his friend's perfections to his wife. - - Griselda listened. In her heart there stirred - A strange unconscious pleasure at each word, - Which made the sunshine brighter and the sky - More blue, more tender in its sympathy. - The hills of the Campagna crowned with snow - Moved her and touched, she knew not why nor how. - The solemn beauty of the world; the fate - Of all things living, vast and inchoate - Yet clothed with flowers; the soul's eternal dream - Of something still beyond; the passionate whim - Of every noble mind for something good, - Which should assuage its hunger with new food; - The thrill of hope, the pulse of happiness, - The vague half-conscious longing of the eyes-- - All these appealed to her, and seemed to lie - In form and substance under the blue sky, - Filling the shadows of the Sabine Hills - As with a presence, till her natural ills, - Transfigured through a happy mist of tears, - Gave place to hopes yet hardly dreamed as hers. - And still Lord L. talked calmly on, and she - Listened as to the voice of prophecy, - Nursing the pressure which the Prince's hand - Had left in hers, nor cared to understand. - - From this day forth, I say, a tender mood - Possessed them both scarce conscious and unwooed, - Even in the Prince, her elder and a man. - At least Griselda had no thought nor plan - Beyond the pleasure of a friendship dear - To all alike, Lord L., the Prince, and her: - No plan but that the day would be more sweet, - More full of meaning, if they chanced to meet; - And this chanced every day. The Prince was kind - Beyond all kindness, and Lord L. could find - No words to speak his thanks he thus should be - The cicerone of their company. - - And where a better? Belgirate's lore - In all things Roman was in truth a store - From which to steal. At her Gamaliel's knees - Griselda sat and learned Rome's mysteries - With all the zeal of a disciple young - And strange to genius and a pleading tongue. - The Prince was eloquent. His theme was high, - One which had taught less vigorous wings to fly, - The world of other days, the Pagan Rome, - The scarce less Pagan Rome of Christendom. - On these the Prince spoke warmly much and well, - Holding Griselda's patient ears in spell, - Yet broke off smiling when he met her eye - Fixed on his face in its mute sympathy: - A smile which was a question, an appeal, - And seemed to ask the meaning of her zeal. - He did not understand her quite. He saw - Something beyond, unfixed by any law - Of woman's nature his experience knew: - He knew not what to hold or hope as true. - For she was young and sad and beautiful, - A very woman with a woman's soul. - She had so strange a pathos in her eyes, - A tone so deep, such echoes in her voice. - What was this Roman Hecuba to her? - This prate of consul, pontiff, emperor? - These broken symbols of forgotten pride? - These ashes of old fame by fame denied? - What were these stones to her that she should weep, - Or spend her passion on a cause less deep - Than her own joys and sorrows? Was it love, - Or what thing else had such a power to move? - If there was meaning in red lips! And yet - 'Twere rank impiety to think of it. - An Italian woman--yes. But she? Who knew - What English virtue dared yet dared not do? - - This was the thought which lent its mockery - To the more tender omen of his eye, - And checked the pride and chilled the vague desire - Her beauty half had kindled into fire. - Yet hope was born and struggled to more life, - A puny infant with its fears at strife, - An unacknowledged hidden bastard child, - Too fair to crush, too wise to be beguiled; - Even Griselda's prudery confessed - A star of Bethlehem risen in her East. - - And thus the winter passed in happiness - If not in love. I leave to each to guess - What name 'twere best to give it, for to some - Who judge such things by simple rule of thumb, - 'Twill seem impossible they thus should meet - Day after day in palace, temple, street, - Beneath the sun of heaven or in the shade - Of those old gardens by the cypress made, - Or on their horses drinking in the wind - Of the Campagna, and with care behind, - Left to take vengeance upon poor Lord L., - Some furlongs back a solemn sentinel, - Or in the twilight slowly stealing home - Towards the hundred cupolas of Rome, - To greet the new-born moon and so repeat - Old Tuscan ditties, tender, wise, and sweet, - To the light clatter of their horse-hoof's chime - In echoing answer of their terza-rhyme-- - 'Twill seem, I say, to some impossible - That all this was not love. Yet, sooth to tell, - Easter had come and gone, and yet 'twas true - No word of love had passed between the two. - - The fact is, after the first halcyon hour - When she had met the Prince and proved his power - To move her inmost soul, Griselda made - This compact with her heart no less than head, - Being a woman of much logic sense, - And knowing all, at least by inference: - She was resolved that, come what evil might - On her poor heart, the right should still be right, - And not a hair's-breadth would she swerve from this, - Though it should cost her soul its happiness. - She would not trifle longer, nor provide - The Prince with pretext for his further pride, - Or grant more favour than a friendship given - Once and for all, in this world as in heaven. - This she indeed could offer, but, if more - Were asked, why then, alas! her dream was o'er. - I think no actual covenant had passed - In words between them either first or last, - But that the Prince, though puzzled and perplexed, - Had drawn a just conclusion from his text, - And read her meaning, while the hazard made, - Of certain idle words at random said, - Had sapped his confidence, and served to show - If speech were wise, 'twas wiser to forego. - - Once too he wrote a sonnet. They had spent - An afternoon (it was in early Lent) - At that fair angle of the city wall - Which is the English place of burial, - A poet's pilgrimage to Shelley's tomb,-- - The holiest spot, Griselda thought, in Rome,-- - A place to worship in, perhaps to pray, - At least to meditate and spend the day. - - She had brought her friend with her. She had at heart - To win his homage for the unknown art - Of this dead alien priest of Italy, - This lover of the earth, and sea, and sky; - And, reading there and talking in that mood - Which comes of happiness and youthful blood - So near akin to sorrow, their discourse - Had touched on human change and pain's remorse - Amid the eternal greenness of the spring; - And, when they came to part, there had seemed to ring - A note of trouble in Griselda's voice, - A sigh as if in grief for human joys, - An echo of unspoken tenderness, - Which caused the Prince to hold her hand in his - One little moment longer than was right, - When they had shaken hands and bid good night. - - And so he wrote that evening on the spur - Of the first tender impulse of the hour - A sonnet to Griselda, a farewell - It seemed to be, yet also an appeal-- - Perhaps a declaration; who shall say - Whether the thought which lightened into day, - Between the sorrowing accents of each line, - Was more despair or hope which asked a sign? - - "Farewell," it said, "although nor seas divide - Nor kingdoms separate, but a single street, - The sole sad gap between us, scarce too wide - For hands to cross, and though we needs must meet - Not in a year, a month, but just to-morrow, - When the first happy instinct of our feet - Bears us together,--yet we part in sorrow, - Bidding good-bye, as though we would repeat - Good-byes for ever. There are gulfs that yawn - Between us wide with time and circumstance, - Deep as the gulf which lies 'twixt dead and dead. - The day of promise finds no second dawn: - See, while I speak, the pressure of our hands - Fades slowly from remembrance, and is fled, - And our weak hearts accept their fate. Nay, nay, - We meet again, but never as to-day." - - To this Griselda answered nothing. She - Was pleased, yet disconcerted. Poetry - Is always pleasant to a woman's ear, - And to Griselda had been doubly dear, - If it had touched less nearly. But her heart - Had bounded with too violent a start - To leave her certain of her self-control, - In this new joy which seemed to probe her soul. - And feeling frightened she had tried to find - A reason for the tumult of her mind - In being angry. He should not have dared - To strike so near the truth. Or had she bared - Her soul so plain to his that he should speak - Of both as an eye-witness? She felt weak - And out of temper with herself and him, - And with the sudden waking from a dream - Too long indulged, and with her own sad fate, - Which made all dreams a crime against the State. - There yawned indeed a gulf between them. This - It needed no such word as had been his - To bring back to her memory or show - How wide it was, and deep, and far below; - And yet she shuddered, for already thought - Had led her to the brink where reason fought - With folly, and conjured it to look down - Into the vast and terrible unknown. - This was itself an omen. - - All that day - Griselda had a headache, and said nay - To those who called, the Prince among the rest, - Who came distrusting and returned distressed. - Awhile this humour lasted. Then they met, - And Belgirate, venturing a regret - For having vexed her with so poor a rhyme, - Griselda had protested want of time - And want of talent as her sole excuse - For having made no answer to his Muse, - Yet cast withal a look so pitiful - Upon his face it moved his very soul. - This closed the incident. He might have spoken - Perhaps that instant, and received some token - Of more than a forgiveness. But his fate - Had willed it otherwise or willed too late. - For love forgives not, plead it as we may - To speak the unspoken "Yes" of yesterday. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - - Who has not seen the falls of Tivoli, - The rocks, the foam-white water, and the three - Fair ruined temples which adorn the hill? - Who has not sat and listened to the shrill - Sweet melody of blackbirds, and the roar - Of Anio's voice rebounding from the shore, - Nor would have given his very soul to greet - Some passing vision of a white nymph's feet, - And weaving arms, as the wild chasm's spray - Beat on his face, for ever answering "Nay?" - Who has not turned away with sadder face, - Abashed before the genius of the place, - A wiser man, and owned upon his knees, - The dull transmontane Goth and boor he is? - Who that was born to feel? - - What sons of clay - Are these that stand among your shrines to-day, - Gods of the ancient rivers! and who set - The heavy impress of barbarian feet - Upon your classic shores, and dare to love - Your ruined homes in temple, rock, and grove! - What new rude sons of Japhet! What mad crew, - Whose only creed is what it dares to do - Through lack of knowledge, whose undoubting heart, - Here in the very temples of old art, - Brings out its little tribute, builds its shrines, - Wreathes its sad garlands of untutored lines, - Writes, paints, professes, sculptures its new gods, - And dares to have its home in your abodes! - - Oh, if I had a soul oppressed with song, - A tongue on fire to prophesy among - My brother prophets, if I had a hand - Which needs must write its legend on life's sand - With brush or chisel, I at least would choose - Some soil less fair, less sacred to the Muse, - Some younger, wilder land, where no sad voice - Had ever stammered forth its tale of joys, - And loves and sorrows, or in tones less rude - Than the brute pulsing of its human blood; - If I would build a temple, it should be - At least not here, not here in Italy, - Where all these temples stand. My thought should shape - Its fancies in rough granite on some cape - O'erlooking the Atlantic, from whose foam - No goddess ever leaped, and not in Rome, - Beneath the mockery of immortal eyes, - Gazing in marble down, so coldly wise! - - Such was Griselda's thought, which, half aloud, - She uttered one May morning 'mid a crowd - Of pleasure-seekers, come from Rome to see - The wonder of these falls of Tivoli, - And Belgirate's villa, where the Prince - Was offering entertainment (for his sins), - And dancing to all such as called him friend - That Spring in Rome, now nearly at an end;-- - A thought suggested by the place and by - A German painter, who undauntedly - Was plying a huge canvas just begun, - With brush and palette seated in the sun. - She had hardly meant to speak, and when Lord L. - Objected (for he knew his classics well) - That landscape-painting was an unknown trade - In the days of Horace, blushed for her tirade, - And turned to Belgirate, who stood near, - Playing the host to all the world and her. - - The Prince appealed to, though his care was less - With what was spoken than the speaker's face, - Took up the parable, confessed the truth - Of all each ventured, and agreed with both. - Nature, he said, and art, though now allied, - Had not in all times thus walked side by side. - Indeed the love of Nature, now so real, - Was alien to the love of the ideal, - The classic love which claimed as though of need - Some living presence for each fountain-head, - Each grove, each cavern, satyr, nymph, or god, - A human shape unseen yet understood. - This was the thought which lived in ancient art, - Eschewing the waste places of the heart, - And only on compulsion brought to face - Brute Nature's aspect in its nakedness. - Nature as Nature was a thought too rude - For these, untempered in its solitude. - It had no counterpart in our new love - Of mountain, sea and forest. Then, each grove - Asked for its statue, each perennial spring - Its fountain. Solitude itself must bring - Its echo. Every mountain top of Greece - Beheld fair temples rise. A law of peace - Reigned over art in protest at the mood - Of social life which drenched the world in blood. - All now had been reversed. Our modern creed - Scouted the law that men were born to bleed. - It turned from human nature, if untaught, - And wrought mankind, perhaps and overwrought - Into trim shapes, and then for its relief - Rushed to the wilderness to vent its grief - In lonely passion. Here it neither sought - Nor found a presence which it needed not. - It chose wild hills and barren seas. It saw - Beauty in tumult, in revolt a law. - Here it gave reins to its brute instincts. Here - It owned no god, no guide, no arbiter. - Its soul it must avenge of discipline, - And Nature had gone naked from the shrine. - This was its consolation. - - Of the score - Who stood around him and who praised his lore, - Perhaps no single listener understood - The thought which underlay the Prince's mood, - Or guessed its bitterness--not even she - Who lent the moral to his mockery. - Yet she was moved. In her too was a need - Of consolation for too fair a creed, - An impulse of rebellion. In her blood - There lived a germ of Nature unsubdued, - Which would not be appeased. She too had sought - A refuge from the tyranny of thought - In the brute impulses of sea and plain - And cloud and forest far from haunts of men. - A vain mad search. The fetters of her pride - Galled her like sores. Griselda turned and sighed. - - That evening on the terrace, vaguely lit - With paper lanterns and the infinite - Display of those fair natural lamps, the stars, - And 'neath the influence of the planet Mars - Or Venus or another--which it was - We best may judge by that which came to pass-- - The Prince essayed his fortune. - - From the hour - Of their first flash of eloquence, some power, - Some most persistent and ingenious fate - Of idle tongues had held them separate, - Griselda and the Prince--him in his part - Of host, with cares not wholly of the heart - Demanding his attention, while on her - Friends fastened more than dull and less than dear. - In vain they stopped, and loitered, and went on, - Leaving no trick untried, unturned no stone; - In vain they waited. Still their hope deferred - Failed of its object, one consoling word, - One little sigh as of relief thus given: - "Well, they are gone at last, and thanked be Heaven." - But hour on hour went by, and accident - Seemed still at pains to frustrate their intent, - Piling up grief for them and poor Lord L., - On whom, in fault of foes, their vengeance fell. - 'Twas worst for her. She knew not whom to strike, - Lord L., her friends, the Prince--'twas now alike. - She had lost in fact her temper, if I dare - Thus speak of one so wise and one so fair, - And to the point that now there was no room - For other thought, but L. should take her home, - Away and speedily. - - The Prince, who knew - No word of what a storm Fate held in brew, - And who had sought, in innocence of all, - Griselda's hand to lead the opening ball, - And sought in vain, now found, to his despair, - My lady cloaked and standing on the stair. - She was alone. "Lord L. had gone," she said, - "To bid the Prince good night. Her foolish head - Had played her false, and ached with the new heat - Of the May sun (even L. complained of it). - They must be home betimes. Next day was Sunday, - And they had much to do 'twixt that and Monday, - In view of their departure." "Whither? whence? - In Heaven's name," exclaimed the astounded Prince. - "Why, home to England, she had thought he knew: - She must have told him. L. was more than due - In London, where his place in Parliament - Required his presence. He had missed the Lent, - And dared not miss the Easter session. She - Thought he was right, altho',"--and suddenly - She burst in tears. The Prince, in dire distress, - Besought her to be calm. But she, with face - Hid in both hands, and turning from the light, - Broke from his arms, and rushed into the night. - Across the hall, beneath the portico, - And down the steps she fled, to where below - The garden lay all dim with starlit shade, - And the white glimmer of the main façade. - Here Belgirate found her on a seat, - Crouched in an angle of the parapet, - And sobbing as in terror. His surprise - Was changed to resolution. To his eyes - The world became transfigured. "Lady L.," - He whispered, "what is this? You love me? Well, - Why do you weep?" - - He took her hands in his - And pressed them to his lips; and at the kiss - Griselda started from the heap she was - And sat upright, with pale pathetic face - Turned to the night. By the dim starlight he - Beheld, half-awed and half in ecstasy, - The strange emotion of her countenance. - She made no gesture to withdraw her hands, - No sign of disagreement with his words. - Her eyes looked scared and troubled like a bird's - Caught in a net, and seemed to ask of Fate - Where the next blow should fall. 'Twas thus she sat - Speechless, inanimate, nor seemed to breathe. - The Prince could hear the chattering of her teeth, - And feel her shiver in the warm night wind,-- - And yet its touch was hardly thus unkind. - - He too, poor soul, in hope and tenderness, - Still kissed her hands, and kissed her gloves and dress, - And kneeling at her feet embraced her knees - With soothing arms and soft cajoleries. - She dared not turn nor speak. The balustrade - Served as a pretext for her with its shade - Hiding his face. She would not seem to guess - All that his fondness asked of her distress: - A word might break the spell. She only knew - She was a poor sad woman, doomed to do - Sorrow to all who loved her, that the Prince - Had spoken truly, and her long pretence - Of innocence was o'er. She scorned to make - An idle protest now for honour's sake. - He had a right to ask for what he would - Now that she loved him, and her womanhood - Reserved one tearful right, and only one, - To hide her face an instant and be gone. - - How long they sat thus silent who shall say? - Griselda knew not. Time was far away; - She wanted courage to prepare her heart - For that last bitterest word of all, "We part;" - And he cared naught for time: his heaven was there, - Nor needed thought, nor speech, nor even prayer. - - A sound of music roused them. From the house - Voices broke in and strains tumultuous, - Proving the dance begun. Then with a sigh - Griselda turned her head, and piteously - Looked in his face. She moved as if to go, - And when he held her still, "For pity, no, - Let me be gone," she cried. "I ask it thus," - Clasping her hands. "You will not? No! alas! - You must not doubt me when I speak the truth; - This is a great misfortune for us both." - "Griselda," he began. "Oh, stop," she said, - "You know not what you ask." She bent her head - Close to his own. "I am not what I seem, - A woman to be loved, not even by him - Whom I might choose to worship. Mine must be - An unfinished life, not quite a tragedy, - Even to my friends, an idle aimless life, - Not worth an argument, still less a strife. - You must forget, forgive me. We were friends, - Friends still perhaps; but, oh! this first day ends - Our love for ever. What you said was true, - Only I never guessed it." - - The Prince knew - That she was weeping, and a single sob - Broke from her lips. She seemed her wounds to probe. - "Yes, I have loved you, loved you from the first, - The day we met at Terni, when you burst - Like sunshine on the storm of my dark life-- - You, wise and free--I, only the sad wife - Of one you called a friend. The fault was mine - And mine alone. In you there was no sin: - You stood too far from me, too high above - My woman's follies even to dream of love. - There, do not answer. You were kind to me, - Good, patient, wise--you could no other be-- - But, oh! you never loved me." - - Here again - The Prince broke in protesting (but in vain): - Her words were madness and his heart was hers. - She would not listen nor control her tears-- - "You never loved me. This one thought I hold - In consolation of my manifold - Deceits and errors. You at least are free - From all deceptions and remorse and me:-- - I cannot cause you sorrow, else it were - Indeed too pitiful, too hard to bear." - - She stooped and kissed his forehead reverently, - As one would kiss a relic; and when he - Still would have spoken, stopped him with a hand - Laid on his lips, half-prayer and half-command. - She would not let him speak. The prince, tho' mute, - Now pleaded with his hands and pressed his suit - With better eloquence, for this to her - Seemed less a crime than speech. Her ignorant fear - Had hardly fathomed yet the troubled sea - On which her lot was cast thus dangerously. - She only feared his words to prove him right; - And these caresses in the dim still night - Soothed and consoled her. They were too unreal, - Too strange to her experience, quite to feel - Or quite to question. She, with half-shut eyes, - And face averted, ceased to feel surprise, - And ceased to think. She was a child again, - Caressed and fondled. She forgot her pain, - And almost even his presence in the place. - He was too near and could not see her face. - Besides, Griselda loved him. Only once - She made a silent protest with her hands, - As one might make asleep, and in her dream - Opened her eyes, and seemed to question him - With the pathetic instinct as of doom. - The Prince in rapture judged his hour was come. - - Alas! poor Prince. If thou hadst had thy bliss, - I would not then have grudged thy happiness, - Thine nor Griselda's. Happiness is not - A merchandise men buy or leave unbought - And find again. It is a wild bird winging - Its way through heaven, in joyous circles ringing, - Aloft, at its own will. Then, e'er we wist, - It stooped and sat a moment on our wrist, - And fondled with our fingers, and made play - With jess and hood as if it meant to stay. - And we, if we were wise and fortunate, - And if the hour had been decreed of fate, - Seized the glad bird and held it in our hand, - And forced it to obey our least command, - Knowing that never more, if not made sure, - It would come again to voice, or sign, or lure. - - Oh, such is happiness. That night for them - Fate stood, a genius, suppliant and tame, - Demanding to do service. Had they willed, - The treasure-house of heaven had been unfilled - And emptied in their lap. They too, even they, - Mere mortals born, inheritors of clay, - Had known eternal life, and been as gods, - Only the will between them was at odds, - Only the word was wanting. - - What one thing - It was that frightened Fate to taking wing, - And scared for ever the celestial bird, - And left them desolate, if I have heard - I do not now remember, nor would say - Even if I knew. 'Twas told me not to-day - Nor yesterday, but in a time long since, - By one of the two who knew, in confidence, - And then not quite perhaps the utter truth-- - Whoever tells it? But there came to both - A moment when, as Belgirate knew, - There was no further power to plead or sue: - They had played with Fate too long. Their hour was over; - She was no more his love nor he her lover. - His courage was exhausted. One by one - His fingers, which still held Griselda's gown, - Relaxed their hold. His hands dropped by his side, - His head upon his bosom, and the pride, - Which was the reason of his being, quailed. - Grief in that hour and tenderness prevailed, - And tears rushed to his eyes, long strangers there, - And to his lips, Italian-like, a prayer, - While he lay prostrate, his face turned from heaven, - Under the stars. - - The tower clock struck eleven - And roused him. He had neither heard nor known - Griselda's going, but he was alone. - - * * * * * - - And she? Griselda? In a whirl of grief, - Tortured, distracted, hopeless of relief, - And careless now what eye should see her tears, - Whom none could mock with bitterer jibes than hers, - And speechless to all question of her lord, - Who sought to learn what portent had occurred, - And still reverted to the theme begun - Of Roman fever and the Roman sun; - She was driven back to Rome. Two days her door - Was shut to all the world, both rich and poor, - And on the third she went to Ostia, - Pleading a wild desire to see the sea. - - The sea! What virtue is there in the sea - That it consoles us thus in misery? - In joy we do not love it, and our bliss - Scoffs at its tears and scorns its barrenness. - Our pride of life is in the fruitful Earth, - The mother of all joy, which gave us birth, - The Earth so touching in its hopes to be, - So green, so tender in its sympathy. - But when life turns to bitterness--ah! then, - Where is Earth's message to the sons of men? - How does she speak? What sound of grief is hers - To match our grief? What tale of pity stirs - Her jubilant heart? The laughing woods give back - Naught of their happiness to those who lack. - The beauty of the uplands bars relief, - The prosperous fields are insolent to grief; - There is no comfort in the lowing herds, - The hum of bees, the songs, the shouts of birds; - There is no sob in all the living earth, - Naught but the flutter of discordant mirth, - On which, as on a pageant, morn and even - The careless sun shines mockingly from heaven. - There is no grief in all the world save one, - The ocean's voice, as tearful as our own. - Then from the Earth we turn--too potent mother, - Too joyous in her offspring--to that other, - The childless, joyless, unproductive Sea, - And mourn with her her dread virginity. - We clasp her naked rocks with our two hands, - Barefoot we tread her barren waste of sands, - Her breadths of shingle and her treeless shore, - Knowing her griefs are as our griefs, and more, - An eternal lack of love. - - 'Twas in this guise - Griselda cradled her soul's miseries, - And nursed it in its anguish like a child, - And soothed it to oblivion. The sea smiled - With its eternal smile upon her sorrow, - The selfsame yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, - And kept its tears in its own bosom sealed, - A mystery of passion unrevealed, - Save in the tremor of its voice at noon, - When the wind rose and played wild chords thereon. - So she. - - The memory of that place long stood - In her remembrance as a dream of good, - Dividing life as sleep divides the day, - A place of utter weakness. Let those say - Who will, that deeds of strength life's milestones are. - The dearest days are not the days of war, - And victory is forgotten in the peace - Of certain hours gone by in helplessness, - When the soul ceased to battle, and lay still - As on a deathbed dumb to good and ill. - These are its treasures. - - Nor was silence all - Griselda's ointment. Hard by the sea-wall, - Where daily her steps turned fresh peace to find, - A convent stood, inviting to the mind. - Here she found entrance at the chapel gate, - And knelt in prayer half-inarticulate, - Bowed to the earth. For patron saints it had - The Marys three--"two virtuous, and one bad," - Griselda thought, "like her own self"--who came - In flight together from Jerusalem, - And landed there; and these in her great need, - She suppliant asked for her soul's daily bread, - Using all fondest words her lips could frame, - To speak her secret wishes without blame. - Six candlesticks she vowed, to each a pair, - So they would listen to and grant her prayer. - The superstition pleased her. In her pride - She bowed and begged like any peasant's bride, - For what? for whom? she hardly could explain - Even to her, the dear St. Magdalen. - "And yet," she argued, "she at least will know - And understand me if no other do." - - All this was folly, but it comforted - And gave her strength. Then with a calmer head, - If not a calmer heart, she turned once more - From love to life. Her first strong grief was o'er. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - - How shall I take up this vain parable - And ravel out its issue? Heaven and hell, - The principles of good and evil thought, - Embodied in our lives, have blindly fought - Too long for empire in my soul to leave - Much for its utterance, much that it can grieve. - A soldier on the battlefield of life, - I have grown callous to the signs of strife, - And feel the wounds of others and my own - With scarce a tremor and without a groan. - I have seen many perish in their sins, - Known much of frailty and inconsequence, - And if I laughed once, now I dare not be - Other than sad at man's insanity. - Therefore, in all humility of years, - Colder and wiser for hopes drowned in tears, - And seeking no more quarries for my mirth, - Who most need pity of the sons of earth, - I dip in kindlier ink my chastened pen, - And fill of my lost tale what leaves remain. - - Years passed. Griselda from my wandering sight - Had waned and vanished, like a meteor bright, - Leaving no pathway in my manhood's heaven, - Save only memories vaguely unforgiven - Of something fair and sad, which for a day - Had lit its zenith and had gone its way. - Rome and the Prince, the tale that I had heard, - Griselda's beauty--all that once had stirred - My curious thought to wonder and regret, - In the vexed problem of her woman's fate, - Had yielded place to the world's work-day cares, - The wealth it covets and the toil it dares. - I was no more a boy, when idle chance - And that light favour which attends romance - Brought me once more within the transient spell - Of other days, and dreams of Lady L. - - 'Twas in September (I have always found - That month in my life's record dangerous ground, - Whether it be due to some unreasoned stress - Of the mad stars which dog our happiness, - Or whether--since in truth most things are due - To natural causes, if our blindness knew-- - To the strong law of Nature's first decay, - Warning betimes of time that cannot stay, - And summer perishing, and hours to come, - Lit by less hope in the year's martyrdom; - And so we needs must seize at any cost - Fleet pleasure's hem lest all our day be lost) - 'Twas in September, at a country house - In the Midland shires, where I had come, God knows, - Without a thought but of such joyous sort - As manhood ventures in the realms of sport - With that dear god of slaughter England's sons - Adore with incense-smoke and roar of guns, - That this new chapter opens. Who had guessed - So rare a phoenix housed in such a nest? - - For we, in truth, were no wise company, - Men strong and joyous, keen of hand and eye, - And shrewd for pleasure, but whose subtlest wit - Was still to jest at life while using it, - And jest at love, as at a fruit low hung - To all men's lips, no matter whence it sprung. - A fool's philosophy, yet dear to youth - Bred without knowledge of the nobler truth, - And seeming wisdom, till the bitter taste - Of grief has come to cure its overhaste. - Naught was there, in the scene nor in the parts - Played by the actors, worthy serious hearts, - Or worthy her whose passion trod a stage - High o'er the frailties of our prurient age, - Griselda and her unattained fair dream - Of noble deeds and griefs unknown to them. - How came she there? - - Our hostess was a woman - Less famed for wisdom than a heart all human, - Rich in life's gifts, a wealthy generous soul, - But still too fair and still too bountiful. - The rest, mad hoydens of the world, whose worth - Lay mired with folly, earthiest of the earth. - How came she there? - - When I, unconscious all - Of such high presence at our festival, - Heard her name bandied in the general hum - Of hungry tongues, which told the guests had come, - And saw in converse with our host the form, - Familiar once in sunshine and in storm, - Of her who was to me the type and sign - Of all things noble, not to say Divine, - Breathing the atmosphere of that vain house, - My heart stopped beating. Half incredulous, - I looked and questioned in my neighbours' eyes, - Seeking the sense of this supreme surprise. - My thought took words, as at the table set - Men's lips were loosed, discoursing while they ate, - And each to each. - - Beside me, of the crew - Of gilded youths who swelled the retinue - Of our fair hostess in her daily lot - Of hunting laughter when field sports were not, - Sat one, a joyous boy, whom fashion's freak, - A mad-cap courage and a beardless cheek, - Had set pre-eminent in pleasure's school - To play the hero and to play the fool - For those few years which are the summer's day - Of fashion's foils ere they are cast away. - Young Jerry Manton! Happy fortune's son, - What heights of vanity your creed had won, - Creed of adventure, and untiring words - And songs and loves as brainless as a bird's. - Who would not envy you your lack of sense, - Your lawless jibes, your wealth of insolence, - The glory of your triumphs unconcealed - In pleasure's inmost and most sacred field! - Who would not share the sunshine of your mirth, - Your god-like smile, your consciousness of worth, - The keenness of your wit in the world's ways, - Your heart so callous to its blame or praise! - Him I addressed, in pursuance of my doubt - How such a prodigy had come about. - - Young Manton eyed me. "Every road," he said, - "Leads--well--to Rome." He laughed and shook his head, - As if in censure of a thought less sage. - "My lady's thirty is a dangerous age, - And of the three where most misfortunes come - Is the worst strewn with wrecks in Christendom." - "You see," he added, "we are not all wise - In all dilemmas and all companies, - And there are times and seasons when the best - Has need of an hour's frolic with the rest, - If only to set free the importunate load - Of trouble pressing on an uphill road. - Women's first snare is vanity. At twenty - Praises are pleasant, be they ne'er so plenty; - And some, the foolish ones, are thus soon caught - Seeking to justify the flattery taught. - These are the spendthrifts, dear ingenuous souls, - Whose names emblazoned stand on pleasure's rolls, - Manning the hosts of mirth. Apart from them, - More serious or less eager in their aim, - The wise ones wait like birds that hold aloof, - Conscious of danger and the cloven hoof. - Yet there are times." - - He paused awhile and sighed. - "The second snare," said he, "is set less wide; - It stands midway between the dawn of youth - And beauty's sunset, with its naked truth, - A danger hidden cunningly in flowers, - And the wild drowsing of the noontide hours. - Here fall the elect, the chosen virtuous few, - Who have outlived the worst the storm could do, - But faint when it is over, through mere stress - Of their mortality's first weariness. - 'Tis hard to see youth perish, even when - Ourselves to the mad warrant have set pen; - And for the wisest there are days of grief - And secret doubts and hours of unbelief - In all things but the one forbidden bliss - Churchmen forbid, and poets call a kiss. - Why should we wonder? 'Tis a kindlier fate - At least than that, the last, which comes too late, - The old fool's folly nursed at forty-five. - Griselda is an angel, but alive, - Believe me, to her wings." A fatuous flush - Mantled his face, not quite perhaps a blush, - But something conscious, as of one who knows. - "Virtue and pleasure are not always foes," - He sighed. "And much depends upon the man." - - I turned impatient. There, behind her fan, - At the far table's end, Griselda's eyes - Were watching us, half hid by its disguise, - But conscious too, as if a secret string - Had vibrated 'twixt her and that vain thing, - The cynic boy, whose word was in my ear, - Dishonouring to me and him and her. - Our eyes met, and hers fell; a sudden pain - Touched me of memory, and in every vein - Ran jealous anger at young Manton's wit, - While, half aloud, I flung my curse on it. - - Later, I found Griselda gravely gay, - And glad to see me in the accustomed way - Of half affection my long zeal had won, - Her face no older, though the years had spun - Some threads unnoticed in her fair brown hair - Of lighter hue than I remembered there, - Less silver streaked than gold. All else had grown - Fairer with time, and tenderer in its tone, - As when in August woods a second burst - Of leaves is seen more golden than the first. - A woman truly to be loved--but loving? - There was the riddle wit despaired of proving, - For who can read the stars? I sat with her - The evening through, and rose up happier: - In all that crowd there was no single face - Worthy her notice, not to say her grace, - And once again her charm was on my soul. - "If she love any"--this was still the goal - Of my night thoughts in argument with fear-- - "Say what they will, the lover is not here." - Not here! And yet, at parting, she had pressed - Manton's sole hand, and nodded to the rest. - - Four days I lived in my fool's paradise, - Importuning Griselda's changing eyes - With idle flattery. I found her mood - Softer than once in her young womanhood, - Yet restless and uncertain. There were hours - Of a wild gaiety, when all the powers - Of her keen mind were in revolt with folly, - Others bedimmed with wordless melancholy. - Once too or twice she shocked me with a phrase - Of doubtful sense, revealing thoughts and ways - New to her past, an echo of the noise - Of that mad world we lived in and its joys: - Such things were sacrilege. I could not see - Unmoved my angel smirched with vanity, - Even though, it seemed at moments, for my sake. - Her laughter, when she laughed, made my heart ache, - And I had spared some pain to see her sad - Rather than thus unseasonably glad. - - Who would have dreamed it? Each new idle day, - When, tired with sport, we rested from the fray, - Five jovial shooters, jaded by the sun, - Seeking refreshment at the stroke of noon,-- - There, with the luncheon carts all trimly dight, - Stood Lady L., to the fool crowd's delight. - You would have thought her life had always been - Passed in the stubbles, as, with questions keen, - She eyed the bags and parleyed with the "guns;" - Rome's matron she with us the Goths and Huns. - Young Manton proudly spread for her his coat - Under a hedge, and she resented not. - Resented! Why resent? Nay, smiles were there. - And a swift look of pleasure, still more rare, - Pleasure and gratitude, as though the act - Had been of chivalry in form and fact - Transcending Raleigh's. Ay, indeed! Resent! - That eye were blind which doubted what it meant. - - And still I doubted. Vanity dies hard. - And love, however starving of reward, - And youth's creed of belief. It seemed a thing - Monstrous, impossible, bewildering, - As tales of dwarfs and giants gravely told - By men of science, and transmuted gold, - And magic potions turning men to beasts, - And lewd witch Sabbaths danced by unfrocked priests. - Griselda! Manton! In what mood or tense - Could folly conjugate such dreams to sense, - Or draw the contract not in terms absurd - Of such a friendship or of act or word? - Where was the common thought between the two-- - Even of partridges--the other knew? - Manton--Griselda! Nay 'twere fabulous, - A mere profanity, to argue thus; - Only I watched them closer when they strayed - To gather blackberries, as boy and maid - In a first courting, and her eager eyes - Turned as he spoke, and laughter came unwise - Before she answered, and an hour was flown, - Before he joined the rest and she was gone. - - O Love! what an absurdity thou art, - How heedless of proportion, whole or part! - Time, place, occasion, what are they to thee? - Thou playest the wanton with Solemnity, - The prince with Poverty, the rogue with Worth, - The fool with all the Wisdoms of the Earth. - Thou art a leveller, more renowned than Death, - For he, when in his rage he stops our breath, - Leaves us at least the harvest of our years, - The right to be heroic in our tears. - But thou dost only mock. Thou art a king - Dealing with slaves, who waits no questioning, - But gives--to this a province and a crown, - To that a beggar's staff and spangled gown; - And when some weep their undeserved disgrace, - Plucks at their cheeks and smites them in the face. - Thou hast no reverence, no respect for right. - Virtue to thee is a lewd appetite, - Remorse a pastime, modesty a lure, - And love, the malady, love's only cure. - - Griselda, in her love at thirty-three, - Was the supreme fool of felicity. - Reason and she had taken separate roads, - A spectacle of mirth for men and gods. - And the world laughed--discreetly in its sleeves-- - At her poor artless shifts and make-believes. - For it was true, true to the very text, - This whispered thing that had my soul perplexed, - Manton was her beloved--by what art, - What mute equation of the human heart, - What blind jibe of dame Fortune, who shall say? - The road of passion is no king's highway, - Mapped out with finger-posts for all to see, - But each soul journeys on it separately, - And only those who have walked its mazes through - Remember on what paths the wild flowers grew. - - Ay, who shall say? Nor had the truth been sung, - Save for the incontinence of Manton's tongue, - Wagging in argument on certain themes, - With boast of craft in pleasure's stratagems. - "For Love" ('twas thus he made his parable - In cynic phrase, as hero of his tale, - One evening when the others were abed, - And we two sat on smoking, head to head, - Discoursing in that tone of men scarce friends, - Who prate philosophy to candle ends), - "Love, though its laws have not as yet been written - By any Balzac for our modern Britain, - And though perhaps there is no strategy - Youth can quite count upon or argue by, - Is none the less an art, with some few rules - Wise men observe, who would outrun the fools. - Now, for myself" (here Manton spread his hands - With professorial wave in white wrist-bands) - "I hold it as a maxim always wise - In making love to deal with contraries. - Colours, books tell us, to be strongly blent, - Need opposite colours for their complement, - And so too women whose ill-reasoning mind - Requires some contradiction to be kind." - - "It is not enough in this late year of grace - To answer fools with their own foolishness-- - Rather with your best wisdom. You will need - Your folly to perplex some wiser head. - And so my maxim is, whatever least - Women expect, that thing will serve you best. - Thus, with young souls in their first unfledged years, - Ask their opinion as philosophers: - Consult their knowledge in the ways of life. - The repute of sin will please a too chaste wife. - Your deference keep for harlots: these you touch - Best by your modesty, which makes them blush. - With a proud beauty deal out insolence, - And bear her fence down with a stronger fence. - She will be angry, but a softer cheek - Turn to the smiter who has proved her weak. - And so with wisdom: meet it with surprise, - Laugh at it idly gazing in its eyes, - Leave it no solid ground for its fair feet, - And lead it lightly where love's waters meet. - Even virtue--virtue of the noblest type, - The fair sad woman, whose romance is ripe, - Needs but a little knowledge to be led, - Perhaps less than the rest if truth be said. - You must not parley with her. Words are vain, - And you might wake some half forgotten pain. - Avoid her soul. It is a place too strong - For your assaulting, and a siege were long. - Others have failed before it. Touch it not, - But march beyond, nor fire a single shot. - The fields of pleasure less defended lie: - These are your vantage-ground for victory. - Strike boldly for possession and command; - An hour may win it, if you hold her hand. - I knew one once:"... - - I would have stopped him here - But for the shame which held me prisoner; - And his undaunted reassuring smile, - Commanding confidence. "I knew once on a while," - He said, "a woman whom the world called proud, - A saintly soul, untouched by the vain crowd, - Who had survived all battle, siege, and sack, - Love ever led with armies at his back, - Yet fell at last to the mere accident - Of a chance meeting, for another meant: - Her lover had not dared it, had he known, - But faces in the dark are all as one. - You know the rhyme." - - But at this point I rose, - Fearing what worse his folly might disclose, - And having learned my lesson of romance, - A sadder man and wiser for the chance, - Bade him good night: (it was in truth good-bye, - For pretexting next morning some small lie - Of business calling me in haste to town, - I fled the house). He looked me up and down, - Yawned, rose to light his candle at the lamp, - Pressed with warm hand my own hand which was damp, - And as he sauntered cheerily to bed, - I heard him sing--they linger in my head-- - The first staves of a ballad, then the fashion - With the young bloods who shape their love and passion - At the music-halls of the Metropolis; - What I remember of the song was this: - - But, no, I cannot write it. There are things - Too bitter in their taste, and this one stings - My soul to a mad anger even yet. - I seem to hear the voices of the pit - Lewdly discoursing of incestuous scenes, - Bottom the weaver's and the enamoured queen's. - Alas, Titania! thou poor soul, alas! - How art thou fallen, and to what an ass! - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - - Griselda's madness lasted forty days, - Forty eternities! Men went their ways, - And suns arose and set, and women smiled, - And tongues wagged lightly in impeachment wild - Of Lady L.'s adventure. She was gone, - None knew by whom escorted or alone, - Or why or whither, only that one morning, - Without pretext or subterfuge or warning, - She had disappeared in silence from L. House, - Leaving her lord in multitudinous - And agonised conjecture of her fate: - So the tale went. And truly less sedate - Than his wont was in intricate affairs, - Such as his Garter or his lack of heirs, - Lord L. was seen in this new tribulation. - Griselda long had been his life's equation, - The pivot of his dealings with the world, - The mainstay of his comfort, all now hurled - To unforeseen confusion by her flight: - There was need of action swift and definite. - Where was she? Who could tell him? Divers visions - Passed through his fancy--thieves, and street collisions, - And all the hundred accidents of towns, - From broken axle trees to broken crowns. - In vain he questioned; no response was made - More than the fact that, as already said, - My lady, unattended and on foot, - (A sad imprudence here Lord L. took note), - Had gone out dressed in a black morning gown - And dark tweed waterproof, 'twixt twelve and one, - Leaving no orders to her maid, or plan - About her carriage to or groom or man. - Such was in sum the downstairs' evidence. - The hall porter, a man of ponderous sense, - Averred her ladyship had eastward turned - From the front door, and some small credit earned - For the suggestion that her steps were bent - To Whitechapel on merciful intent, - A visit of compassion to the poor, - A clue which led to a commissioner - Being sent for in hot haste from Scotland Yard. - And so the news was bruited abroad. - - It reached my ears among the earliest, - And from Lord L. himself, whose long suppressed - Emotion found its vent one afternoon - On me, the only listener left in town. - His thoughts now ran on "a religious craze - Of his poor wife's," he said, "in these last days - Indulged beyond all reason." The police - Would listen to no talk of casualties, - Still less of crime, since they had nothing found - In evidence above or under ground, - But held the case to be of simpler kind, - Home left in a disordered state of mind - Lord L. had noticed, now they talked of it, - Temper less equable and flightier wit, - "A craving for religious services - And sacred music." Something was amiss, - Or why were they in London in September? - Griselda latterly, he could remember, - Had raved of a conventual retreat - In terms no Protestant would deem discreet, - As the sole refuge in a world of sin - For human frailty, griefs best anodyne. - "The _Times_ was right. Rome threatened to absorb us: - The convents must be searched by _habeas corpus_." - - And so I came to help him. I had guessed - From his first word the vainness of his quest, - And half was moved to serve him in a strait - Where her fair fame I loved was in debate, - Yet held my peace, nor hazarded a word - Save of surprise at the strange case I heard, - Till, fortune aiding, I should find the clue - My heart desired to do what I would do. - And not in vain. Night found me duly sped, - Lord L.'s ambassador accredited, - With fullest powers to find and fetch her home, - If need should be, from the Pope's jaws in Rome. - - Gods! what a mission! First my round I went - Through half the slums of Middlesex and Kent, - Surrey and Essex--this to soothe Lord L., - Though witless all, as my heart told too well; - The hospitals no less and casual wards, - Each house as idly as his House of Lords, - And only at the week's end dared to stop - At the one door I knew still housing hope, - Young Manton's chambers. There, with reddened cheek - I heard the answer given I came to seek: - Manton was gone, his landlady half feared - He too, in some mishap, and disappeared,-- - Proof all too positive. His letters lay - A fortnight deep untouched upon the tray. - She could not forward them or risk a guess - As to his last or likeliest address. - He was in Scotland often at this season, - "But not without his guns"--a cogent reason, - And leaving, too, his valet here in town, - Perplexed of what to do or leave undone. - Abroad? Perhaps. If so, his friends might try - As a best chance the Paris Embassy. - He had been there last Spring, and might be now. - - Paris! It was enough, I made my bow, - And took my leave. I seemed to touch the thread - Of the blind labyrinth 'twas mine to tread. - Where should they be, in truth, these too fond lovers, - But in the land of all such lawless rovers: - The land of Gautier, Bourget, Maupassant, - Where still "you can" makes answer to "I can't:" - The fair domain where all romance begins - In a light borderland of venial sins, - But deepening onwards, till the fatal day - Vice swoops upon us, plead we as we may. - Griselda's bonnet o'er the windmills thrown, - Had surely crossed the Seine e'er it came down; - And I, if I would find and win her back, - Must earliest search the boulevards for her track: - And so to Paris in my zeal I passed, - Breaking my idol, mad Iconoclast. - - There is a little inn by Meudon wood - Dear to Parisians in their amorous mood, - A place of rendezvous, where bourgeois meet - Their best beloved in congregation sweet: - Clandestine, undisturbed, illicit loves, - Made half romantic by the adjoining groves, - So beautiful in spring, with the new green - Clothing the birch stems scattered white between, - Nor yet, in autumn, when the first frosts burn, - And the wind rustles in the reddening fern, - Quite robbed of sentiment for lovers' eyes, - Who seek earth's blessing on a bliss unwise, - And find the happy sanction for their state - In nature's face, unshocked by their debate, - As who should say "Let preachers frown their fill, - Here one approves. 'Tis Eden with us still." - - Such fancy, may be, in her too fond heart - Had led Griselda--with her friend--apart, - Yet not apart, from the world's curious gaze, - To this secluded, ill-frequented place: - A compromise of wills and varying moods, - His for gay crowds, her own for solitudes. - Manton knew Paris well, and loved its noise, - Its mirthful parody of serious joys, - Its pomp and circumstance. His wish had been - To flaunt the boulevards with his captured queen, - And make parade of a last triumph won - In the chaste field of prudish Albion, - Outscandalising scandal. Love and he - In any sense but of male vanity, - And the delirium of adventures new - In the world's eye--the thing he next should do-- - Were terms diverse and incompatible. - Griselda, to his eyes, was Lady L., - The fair, the chaste, the unapproached proud name - Men breathed in reverence, woman, all the same, - And not as such, and when the truth was said, - Worth more than others lightlier credited. - It all had been a jest from the beginning, - A _tour de force_, whose wit was in the winning, - A stroke of fortune and of accident, - The embrace he had told of for another meant, - While she stood grieving for a first grey hair - (A psychologic moment) on the stair, - And, kneeling down, he had adored her foot, - The one weak spot where her self-love had root, - And laughed at her, and told her she was old, - Yet growing tenderer as he grew more bold; - And so from jest to jest, and chance to chance, - To that last scene at the mad country dance - Where she had played the hoyden, he the swain, - Pretending love till love was in their brain, - And he had followed to her chamber door, - And helped her to undo the dress she wore. - - Then the elopement. That had been her doing, - Which he accepted to make good his wooing, - And careless what to both the result might be, - So it but served his end of vanity. - It all had been to this vain boy a whim, - Something grotesque, a play, a pantomime, - Where nothing had been serious but her heart, - And that was soon too tearful for its part. - He wearied in a week of her mature - Old maidish venturings in ways obscure, - Her agony of conscience dimly guessed, - The silences she stifled in her breast, - Her awkwardness--it was his word--in all - That love could teach; her sighs funereal, - And more the unnatural laughter she essayed - To meet the doubtful sense of things he said. - She was at once too tender and too prim, - Too prudish and too crazed with love and him. - At a month's end his flame had leaped beyond - Already to friends frailer and less fond, - The light Parisian world of venal charms - Which welcomed him with wide and laughing arms: - There he was happier, more at home, more gay, - King of the "high life," hero of the day. - - Griselda, in her sad suburban nook - Watched his departures with a mute rebuke, - Yet daring not to speak. The choice was hers - To stay at home or run the theatres - With her young lover in such company - As her soul loathed. She had tried despairingly - To be one, even as these, for his loved sake, - And would have followed spite of her heart's ache, - But that he hardly further cared to press, - After one failure, stamped with "dowdiness:" - That too had been his word, a bitter word, - Biting and true, which smote her like a sword, - Or rather a whip's sting to her proud cheek, - Leaving her humbled, agonised and weak. - - Poor beautiful Griselda! What was now - The value of thy beauty, chaste as snow - In thy youth's morning, the unchallenged worth - Of thy eyes' kindness, queenliest of the earth; - The tradition of thy Fra-angelic face, - Blessed as Mary's, and as full of grace; - The fame which thou despisedst, yet which made - A glory for thee meet for thy dear head? - What, if in this last crisis of thy fate, - When all a heaven and hell was in debate, - And thy archangel, with the feet of clay, - Stood mocking there in doubt to go or stay, - The unstable fabric of thy woman's dower, - Thy beauty, failed and left thee in _their_ power - Whose only law of beauty was the sting - Lent to man's lust by light bedizening? - What use was in thy beauty, if, alas! - Thou gavest them cause to mock--those tongues of brass-- - At thy too crude and insular attire, - Thy naïvetés of colour, the false fire - Of thy first dallyings with the red and white, - Thy sweet pictorial robes, Pre-Raphaelite, - Quaint in their tones and _outrées_ in design, - Thy lack of unity and shape and line, - Thy English angularity--who knows, - The less than perfect fitting of thy shoes? - - Griselda, in her flight, had left behind - All but the dress she stood in, too refined, - In her fair righteousness of thought and deed, - To make provision for a future need, - However dire. She was no Israelite - To go forth from her Pharaoh in the night, - With spoils of the Egyptians in her hands, - And had thrown herself on Manton and on France - With a full courage worth a nobler cause, - Grandly oblivious of prudential laws. - Her earliest trouble, marring even the bliss - Of love's first ecstasy, had come of this, - Her want of clothes--a worse and weightier care - At the mere moment than her soul's despair - For its deep fall from virtuous estate. - How should she dress herself, she asked of Fate, - With neither maid, nor money, nor a name? - It was her first experiment in shame. - Now, after all her poor economies, - This was the ending read in his vexed eyes, - And spoken by his lips: her utmost art - Had failed to please that idle thing, his heart, - Or even to avert his petulant scorn - For one so little to love's manner born. - - And thus I found them, at the angry noon - Of their "red month," the next to honeymoon: - Two silent revellers at a loveless feast, - Scared by hate's morning breaking in their east-- - A dawn which was of penance and despair, - With pleasure's ghost to fill the vacant chair. - I took it, and was welcomed rapturously, - As a far sail by shipwrecked souls at sea, - An opportune deliverer, timely sent - To break the autumn of their discontent, - And give a pretext to their need grown sore - Of issue from joys dead by any door. - - Manton, all confidential from the first, - Told me the tale of his last sins and worst, - As meriting a sympathy not less - Than the best actions virtuous men confess. - He was overwhelmed with women and with debt-- - Women who loved him, bills which must be met. - What could he do? Her ladyship was mad-- - It was her fault, not his, this escapade. - He had warned her from the first, and as a friend, - That all such frolics had a serious end, - And that to leave her home was the worst way - A woman would who wanted to be gay. - - "For look," said he, "we men, who note these things, - And how the unthinking flutterers burn their wings, - Know that a woman, be she what she will, - The fairest, noblest, most adorable, - Dowered in her home with all seraphic charms, - Whom heaven itself might envy in your arms, - A paragon of pleasure undenied - At her own chaste respectable fireside, - Becomes, what shall I say, when she steps down - From the high world of her untouched renown-- - A something differing in no serious mood - From the sad rest of the light sisterhood: - Perhaps indeed more troublesome than these, - Because she keenlier feels the agonies: - A wounded soul, who has not even the wit - To hide its hurt and make a jest of it; - A maid of Astolat, launched in her barge, - A corpse on all the world, a _femme à charge_." - - "'Tis not," he argued, "our poor human sins - That make us what we are when shame begins, - But the world pointing at our naked state: - Then we are shocked and humbled at our fate, - Silent and shamed in all we honour most-- - For what is virtue but the right to boast? - A married woman's love, three weeks from home, - Is the absurdest thing in Christendom, - Dull as a _ménage_ in the demi-monde - And dismaller far by reason of the bond. - All this I told my lady ere we went, - But warning wasted is on sentiment. - You see the net result here in one word, - A crying woman and a lover bored." - - So far young Manton. She for whom I came, - Griselda's self, sweet soul, in her new shame - Essayed awhile to hide from me the truth - Of this last hap of her belated youth, - Her disillusion with her graceless lover. - She made sad cloaks for him which could not cover - His great unworthiness and her despair, - All with a frightened half-maternal air, - Most pitiful and touching. To my plea, - Urging her home, she answered mournfully, - That she was bound now to her way of life, - And owed herself no less than as his wife - To him she had chosen out of all mankind. - 'Twas better to be foolish, even blind, - If he had faults, so she could serve him still-- - And this had been her promise and her will. - She would not hear of duties owed elsewhere: - What was she to Lord L., or he to her? - I need not speak of it. And yet she clung - To my protecting presence in her wrong; - And once, when Manton's jibes made bitterer play, - Implored me with appealing eyes to stay. - And so I lingered on. - - Those autumn days, - Spent with Griselda in the woodland ways - Of Meudon with her lover, or alone, - When his mad fancies carried him to town, - Remain to me an unsubstantial act - Of dreaming fancy, rather than the fact - Of any waking moment in my past, - The sweetest, saddest, and with her the last-- - For suddenly they ended. - - We had been - One Sunday for a jaunt upon the Seine, - We two--in Manton's absence, now prolonged - To a third night--and in a steamboat, thronged - With idle bourgeois folk, whom the last glory - Of a late autumn had sent forth in foray - To Passy and St. Cloud, from stage to stage, - Had made with heavy souls our pilgrimage; - And homeward turning and with little zest, - The fair day done, to love's deserted nest - Had come with lagging feet and weary eyes, - Expectant still of some new dark surprise, - When the blow fell unsparing on her head, - Already by what fortunes buffeted. - - How did it happen, that last tragedy?-- - For tragedy it was, let none deny, - Though all ignoble. Every soul of us - Touches one moment in death's darkened house - The plane of the heroic, and compels - Men's laughter into tears--ay, heaven's and hell's. - How did it happen? There was that upon - Their faces at the door more than the tone - Of their replies, that warned us of the thing - We had not looked for in our questioning; - And our lips faltered, and our ears, afraid, - Shrank from more hearing. What was it they said - In their fool's jargon, that he lay upstairs? - He? Manton? The dispenser of our cares? - The mountebank young reveller? Suffering? Ill? - And she, poor soul, that suffered at his will! - A sinister case? Not dying? Pitiful God! - Truly Thou smitest blindly with Thy rod. - For Manton was not worthy to die young, - Beloved by her with blessings on her tongue. - And such a cause of death! - - She never heard - The whole truth told, for each one spared his word, - And he lay mute for ever. But to me - The thing was storied void of mystery, - And thus they told it. Hardly had we gone - On our sad river outing, when from town - Manton had come with a gay troop of friends, - Such as the _coulisse_ of the opera lends, - To breakfast at the inn and spend the day - In mirthful noise, as was his vagrant way. - A drunken frolic, and most insolent - To her whose honour with his own was blent, - To end in this last tragedy. None knew - Quite how it happened, or a cause could shew - Further than this, that, rising from the table - The last to go, with steps perhaps unstable-- - For they had feasted freely, and the stair - Was steep and iron-edged, and needed care; - And singing, as he went, the selfsame song, - Which I remembered, to the laughing throng, - He had slipped his length, and fallen feet-first down. - When they picked him up his power to move was gone, - Though he could speak. They laid him on a bed, - Her bed, Griselda's, and called in with speed - Such help of doctors and commissioners - As law prescribed, and medicine for their fears. - 'Twas his last night. - - There, in Griselda's hands, - Young Jerry Manton lay with the last sands - Of his life's hour-glass trickling to its close, - Griselda watching, with what thoughts, God knows. - We did not speak. But her lips moved in prayer, - And mine too, in the way of man's despair. - I did not love him, yet a human pity - Softened my eyes. Afar, from the great city, - The sound came to us of the eternal hum, - Unceasing, changeless, pregnant with all doom - Of insolent life that rises from its streets, - The pulse of sin which ever beats and beats, - Wearying the ears of God. O Paris, Paris! - What doom is thine for every soul that tarries - Too long with thee, a stranger in thy arms. - Thy smiles are incantations, thy brave charms - Death to thy lovers. Each gay mother's son, - Smitten with love for thee, is straight undone. - And lo the chariot wheels upon thy ways! - And a new garland hung in _Père la Chaise_! - - Poor soul! I turned and looked into the night, - Through the uncurtained windows, and there bright - Saw the mute twinkle of a thousand stars. - One night! the least in all time's calendars, - Yet fraught with what a meaning for this one! - One star, the least of all that million! - One room in that one city! Yet for him - The universe there was of space and time. - What were his thoughts? In that chaotic soul, - Home of sad jests, obscene, unbeautiful, - Mired with the earthiest of brute desires, - And lit to sentience only with lewd fires, - Was there no secret, undisturbed, fair place - Watered with love and favoured with God's grace - To which the wounded consciousness had fled - For its last refuge from a world of dread? - Was his soul touched to tenderness, to awe, - To softer recollection? All we saw - Was the maimed body gasping forth its breath, - A rigid setting of the silent teeth, - And the hands trembling. Death was with us there. - But where was he--O Heaven of pity! where? - - We watched till morning by the dying man, - She weeping silently, I grieved and wan, - And still he moved not. But with the first break - Of day in the window panes we saw him make - A sign as if of speaking. Pressing near-- - For his lips moved, Griselda deemed, in prayer-- - We heard him make profession of his faith, - As a man of pleasure face to face with death, - A kind of gambler's Athanasian Creed, - Repeated at the hour of his last need. - "Five sovereigns," said he, steadying his will, - As in defiance of death's power to kill, - And with that smile of a superior mind, - Which was his strength in dealing with mankind, - The world of sporting jargon and gay livers. - "Five sovereigns is a fiver, and five fivers - A pony, and five ponies are a hundred-- - No, four," he added, seeing he had blundered. - "_Four_ to the hundred and _five_ centuries - Make up the monkey." From his dying eyes - The smile of triumph faded. "There, I've done it," - He said, "but there was no great odds upon it, - You see with a broken back." - - He spoke no more, - And in another hour had passed the door - Which shuts the living from eternity. - Where was he? God of pity, where was he? - - This was the end of Lady L.'s romance. - - When we had buried him, as they do in France, - In a tomb inscribed "_à perpétuité_" - (Formally rented till the Judgment Day), - She put off black, and shed no further tears; - Her face for the first time showed all its years, - But not a trace beyond. Without demur - She gave adhesion to my plans for her, - And we went home to London and Lord L., - Silent together, by the next night's mail. - She had been six weeks away. - - The interview - Between them was dramatic. I, who knew - Her whole mad secret, and had seen her soul - Stripped of its covering, and without control, - Bowed down by circumstance and galled with shame, - Yielding to wounds and griefs without a name, - Had feared for her a wild unhappy scene. - I held Lord L. for the least stern of men, - And yet I dared not hope even he would crave - No explanation e'er he quite forgave. - - I was with them when they met, unwilling third, - In their mute bandying of the unspoken word. - Lord L. essayed to speak. I saw his face - Made up for a high act of tragic grace - As he came forward. It was grave and mild, - A father's welcoming a truant child, - Forgiving, yet intent to mark the pain - With hope "the thing should not occur again." - His lips began to move as to some speech - Framed in this sense, as one might gently preach - A word in season to too gadding wives - Of duties owed, at least by those whose lives - Moved in high places. But it died unsaid. - There was that about Griselda that forbade - Marital questionings. Her queenly eyes - Met his with a mute answer of surprise, - Marking the unseemliness of all display - More strongly than with words, as who should say - _Noblesse oblige._ She took his outstretched hand, - And kissed his cheek, but would not understand - A word of his reproaches. Even I, - With my full knowledge and no more a boy, - But versed by years in the world's wickedness, - And open-eyed to her, alas! no less - Than to all womanhood, even I felt shame, - And half absolved her in my mind from blame. - And he, how could he less? He was but human, - The fortunate husband of how fair a woman! - He stammered his excuses. - - What she told - When I had left them (since all coin is gold - To those who would believe, and who the key - Hold of their eyes, in blind faith's alchemy) - I never learned. - - I did not linger on, - Seeing her peril past and the day won, - But took my leave. She led me to the door - With her old kindness of the days of yore, - And thanked me as one thanks for little things. - "You have been," she said, "an angel without wings, - And I shall not forget,--nor will Lord L.; - And yet," she said, with an imperceptible - Change in her voice, "there are things the world will say - Which are neither just nor kind, and, if to-day - We part awhile, remember we are friends, - If not now later. Time will make amends, - And we shall meet again." I pressed her hand - A moment to my lips. "I understand," - I said, and gazed a last time in her eyes; - "Say all you will. I am your sacrifice." - - And so, in truth, it was. Henceforth there lay - A gulf between us, widening with delay, - And which our souls were impotent to pass, - The gulf of a dead secret; and, alas! - Who knows what subtle treacheries within, - For virtue rends its witnesses of sin, - And hearts are strangely fashioned by their fears. - We met no more in friendship through the years, - Although I held her secret as my own, - And fought her battles, her best champion, - On many a stricken field in scandal's war, - Till all was well forgotten. From afar - I watched her fortunes still with tenderness, - Yet sadly, as cast out of Paradise. - For ever, spite her promise, from that day, - When I met L., he looked another way; - And she, Griselda, was reserved and chill. - I had behaved, her women friends said, ill, - And caused a needless scandal in her life, - --They told not what. Enough, that as a wife - She had been compelled to close her doors on me, - And that her lord knew all the iniquity. - - And so I bore the burden of her sin. - - What more shall I relate? The cynic vein - Has overwhelmed my tale, and I must stop. - Its heroine lived to justify all hope - Of her long-suffering lord, that out of pain - Blessings would grow, and his house smile again - With the fulfilled expectance of an heir. - Griselda sat no longer in despair, - Nor wasted her full life on dreams of folly; - She had little time for moods of melancholy, - Or heart to venture further in love's ways; - She was again the theme of all men's praise, - And suffered no man's passion. Once a year, - In the late autumn, when the leaves grew sere - She made retreat to a lay sisterhood, - And lived awhile there for her soul's more good, - In pious meditation, fasts and prayer. - Some say she wore concealed a shirt of hair - Under her dresses, even at court balls, - And certain 'tis that all Rome's rituals - Were followed daily at the private Mass - In her new chauntry built behind Hans Place. - Lord L. approved of all she did, even this, - Strange as it seemed to his old fashionedness. - - He, gentle soul, grown garrulous with years, - Prosed of her virtues to all listeners, - And of their son's, the child of his old age, - A prodigy of beauty and ways sage. - It was a vow, he said, once made in Rome, - Had brought them this chief treasure of their home. - A vow! The light world laughed--for miracles - Are not believed in now, except as hell's. - And yet the ways of God are passing strange. - And this is certain (and therein the range - Of my long tale is reached, and I am free), - --There is at Ostia, close beside the sea, - A convent church, the same where years ago - Griselda kneeled in tears and made her vow; - And in that shrine, beneath the crucifix, - They show a votive offering, candlesticks - Of more than common workmanship and size, - And underneath inscribed the votary's - Name in initials, and the date, all told, - Hall-marked in England, and of massive gold. - - -THE END. - - -_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. _Edinburgh and London_ - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - - -Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant -preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected. - -Page 81: "spendthrifts" was printed as "spendthifts". - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - -***** This file should be named 43066-8.txt or 43066-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/0/6/43066/ - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/43066-8.zip b/43066-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ded74fb..0000000 --- a/43066-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/43066-h.zip b/43066-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c46c716..0000000 --- a/43066-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/43066-h/43066-h.htm b/43066-h/43066-h.htm index 0b83387..215f078 100644 --- a/43066-h/43066-h.htm +++ b/43066-h/43066-h.htm @@ -2,7 +2,7 @@ "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> <title> The Project Gutenberg eBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. @@ -191,46 +191,7 @@ span.locked {white-space:nowrap;} </style> </head> <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Griselda - a society novel in rhymed verse - -Author: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -Release Date: June 30, 2013 [EBook #43066] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43066 ***</div> <div class="transnote"> <p class="center">Table of Contents added by Transcriber.</p> @@ -262,7 +223,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) </div></div></div> <p class="p4 center large vspace">LONDON<br /> -<span class="smcap">Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, & Co. L<sup>TD</sup></span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, & Co. L<sup>TD</sup></span><br /> <span class="small">PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD<br /> 1893</span> </p> @@ -733,7 +694,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) </div><div class="stanza"> <span class="i23">Alas, alas!<br /></span> <span class="i0">Who shall foretell what wars shall come to pass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What woes be wrought, what fates accomplishèd,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span> +<span class="i0">What woes be wrought, what fates accomplishèd,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span> <span class="i0">What new dreams dreamt, what new tears vainly shed,<br /></span> <span class="i0">What doubts, what anguish, what remorse, what fears<br /></span> <span class="i0">Begotten in the womb of what new years!—<br /></span> @@ -1402,7 +1363,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) <span class="i0">Across the hall, beneath the portico,<br /></span> <span class="i0">And down the steps she fled, to where below<br /></span> <span class="i0">The garden lay all dim with starlit shade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the white glimmer of the main façade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the white glimmer of the main façade.<br /></span> <span class="i0">Here Belgirate found her on a seat,<br /></span> <span class="i0">Crouched in an angle of the parapet,<br /></span> <span class="i0">And sobbing as in terror. His surprise<br /></span> @@ -2398,10 +2359,10 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) <span class="i0">What use was in thy beauty, if, alas!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span> <span class="i0">Thou gavest them cause to mock—those tongues of <span class="locked">brass—</span><br /></span> <span class="i0">At thy too crude and insular attire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy naïvetés of colour, the false fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy naïvetés of colour, the false fire<br /></span> <span class="i0">Of thy first dallyings with the red and white,<br /></span> <span class="i0">Thy sweet pictorial robes, Pre-Raphaelite,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quaint in their tones and <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">outrées</i> in design,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quaint in their tones and <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">outrées</i> in design,<br /></span> <span class="i0">Thy lack of unity and shape and line,<br /></span> <span class="i0">Thy English angularity—who knows,<br /></span> <span class="i0">The less than perfect fitting of thy shoes?<br /></span> @@ -2478,7 +2439,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) <span class="i0">A wounded soul, who has not even the wit<br /></span> <span class="i0">To hide its hurt and make a jest of it;<br /></span> <span class="i0">A maid of Astolat, launched in her barge,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A corpse on all the world, a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">femme à charge</i>."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A corpse on all the world, a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">femme à charge</i>."<br /></span> </div><div class="stanza"> <span class="i2">"'Tis not," he argued, "our poor human sins<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span> @@ -2489,7 +2450,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) <span class="i0">For what is virtue but the right to boast?<br /></span> <span class="i0">A married woman's love, three weeks from home,<br /></span> <span class="i0">Is the absurdest thing in Christendom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dull as a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">ménage</i> in the demi-monde<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dull as a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">ménage</i> in the demi-monde<br /></span> <span class="i0">And dismaller far by reason of the bond.<br /></span> <span class="i0">All this I told my lady ere we went,<br /></span> <span class="i0">But warning wasted is on sentiment.<br /></span> @@ -2620,7 +2581,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) <span class="i0">Death to thy lovers. Each gay mother's son,<br /></span> <span class="i0">Smitten with love for thee, is straight undone.<br /></span> <span class="i0">And lo the chariot wheels upon thy ways!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a new garland hung in <i class="place">Père la Chaise</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a new garland hung in <i class="place">Père la Chaise</i>!<br /></span> </div><div class="stanza"> <span class="i2">Poor soul! I turned and looked into the night,<br /></span> @@ -2682,7 +2643,7 @@ by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span> </div><div class="stanza"> <span class="i2">When we had buried him, as they do in France,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a tomb inscribed "<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">à perpétuité</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a tomb inscribed "<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">à perpétuité</i>"<br /></span> <span class="i0">(Formally rented till the Judgment Day),<br /></span> <span class="i0">She put off black, and shed no further tears;<br /></span> <span class="i0">Her face for the first time showed all its years,<br /></span> @@ -2852,387 +2813,6 @@ preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> <p>Page <a href="#Page_81">81</a>: "spendthrifts" was printed as "spendthifts".</p> </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - -***** This file should be named 43066-h.htm or 43066-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/0/6/43066/ - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Griselda - a society novel in rhymed verse - -Author: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -Release Date: June 30, 2013 [EBook #43066] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - -GRISELDA - - - - - GRISELDA - - _A SOCIETY NOVEL IN RHYMED VERSE_ - - - "Unnatural? My dear, these things are life: - And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse." - - - LONDON - KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUeBNER, & CO. LTD. - PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD - 1893 - - - - -_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._ - - - - -GRISELDA - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - - An idle story with an idle moral! - Why do I tell it, at the risk of quarrel - With nobler themes? The world, alas! is so, - And who would gather truth must bend him low, - Nor fear to soil his knees with graveyard ground, - If haply there some flower of truth be found. - For human nature is an earthy fruit, - Mired at the stem and fleshy at the root, - And thrives with folly's mixon best o'erlaid, - Nor less divinely so, when all is said. - Brave lives are lived, and worthy deeds are done - Each virtuous day, 'neath the all-pitying sun; - But these are not the most, perhaps not even - The surest road to our soul's modern heaven. - The best of us are creatures of God's chance - (Call it His grace), which works deliverance; - The rest mere pendulums 'twixt good and ill, - Like soldiers marking time while standing still. - 'Tis all their strategy, who have lost faith - In things Divine beyond man's life and death, - Pleasure and pain. Of heaven what know we, - Save as unfit for angels' company, - Say rather hell's? We cling to sins confessed, - And say our prayers still hoping for the best. - We fear old age and ugliness and pain, - And love our lives, nor look to live again. - - I do but parable the crowd I know, - The human cattle grazing as they go, - Unheedful of the heavens. Here and there - Some prouder, may be, or less hungry steer - Lifting his face an instant to the sky, - And left behind as the bent herd goes by, - Or stung to a short madness, tossing wild - His horns aloft, and charging the gay field, - Till the fence stops him, and he vanquished too, - Turns to his browsing--lost his Waterloo. - - The moral of my tale I leave to others - More bold, who point the finger at their brothers, - And surer know than I which way is best - To virtue's goal, where all of us find rest, - Whether in stern denial of things sweet, - Or yielding timely, lest life lose its feet - And fall the further. - - A plain tale is mine - Of naked fact, unconscious of design, - Told of the world in this last century - Of man's (not God's) disgrace, the XIXth. We - Have made it all a little as it is - In our own images and likenesses, - And need the more forgiveness for our sin. - - Therefore, my Muse, impatient to begin, - I bid thee fearless forward on thy road: - Steer thou thy honest course 'twixt bad and good. - Know this, in art that thing alone is evil - Which shuns the one plain word that shames the devil. - Tell truth without preamble or excuse, - And all shall be forgiven thee--all, my Muse! - - * * * * * - - In London then not many years ago - There lived a lady of high fashion, who - For her friends' sake, if any still there be - Who hold her virtues green in memory, - Shall not be further named in this true tale - Than as Griselda or the Lady L., - Such, if I err not, was the second name - Her parents gave when to the font she came, - And such the initial letter bravely set - On her coach door, beneath the coronet, - Which bore her and her fortunes--bore, alas! - For, as in this sad world all things must pass, - However great and nobly framed and fair: - Griselda, too, is of the things that were. - - But while she lived Griselda had no need - Of the world's pity. She was proudly bred - And proudly nurtured. Plenty her full horn - Had fairly emptied out when she was born, - And dowered her with all bounties. She was fair - As only children of the noblest are, - And brave and strong and opulent of health, - Which made her take full pleasure of her wealth. - She had a pitying scorn of little souls - And little bodies, levying heavy tolls - On all the world which was less strong than she. - She used her natural strength most naturally, - And yet with due discretion, so that all - Stood equally in bondage to her thrall. - She was of that high godlike shape and size - Which has authority in all men's eyes: - Her hair was brown, her colour white and red, - Nor idly moved to blush. She held her head - Straight with her back. Her body, from the knee - Tall and clean shaped, like some well-nurtured tree, - Rose finely finished to the finger tips; - She had a noble carriage of the hips, - And that proportionate waist which only art - Dares to divine, harmonious part with part. - But of this more anon, or rather never. - All that the world could vaunt for its endeavour - Was the fair promise of her ankles set - Upon a pair of small high-instepped feet, - In whose behalf, though modestly, God wot, - As any nun, she raised her petticoat - One little inch more high than reason meet - Was for one crossing a well-besomed street. - This was the only tribute she allowed - To human folly and the envious crowd; - Nor for my part would I be found her judge - For her one weakness, nor appear to grudge - What in myself, as surely in the rest, - Bred strange sweet fancies such as feet suggest. - We owe her all too much. This point apart, - Griselda, modesty's own counterpart, - Moved in the sphere of folly like a star, - Aloof and bright and most particular. - - By girlish choice and whim of her first will - She had espoused the amiable Lord L., - A worthy nobleman, in high repute - For wealth and virtue, and her kin to boot; - A silent man, well mannered and well dressed, - Courteous, deliberate, kind, sublimely blessed - With fortune's favours, but without pretence, - Whom manners almost made a man of sense. - In early life he had aspired to fame - In the world of letters by the stratagem - Of a new issue, from his private press, - Of classic bards in senatorial dress, - "_In usum Marchionis._" He had spent - Much of his youth upon the Continent, - Purchasing marbles, bronzes, pictures, gems, - In every town from Tiber unto Thames, - And gaining store of curious knowledge too - On divers subjects that the world least knew: - Knowledge uncatalogued, and overlaid - With dust and lumber somewhere in his head. - A slumberous man, in whom the lamp of life - Had never quite been lighted for the strife - And turmoil of the world, but flickered down - In an uncertain twilight of its own, - With an occasional flash, that only made - A deeper shadow for its world of shade. - When he returned to England, all admired - The taste of his collections, and inquired - To whose fair fortunate head the lot should fall - To wear these gems and jewels after all. - But years went by, and still unclaimed they shone, - A snare and stumbling-block to more than one, - Till in his fiftieth year 'twas vaguely said, - Lord L. already had too long delayed. - Be it as it may, he abdicated life - The day he took Griselda to his wife. - - And then Griselda loved him. All agreed, - The world's chief sponsors for its social creed, - That, whether poor Lord L. was or was not - The very fool some said and idiot, - Or whether under cloak of dulness crass, - He veiled that sense best suited to his case, - Sparing his wit, as housewives spare their light, - For curtain eloquence and dead of night; - And spite of whispered tales obscurely spread, - Doubting the fortunes of her nuptial bed, - Here at this word all sides agreed to rest: - Griselda did her duty with the best. - - Yet, poor Griselda! When in lusty youth - A love-sick boy I stood unformed, uncouth, - And watched with sad and ever jealous eye - The vision of your beauty passing by, - Why was it that that brow inviolate, - That virginal courage yet unscared by fate, - That look the immortal queen and huntress wore - To frightened shepherds' eyes in days of yore - Consoled me thus, and soothed unconsciously, - And stilled my jealous fears I knew not why? - How shall I tell the secret of your soul - Which then I blindly guessed, or how cajole - My boyhood's ancient folly to declare - Now in my wisdom the dear maid you were, - Though such the truth? - - Griselda's early days - Of married life were not that fitful maze - Of tears and laughter which betoken aught, - Changed or exchanged, of pain with pleasure bought, - Of maiden freedom conquered and subdued, - Of hopes new born and fears of womanhood. - Those who then saw Griselda saw a child - Well pleased and happy, thoughtlessly beguiled - By every simplest pleasure of her age, - Gay as a bird just issued from its cage, - When every flower is sweet. No eye could trace - Doubt or disquiet written on her face, - Where none there was. And, if the truth be told, - Griselda grieved not that Lord L. was old. - She found it well that her sweet seventeen - Should live at peace with fifty, and was seen - Just as she felt, contented with her lot, - Pleased with what was and pleased with what was not. - She held her husband the more dear that he - Was kind within the bounds of courtesy, - And love was not as yet within her plan, - And life was fair, and wisdom led the van. - - For she was wise--oh, wise! She rose at eight - And played her scales till breakfast, and then sat - The morning through with staid and serious looks, - Counting the columns of her household books, - Her daily labour, or with puzzled head - Bent over languages alive and dead, - Wise as, alas! in life those only are - Who have not yet beheld a twentieth year. - Wealth had its duties, time its proper use, - Youth and her marriage should be no excuse; - Her education must be made complete! - Lord L. looked on and quite approved of it. - The afternoons, in sense of duty done, - Went by more idly than the rest had gone. - If in the country, which Lord L. preferred, - She had her horse, her dogs, her favourite bird, - Her own rose-garden, which she loved to rake, - Her fish to feed with bread crumbs in the lake, - Her schools, old women, poor and almshouses, - Her sick to visit, or her church to dress. - Lord L. was pleased to see her bountiful: - They hardly found the time to find it dull. - - In London, where they spent their second year, - Came occupations suited to the sphere - In which they lived; and to the just pretence - Of our Griselda's high-born consequence, - New duties to the world which no excuse - Admitted. She was mistress of L. House - And heir to its traditions. These must be - Observed by her in due solemnity. - Her natural taste, I think, repelled the noise, - The rush, and dust, and crush of London joys; - But habit, which becomes a second sense, - Had reconciled her to its influence - Even in girlhood, and she long had known - That life in crowds may still be life alone, - While mere timidity and want of ease - She never ranked among youth's miseries. - She had her parents too, who made demand - Upon her thoughts and time, and close at hand - Sisters and friends. With these her days were spent - In simple joys and girlish merriment. - She would not own that being called a wife - Should make a difference in her daily life. - - Then London lacks not of attractions fit - For serious minds, and treasures infinite - Of art and science for ingenious eyes, - And learning for such wits as would be wise, - Lectures in classes, galleries, schools of art: - In each Griselda played conspicuous part-- - Pupil and patron, ay, and patron-saint - To no few poor who live by pens and paint. - The world admired and flattered as a friend, - And only wondered what would be the end. - - And so the days went by. Griselda's face, - Calm in its outline of romantic grace, - Became a type even to the vulgar mind - Of all that beauty means when most refined, - The visible symbol of a soul within, - Conceived immaculate of human sin, - And only clothed in our humanity - That we may learn to praise and better be. - Where'er she went, instinctively the crowd - Made way before her, and ungrudging bowed - To one so fair as to a queen of earth, - Ruling by right of conquest and of birth. - - And thus I first beheld her, standing calm - In the swayed crowd upon her husband's arm, - One opera night, the centre of all eyes, - So proud she seemed, so fair, so sweet, so wise. - Some one behind me whispered "Lady L.! - His Lordship too! and thereby hangs a tale." - - His Lordship! I beheld a placid man, - With gentle deep-set eyes, and rather wan, - And rather withered, yet on whose smooth face - Time seemed to have been in doubt what lines to trace - Of youth or age, and so had left it bare, - As it had left its colour to his hair. - An old young man perhaps, or really old, - Which of the two could never quite be told. - I judged him younger than his years gave right: - His looks betrayed him least by candlelight. - Yet, young or old, that night he seemed to me - Sublime, the priest of her divinity - At whose new shrine I worshipped. But enough - Of me and my concerns! More pertinent stuff - My tale requires than this first boyish love, - Which never found the hour its fate to prove. - My Lady smiling motions with her hand; - The crowd falls back; his Lordship, gravely bland, - Leads down the steps to where his footmen stay - In state. Griselda's carriage stops the way! - - And was Griselda happy? Happy?--Yes, - In her first year of marriage, and no less - Perhaps, too, in her second and her third. - For youth is proud, nor cares its last sad word - To ask of fate, and not unwilling clings - To what the present hour in triumph brings. - It was enough, as I have said, for her - That she was young and fortunate and fair. - The world that loved her was a lovely world, - The rest she knew not of. Fate had not hurled - A single spear as yet against her life. - She would not argue as 'twixt maid and wife, - Where both were woman, human nature, man, - Which held the nobler place in the world's plan. - Her soul at least was single, and must be - Unmated still through its eternity. - And, even here in life, what reason yet - To doubt or question or despair of Fate? - Her youth, an ample web, before her shone - For hope to weave its subtlest fancies on, - If she had cared to dream. Her lot was good - Beyond the common lot of womanhood, - And she would prove her fortune best in this, - That she would not repine at happiness. - Thus to her soul she argued as the Spring - Brought back its joy to each begotten thing-- - Begotten and begetting. Who shall say - Which had the better reason, she or they? - - In the fourth year a half acknowledged grief - Made its appearance in Griselda's life. - Her sisters married, younger both than she, - Mere children she had thought, and happily. - Each went her way engrossed by her new bliss, - Too gay to guess Griselda's dumb distress. - Her home was broken. In their pride they wrote - Things that like swords against her bosom smote, - The detail of their hopes, and loves, and fears. - Griselda read, and scarce restrained her tears. - Her mother too, the latest fledgling flown, - Had vanished from the world. She was alone. - - When she returned to London, earlier - Than was her custom, in the following year, - She found her home a desert, dark and gaunt; - L. House looked emptier, gloomier than its wont. - Griselda sighed, for on the table lay - Two letters, which announced each in its way - The expected tidings of her sisters' joy. - Either was brought to bed--and with a boy. - Her generous heart leaped forth to these in vain, - It could not cheat a first sharp touch of pain, - But yielded to its sorrow. - - That same night, - Lord L., whose sleep was neither vexed nor light, - And who for many years had ceased to dream, - Beheld a vision. Slowly he became - Aware of a strange light which in his eyes - Shone to his vast discomfort and surprise; - And, while perplexed with vague mistrusts and fears, - He saw a face, Griselda's face, in tears - Before him. She was standing by his bed - Holding a candle. It was cold, she said, - And shivered. And he saw her wrap her shawl - About her shoulders closely like a pall. - Why was she there? Why weeping? Why this light, - Burning so brightly in the dead of night? - These riddles poor Lord L.'s half-wakened brain - Tried dimly to resolve, but tried in vain. - - "I cannot sleep to-night," went on the voice, - "The streets disturb me strangely with their noise, - The cabs, the striking clocks." Lord L.'s distress - Struggled with sleep. He thought he answered "Yes." - "What can I do to make me sleep? I am ill, - Unnerv'd to-night. This house is like a well. - Do I disturb you here, and shall I go?" - Lord L. was moved. He thought he answered "No." - "If you would speak, perhaps my tears would stop. - Speak! only speak!" - - Lord L. here felt a drop - Upon his hand. She had put down the light, - And sat upon his bed forlornly white - And pale and trembling. Her dark hair unbound - Lay on her knees. Her lips moved, but their sound - Came strangely to his ears and half-unheard. - He only could remember the last word: - "I am unhappy--listen L.!--alone." - She touched his shoulder and he gave a groan. - "This is too much. You do not hear me. See, - I cannot stop these tears. Too much!" - - And he - Now well awake, looked round him. He could catch - A gleam of light just vanished, and the latch - Seemed hardly silent. This was all he knew. - He sat some moments doubting what to do, - Rose, went out, shivered, hearing nothing, crept - Back to his pillow, where the vision wept - Or seemed to weep awhile ago, and then - With some disquiet went to sleep again. - - Next morning, thinking of his dream, Lord L. - Went down to breakfast in intent to tell - The story of his vision. But he met - With little sympathy. His wife was late, - And in a hurry for her school of art. - His lordship needed time to make a start - On any topic, and no time she gave. - Griselda had appointments she must save, - And could not stop to hear of rhyme or reason-- - The dream must wait a more convenient season. - And so it was not told. - - Alas, alas! - Who shall foretell what wars shall come to pass, - What woes be wrought, what fates accomplished, - What new dreams dreamt, what new tears vainly shed, - What doubts, what anguish, what remorse, what fears - Begotten in the womb of what new years!-- - And all because of this, that poor Lord L. - Was slow of speech, or that he slept too well! - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - - Thus then it was. Griselda's childhood ends - With this untoward night; and what portends - May only now be guessed by those who read - Signs on the earth and wonders overhead. - I dare not prophesy. - - What next appears - In the vain record of Griselda's years - Is hardly yet a token, for her life - Showed little outward sign of change or strife, - Though she was changed and though perhaps at war. - Her face still shone untroubled as a star - In the world's firmament, and still she moved, - A creature to be wondered at and loved. - Her zeal, her wit, her talents, her good sense - Were all unchanged, though each seemed more intense - And lit up with new passion and inspired - To active purpose, valiant and untired. - She faced the world, talked much and well, made friends, - Promoted divers schemes for divers ends, - Artistic, social, philanthropical: - She had a store of zeal for each and all. - She pensioned poets, nobly took in hand - An emigration plan to Newfoundland, - Which ended in disaster and a ball. - She visited St. George's hospital, - The Home for Fallen Women, founded schools - Of music taught on transcendental rules. - L. House was dull though splendid. She had schemes - Of a vast London palace on the Thames, - Which should combine all orders new and old - Of architectural taste a house could hold, - And educate the masses. Then one day, - She fairly wearied and her soul gave way. - - Again she sought Lord L., but not to ask - This time his counsel in the thankless task - She could no more make good, the task of living. - He was too mere a stranger to her grieving, - Her needs, her weakness. All her woman's heart - Was in rebellion at the idle part - He played in her sad life, and needed not - Mere pity for a pain to madness wrought. - She did not ask his sympathy. She said - Only that she was weary as the dead, - And needed change of air, and life, and scene: - She wished to go where all the world had been-- - To Paris, Florence, Rome. She could not die - And not have seen the Alps and Italy. - Lord L. had tried all Europe, and knew best - Where she could flee her troubles and find rest. - Such was her will. Lord L., without more goad, - Prepared for travel--and they went abroad. - - I will not follow here from day to day - Griselda's steps. Suffice it if I say - She found her wished-for Paris wearisome, - Another London and without her home, - And so went on, as still the fashion was, - Some years ago, e'er Pulman cars with gas - And quick night flittings had submerged mankind - In one mad dream of luggage left behind, - By the Rhone boat to Provence. This to her - Seemed a delicious land, strange, barren, fair, - An old-world wilderness of greys and browns, - Rocks, olive-gardens, grim dismantled towns, - Deep-streeted, desolate, yet dear to see, - Smelling of oil and of the Papacy. - Griselda first gave reins to her romance - In this forgotten corner of old France, - Feeding her soul on that ethereal food, - The manna of days spent in solitude. - Lord L. was silent. She, as far away - Saw other worlds which were not of to-day, - With cardinals, popes, Petrarch and the Muse. - She stopped to weep with Laura at Vaucluse, - Where waiting in the Mistral poor Lord L., - Who did not weep, sat, slept and caught a chill; - This sent them southwards on through Christendom, - To Genoa, Florence, and at last to Rome, - Where they remained the winter. - - Change had wrought - A cure already in Griselda's thought, - Or half a cure. The world in truth is wide, - If we but pace it out from side to side, - And our worst miseries thus the smaller come. - Griselda was ashamed to grieve in Rome, - Among the buried griefs of centuries, - Her own sweet soul's too pitiful disease. - She found amid that dust of human hopes - An incantation for all horoscopes, - A better patience in that wreck of Time: - Her secret woes seemed chastened and sublime - There in the amphitheatre of woe. - She suffered with the martyrs. These would know, - Who offered their chaste lives and virgin blood, - How mortal frailty best might be subdued. - She saw the incense of her sorrow rise - With theirs as an accepted sacrifice - Before the face of the Eternal God - Of that Eternal City, and she trod - The very stones which seemed their griefs to sound - Beneath her steps, as consecrated ground. - In face of such a suffering hers must be - A drop, a tear in the unbounded sea - Which girds our lives. Rome was the home of grief, - Where all might bring their pain and find relief, - The temple of all sorrows: surely yet, - Sorrow's self here seemed swallowed up in it. - - 'Twas thus she comforted her soul. And then, - She had found a friend, a phoenix among men, - Which made it easier to compound with life, - Easier to be a woman and a wife. - - This was Prince Belgirate. He of all - The noble band to whose high fortune fall - The name and title proudest upon earth - While pride shall live by privilege of birth, - The name of Roman, shone conspicuous - The head and front of his illustrious house, - Which had produced two pontiffs and a saint - Before the world had heard of Charles le Quint; - A most accomplished nobleman in truth, - And wise beyond the manner of his youth, - With wit and art and learning, and that sense - Of policy which still is most intense - Among the fertile brains of Italy, - A craft inherited from days gone by. - As scholar he was known the pupil apt - Of Mezzofanti, in whose learning lapped - And prized and tutored as a wondrous child, - He had sucked the milk of knowledge undefiled - While yet a boy, and brilliantly anon - Had pushed his reputation thus begun - Through half a score of tongues. In art his place - Was as chief patron of the rising race, - Which dreamed new conquests on the glorious womb - Of ancient beauty laid asleep in Rome. - The glories of the past he fain would see - Wrought to new life in this new century, - By that continuous instinct of her sons, - Which had survived Goths, Vandals, Lombards, Huns, - To burst upon a wondering world again - With full effulgence in the Julian reign. - - In politics, though prudently withdrawn - From the public service, which he held in scorn, - As being unworthy the deliberate zeal - Of one with head to think or heart to feel; - And being neither priest, nor soldier, nor - Versed in the practice of Canonic lore, - He made his counsels felt and privately - Lent his best influence to "the Powers that be,"-- - Counsels the better valued that he stood - Alone among the youth of stirring blood, - And bowed not to that Baal his proud knee, - The national false goddess, Italy. - He was too stubborn in his Roman pride - To trick out this young strumpet as a bride, - And held in classic scorn who would become - Less than a Roman citizen in Rome. - A man of heart besides and that light wit - Which leavens all, even pedantry's conceit. - None better knew than he the art to shew - A little less in talk than all he knew. - His manner too, and voice, and countenance, - Imposed on all, and these he knew to enhance - By certain freedoms and simplicities - Of language, which set all his world at ease. - A very peer and prince and paragon, - Griselda thought, Rome's latest, worthiest son, - An intellectual phoenix. - - On her night - A sudden dawn had broke, portentous, bright. - Her soul had found its fellow. From the day - Of their first meeting on the Appian Way, - Beside Metella's tomb, where they had discussed - The doubtful merit of a new found bust, - And had agreed to differ or agree, - I know not which, a hidden sympathy - Had taken root between them. Either mind - Found in the other tokens of its kind - Which spoke in more than words, and naturally - Leaned to its fellow-mind as tree to tree. - Lord L., who had known the prince in other days, - While riding home had spoken in his praise, - And won Griselda's heart and patient smile, - For divers threadbare tales of blameless guile - Among the virtuosi, where the prince - Had played his part with skill and influence, - His sworn ally. Lord L. grew eloquent, - Finding her ears such rapt attention lent, - And could have gone on talking all his life - About his friend's perfections to his wife. - - Griselda listened. In her heart there stirred - A strange unconscious pleasure at each word, - Which made the sunshine brighter and the sky - More blue, more tender in its sympathy. - The hills of the Campagna crowned with snow - Moved her and touched, she knew not why nor how. - The solemn beauty of the world; the fate - Of all things living, vast and inchoate - Yet clothed with flowers; the soul's eternal dream - Of something still beyond; the passionate whim - Of every noble mind for something good, - Which should assuage its hunger with new food; - The thrill of hope, the pulse of happiness, - The vague half-conscious longing of the eyes-- - All these appealed to her, and seemed to lie - In form and substance under the blue sky, - Filling the shadows of the Sabine Hills - As with a presence, till her natural ills, - Transfigured through a happy mist of tears, - Gave place to hopes yet hardly dreamed as hers. - And still Lord L. talked calmly on, and she - Listened as to the voice of prophecy, - Nursing the pressure which the Prince's hand - Had left in hers, nor cared to understand. - - From this day forth, I say, a tender mood - Possessed them both scarce conscious and unwooed, - Even in the Prince, her elder and a man. - At least Griselda had no thought nor plan - Beyond the pleasure of a friendship dear - To all alike, Lord L., the Prince, and her: - No plan but that the day would be more sweet, - More full of meaning, if they chanced to meet; - And this chanced every day. The Prince was kind - Beyond all kindness, and Lord L. could find - No words to speak his thanks he thus should be - The cicerone of their company. - - And where a better? Belgirate's lore - In all things Roman was in truth a store - From which to steal. At her Gamaliel's knees - Griselda sat and learned Rome's mysteries - With all the zeal of a disciple young - And strange to genius and a pleading tongue. - The Prince was eloquent. His theme was high, - One which had taught less vigorous wings to fly, - The world of other days, the Pagan Rome, - The scarce less Pagan Rome of Christendom. - On these the Prince spoke warmly much and well, - Holding Griselda's patient ears in spell, - Yet broke off smiling when he met her eye - Fixed on his face in its mute sympathy: - A smile which was a question, an appeal, - And seemed to ask the meaning of her zeal. - He did not understand her quite. He saw - Something beyond, unfixed by any law - Of woman's nature his experience knew: - He knew not what to hold or hope as true. - For she was young and sad and beautiful, - A very woman with a woman's soul. - She had so strange a pathos in her eyes, - A tone so deep, such echoes in her voice. - What was this Roman Hecuba to her? - This prate of consul, pontiff, emperor? - These broken symbols of forgotten pride? - These ashes of old fame by fame denied? - What were these stones to her that she should weep, - Or spend her passion on a cause less deep - Than her own joys and sorrows? Was it love, - Or what thing else had such a power to move? - If there was meaning in red lips! And yet - 'Twere rank impiety to think of it. - An Italian woman--yes. But she? Who knew - What English virtue dared yet dared not do? - - This was the thought which lent its mockery - To the more tender omen of his eye, - And checked the pride and chilled the vague desire - Her beauty half had kindled into fire. - Yet hope was born and struggled to more life, - A puny infant with its fears at strife, - An unacknowledged hidden bastard child, - Too fair to crush, too wise to be beguiled; - Even Griselda's prudery confessed - A star of Bethlehem risen in her East. - - And thus the winter passed in happiness - If not in love. I leave to each to guess - What name 'twere best to give it, for to some - Who judge such things by simple rule of thumb, - 'Twill seem impossible they thus should meet - Day after day in palace, temple, street, - Beneath the sun of heaven or in the shade - Of those old gardens by the cypress made, - Or on their horses drinking in the wind - Of the Campagna, and with care behind, - Left to take vengeance upon poor Lord L., - Some furlongs back a solemn sentinel, - Or in the twilight slowly stealing home - Towards the hundred cupolas of Rome, - To greet the new-born moon and so repeat - Old Tuscan ditties, tender, wise, and sweet, - To the light clatter of their horse-hoof's chime - In echoing answer of their terza-rhyme-- - 'Twill seem, I say, to some impossible - That all this was not love. Yet, sooth to tell, - Easter had come and gone, and yet 'twas true - No word of love had passed between the two. - - The fact is, after the first halcyon hour - When she had met the Prince and proved his power - To move her inmost soul, Griselda made - This compact with her heart no less than head, - Being a woman of much logic sense, - And knowing all, at least by inference: - She was resolved that, come what evil might - On her poor heart, the right should still be right, - And not a hair's-breadth would she swerve from this, - Though it should cost her soul its happiness. - She would not trifle longer, nor provide - The Prince with pretext for his further pride, - Or grant more favour than a friendship given - Once and for all, in this world as in heaven. - This she indeed could offer, but, if more - Were asked, why then, alas! her dream was o'er. - I think no actual covenant had passed - In words between them either first or last, - But that the Prince, though puzzled and perplexed, - Had drawn a just conclusion from his text, - And read her meaning, while the hazard made, - Of certain idle words at random said, - Had sapped his confidence, and served to show - If speech were wise, 'twas wiser to forego. - - Once too he wrote a sonnet. They had spent - An afternoon (it was in early Lent) - At that fair angle of the city wall - Which is the English place of burial, - A poet's pilgrimage to Shelley's tomb,-- - The holiest spot, Griselda thought, in Rome,-- - A place to worship in, perhaps to pray, - At least to meditate and spend the day. - - She had brought her friend with her. She had at heart - To win his homage for the unknown art - Of this dead alien priest of Italy, - This lover of the earth, and sea, and sky; - And, reading there and talking in that mood - Which comes of happiness and youthful blood - So near akin to sorrow, their discourse - Had touched on human change and pain's remorse - Amid the eternal greenness of the spring; - And, when they came to part, there had seemed to ring - A note of trouble in Griselda's voice, - A sigh as if in grief for human joys, - An echo of unspoken tenderness, - Which caused the Prince to hold her hand in his - One little moment longer than was right, - When they had shaken hands and bid good night. - - And so he wrote that evening on the spur - Of the first tender impulse of the hour - A sonnet to Griselda, a farewell - It seemed to be, yet also an appeal-- - Perhaps a declaration; who shall say - Whether the thought which lightened into day, - Between the sorrowing accents of each line, - Was more despair or hope which asked a sign? - - "Farewell," it said, "although nor seas divide - Nor kingdoms separate, but a single street, - The sole sad gap between us, scarce too wide - For hands to cross, and though we needs must meet - Not in a year, a month, but just to-morrow, - When the first happy instinct of our feet - Bears us together,--yet we part in sorrow, - Bidding good-bye, as though we would repeat - Good-byes for ever. There are gulfs that yawn - Between us wide with time and circumstance, - Deep as the gulf which lies 'twixt dead and dead. - The day of promise finds no second dawn: - See, while I speak, the pressure of our hands - Fades slowly from remembrance, and is fled, - And our weak hearts accept their fate. Nay, nay, - We meet again, but never as to-day." - - To this Griselda answered nothing. She - Was pleased, yet disconcerted. Poetry - Is always pleasant to a woman's ear, - And to Griselda had been doubly dear, - If it had touched less nearly. But her heart - Had bounded with too violent a start - To leave her certain of her self-control, - In this new joy which seemed to probe her soul. - And feeling frightened she had tried to find - A reason for the tumult of her mind - In being angry. He should not have dared - To strike so near the truth. Or had she bared - Her soul so plain to his that he should speak - Of both as an eye-witness? She felt weak - And out of temper with herself and him, - And with the sudden waking from a dream - Too long indulged, and with her own sad fate, - Which made all dreams a crime against the State. - There yawned indeed a gulf between them. This - It needed no such word as had been his - To bring back to her memory or show - How wide it was, and deep, and far below; - And yet she shuddered, for already thought - Had led her to the brink where reason fought - With folly, and conjured it to look down - Into the vast and terrible unknown. - This was itself an omen. - - All that day - Griselda had a headache, and said nay - To those who called, the Prince among the rest, - Who came distrusting and returned distressed. - Awhile this humour lasted. Then they met, - And Belgirate, venturing a regret - For having vexed her with so poor a rhyme, - Griselda had protested want of time - And want of talent as her sole excuse - For having made no answer to his Muse, - Yet cast withal a look so pitiful - Upon his face it moved his very soul. - This closed the incident. He might have spoken - Perhaps that instant, and received some token - Of more than a forgiveness. But his fate - Had willed it otherwise or willed too late. - For love forgives not, plead it as we may - To speak the unspoken "Yes" of yesterday. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - - Who has not seen the falls of Tivoli, - The rocks, the foam-white water, and the three - Fair ruined temples which adorn the hill? - Who has not sat and listened to the shrill - Sweet melody of blackbirds, and the roar - Of Anio's voice rebounding from the shore, - Nor would have given his very soul to greet - Some passing vision of a white nymph's feet, - And weaving arms, as the wild chasm's spray - Beat on his face, for ever answering "Nay?" - Who has not turned away with sadder face, - Abashed before the genius of the place, - A wiser man, and owned upon his knees, - The dull transmontane Goth and boor he is? - Who that was born to feel? - - What sons of clay - Are these that stand among your shrines to-day, - Gods of the ancient rivers! and who set - The heavy impress of barbarian feet - Upon your classic shores, and dare to love - Your ruined homes in temple, rock, and grove! - What new rude sons of Japhet! What mad crew, - Whose only creed is what it dares to do - Through lack of knowledge, whose undoubting heart, - Here in the very temples of old art, - Brings out its little tribute, builds its shrines, - Wreathes its sad garlands of untutored lines, - Writes, paints, professes, sculptures its new gods, - And dares to have its home in your abodes! - - Oh, if I had a soul oppressed with song, - A tongue on fire to prophesy among - My brother prophets, if I had a hand - Which needs must write its legend on life's sand - With brush or chisel, I at least would choose - Some soil less fair, less sacred to the Muse, - Some younger, wilder land, where no sad voice - Had ever stammered forth its tale of joys, - And loves and sorrows, or in tones less rude - Than the brute pulsing of its human blood; - If I would build a temple, it should be - At least not here, not here in Italy, - Where all these temples stand. My thought should shape - Its fancies in rough granite on some cape - O'erlooking the Atlantic, from whose foam - No goddess ever leaped, and not in Rome, - Beneath the mockery of immortal eyes, - Gazing in marble down, so coldly wise! - - Such was Griselda's thought, which, half aloud, - She uttered one May morning 'mid a crowd - Of pleasure-seekers, come from Rome to see - The wonder of these falls of Tivoli, - And Belgirate's villa, where the Prince - Was offering entertainment (for his sins), - And dancing to all such as called him friend - That Spring in Rome, now nearly at an end;-- - A thought suggested by the place and by - A German painter, who undauntedly - Was plying a huge canvas just begun, - With brush and palette seated in the sun. - She had hardly meant to speak, and when Lord L. - Objected (for he knew his classics well) - That landscape-painting was an unknown trade - In the days of Horace, blushed for her tirade, - And turned to Belgirate, who stood near, - Playing the host to all the world and her. - - The Prince appealed to, though his care was less - With what was spoken than the speaker's face, - Took up the parable, confessed the truth - Of all each ventured, and agreed with both. - Nature, he said, and art, though now allied, - Had not in all times thus walked side by side. - Indeed the love of Nature, now so real, - Was alien to the love of the ideal, - The classic love which claimed as though of need - Some living presence for each fountain-head, - Each grove, each cavern, satyr, nymph, or god, - A human shape unseen yet understood. - This was the thought which lived in ancient art, - Eschewing the waste places of the heart, - And only on compulsion brought to face - Brute Nature's aspect in its nakedness. - Nature as Nature was a thought too rude - For these, untempered in its solitude. - It had no counterpart in our new love - Of mountain, sea and forest. Then, each grove - Asked for its statue, each perennial spring - Its fountain. Solitude itself must bring - Its echo. Every mountain top of Greece - Beheld fair temples rise. A law of peace - Reigned over art in protest at the mood - Of social life which drenched the world in blood. - All now had been reversed. Our modern creed - Scouted the law that men were born to bleed. - It turned from human nature, if untaught, - And wrought mankind, perhaps and overwrought - Into trim shapes, and then for its relief - Rushed to the wilderness to vent its grief - In lonely passion. Here it neither sought - Nor found a presence which it needed not. - It chose wild hills and barren seas. It saw - Beauty in tumult, in revolt a law. - Here it gave reins to its brute instincts. Here - It owned no god, no guide, no arbiter. - Its soul it must avenge of discipline, - And Nature had gone naked from the shrine. - This was its consolation. - - Of the score - Who stood around him and who praised his lore, - Perhaps no single listener understood - The thought which underlay the Prince's mood, - Or guessed its bitterness--not even she - Who lent the moral to his mockery. - Yet she was moved. In her too was a need - Of consolation for too fair a creed, - An impulse of rebellion. In her blood - There lived a germ of Nature unsubdued, - Which would not be appeased. She too had sought - A refuge from the tyranny of thought - In the brute impulses of sea and plain - And cloud and forest far from haunts of men. - A vain mad search. The fetters of her pride - Galled her like sores. Griselda turned and sighed. - - That evening on the terrace, vaguely lit - With paper lanterns and the infinite - Display of those fair natural lamps, the stars, - And 'neath the influence of the planet Mars - Or Venus or another--which it was - We best may judge by that which came to pass-- - The Prince essayed his fortune. - - From the hour - Of their first flash of eloquence, some power, - Some most persistent and ingenious fate - Of idle tongues had held them separate, - Griselda and the Prince--him in his part - Of host, with cares not wholly of the heart - Demanding his attention, while on her - Friends fastened more than dull and less than dear. - In vain they stopped, and loitered, and went on, - Leaving no trick untried, unturned no stone; - In vain they waited. Still their hope deferred - Failed of its object, one consoling word, - One little sigh as of relief thus given: - "Well, they are gone at last, and thanked be Heaven." - But hour on hour went by, and accident - Seemed still at pains to frustrate their intent, - Piling up grief for them and poor Lord L., - On whom, in fault of foes, their vengeance fell. - 'Twas worst for her. She knew not whom to strike, - Lord L., her friends, the Prince--'twas now alike. - She had lost in fact her temper, if I dare - Thus speak of one so wise and one so fair, - And to the point that now there was no room - For other thought, but L. should take her home, - Away and speedily. - - The Prince, who knew - No word of what a storm Fate held in brew, - And who had sought, in innocence of all, - Griselda's hand to lead the opening ball, - And sought in vain, now found, to his despair, - My lady cloaked and standing on the stair. - She was alone. "Lord L. had gone," she said, - "To bid the Prince good night. Her foolish head - Had played her false, and ached with the new heat - Of the May sun (even L. complained of it). - They must be home betimes. Next day was Sunday, - And they had much to do 'twixt that and Monday, - In view of their departure." "Whither? whence? - In Heaven's name," exclaimed the astounded Prince. - "Why, home to England, she had thought he knew: - She must have told him. L. was more than due - In London, where his place in Parliament - Required his presence. He had missed the Lent, - And dared not miss the Easter session. She - Thought he was right, altho',"--and suddenly - She burst in tears. The Prince, in dire distress, - Besought her to be calm. But she, with face - Hid in both hands, and turning from the light, - Broke from his arms, and rushed into the night. - Across the hall, beneath the portico, - And down the steps she fled, to where below - The garden lay all dim with starlit shade, - And the white glimmer of the main facade. - Here Belgirate found her on a seat, - Crouched in an angle of the parapet, - And sobbing as in terror. His surprise - Was changed to resolution. To his eyes - The world became transfigured. "Lady L.," - He whispered, "what is this? You love me? Well, - Why do you weep?" - - He took her hands in his - And pressed them to his lips; and at the kiss - Griselda started from the heap she was - And sat upright, with pale pathetic face - Turned to the night. By the dim starlight he - Beheld, half-awed and half in ecstasy, - The strange emotion of her countenance. - She made no gesture to withdraw her hands, - No sign of disagreement with his words. - Her eyes looked scared and troubled like a bird's - Caught in a net, and seemed to ask of Fate - Where the next blow should fall. 'Twas thus she sat - Speechless, inanimate, nor seemed to breathe. - The Prince could hear the chattering of her teeth, - And feel her shiver in the warm night wind,-- - And yet its touch was hardly thus unkind. - - He too, poor soul, in hope and tenderness, - Still kissed her hands, and kissed her gloves and dress, - And kneeling at her feet embraced her knees - With soothing arms and soft cajoleries. - She dared not turn nor speak. The balustrade - Served as a pretext for her with its shade - Hiding his face. She would not seem to guess - All that his fondness asked of her distress: - A word might break the spell. She only knew - She was a poor sad woman, doomed to do - Sorrow to all who loved her, that the Prince - Had spoken truly, and her long pretence - Of innocence was o'er. She scorned to make - An idle protest now for honour's sake. - He had a right to ask for what he would - Now that she loved him, and her womanhood - Reserved one tearful right, and only one, - To hide her face an instant and be gone. - - How long they sat thus silent who shall say? - Griselda knew not. Time was far away; - She wanted courage to prepare her heart - For that last bitterest word of all, "We part;" - And he cared naught for time: his heaven was there, - Nor needed thought, nor speech, nor even prayer. - - A sound of music roused them. From the house - Voices broke in and strains tumultuous, - Proving the dance begun. Then with a sigh - Griselda turned her head, and piteously - Looked in his face. She moved as if to go, - And when he held her still, "For pity, no, - Let me be gone," she cried. "I ask it thus," - Clasping her hands. "You will not? No! alas! - You must not doubt me when I speak the truth; - This is a great misfortune for us both." - "Griselda," he began. "Oh, stop," she said, - "You know not what you ask." She bent her head - Close to his own. "I am not what I seem, - A woman to be loved, not even by him - Whom I might choose to worship. Mine must be - An unfinished life, not quite a tragedy, - Even to my friends, an idle aimless life, - Not worth an argument, still less a strife. - You must forget, forgive me. We were friends, - Friends still perhaps; but, oh! this first day ends - Our love for ever. What you said was true, - Only I never guessed it." - - The Prince knew - That she was weeping, and a single sob - Broke from her lips. She seemed her wounds to probe. - "Yes, I have loved you, loved you from the first, - The day we met at Terni, when you burst - Like sunshine on the storm of my dark life-- - You, wise and free--I, only the sad wife - Of one you called a friend. The fault was mine - And mine alone. In you there was no sin: - You stood too far from me, too high above - My woman's follies even to dream of love. - There, do not answer. You were kind to me, - Good, patient, wise--you could no other be-- - But, oh! you never loved me." - - Here again - The Prince broke in protesting (but in vain): - Her words were madness and his heart was hers. - She would not listen nor control her tears-- - "You never loved me. This one thought I hold - In consolation of my manifold - Deceits and errors. You at least are free - From all deceptions and remorse and me:-- - I cannot cause you sorrow, else it were - Indeed too pitiful, too hard to bear." - - She stooped and kissed his forehead reverently, - As one would kiss a relic; and when he - Still would have spoken, stopped him with a hand - Laid on his lips, half-prayer and half-command. - She would not let him speak. The prince, tho' mute, - Now pleaded with his hands and pressed his suit - With better eloquence, for this to her - Seemed less a crime than speech. Her ignorant fear - Had hardly fathomed yet the troubled sea - On which her lot was cast thus dangerously. - She only feared his words to prove him right; - And these caresses in the dim still night - Soothed and consoled her. They were too unreal, - Too strange to her experience, quite to feel - Or quite to question. She, with half-shut eyes, - And face averted, ceased to feel surprise, - And ceased to think. She was a child again, - Caressed and fondled. She forgot her pain, - And almost even his presence in the place. - He was too near and could not see her face. - Besides, Griselda loved him. Only once - She made a silent protest with her hands, - As one might make asleep, and in her dream - Opened her eyes, and seemed to question him - With the pathetic instinct as of doom. - The Prince in rapture judged his hour was come. - - Alas! poor Prince. If thou hadst had thy bliss, - I would not then have grudged thy happiness, - Thine nor Griselda's. Happiness is not - A merchandise men buy or leave unbought - And find again. It is a wild bird winging - Its way through heaven, in joyous circles ringing, - Aloft, at its own will. Then, e'er we wist, - It stooped and sat a moment on our wrist, - And fondled with our fingers, and made play - With jess and hood as if it meant to stay. - And we, if we were wise and fortunate, - And if the hour had been decreed of fate, - Seized the glad bird and held it in our hand, - And forced it to obey our least command, - Knowing that never more, if not made sure, - It would come again to voice, or sign, or lure. - - Oh, such is happiness. That night for them - Fate stood, a genius, suppliant and tame, - Demanding to do service. Had they willed, - The treasure-house of heaven had been unfilled - And emptied in their lap. They too, even they, - Mere mortals born, inheritors of clay, - Had known eternal life, and been as gods, - Only the will between them was at odds, - Only the word was wanting. - - What one thing - It was that frightened Fate to taking wing, - And scared for ever the celestial bird, - And left them desolate, if I have heard - I do not now remember, nor would say - Even if I knew. 'Twas told me not to-day - Nor yesterday, but in a time long since, - By one of the two who knew, in confidence, - And then not quite perhaps the utter truth-- - Whoever tells it? But there came to both - A moment when, as Belgirate knew, - There was no further power to plead or sue: - They had played with Fate too long. Their hour was over; - She was no more his love nor he her lover. - His courage was exhausted. One by one - His fingers, which still held Griselda's gown, - Relaxed their hold. His hands dropped by his side, - His head upon his bosom, and the pride, - Which was the reason of his being, quailed. - Grief in that hour and tenderness prevailed, - And tears rushed to his eyes, long strangers there, - And to his lips, Italian-like, a prayer, - While he lay prostrate, his face turned from heaven, - Under the stars. - - The tower clock struck eleven - And roused him. He had neither heard nor known - Griselda's going, but he was alone. - - * * * * * - - And she? Griselda? In a whirl of grief, - Tortured, distracted, hopeless of relief, - And careless now what eye should see her tears, - Whom none could mock with bitterer jibes than hers, - And speechless to all question of her lord, - Who sought to learn what portent had occurred, - And still reverted to the theme begun - Of Roman fever and the Roman sun; - She was driven back to Rome. Two days her door - Was shut to all the world, both rich and poor, - And on the third she went to Ostia, - Pleading a wild desire to see the sea. - - The sea! What virtue is there in the sea - That it consoles us thus in misery? - In joy we do not love it, and our bliss - Scoffs at its tears and scorns its barrenness. - Our pride of life is in the fruitful Earth, - The mother of all joy, which gave us birth, - The Earth so touching in its hopes to be, - So green, so tender in its sympathy. - But when life turns to bitterness--ah! then, - Where is Earth's message to the sons of men? - How does she speak? What sound of grief is hers - To match our grief? What tale of pity stirs - Her jubilant heart? The laughing woods give back - Naught of their happiness to those who lack. - The beauty of the uplands bars relief, - The prosperous fields are insolent to grief; - There is no comfort in the lowing herds, - The hum of bees, the songs, the shouts of birds; - There is no sob in all the living earth, - Naught but the flutter of discordant mirth, - On which, as on a pageant, morn and even - The careless sun shines mockingly from heaven. - There is no grief in all the world save one, - The ocean's voice, as tearful as our own. - Then from the Earth we turn--too potent mother, - Too joyous in her offspring--to that other, - The childless, joyless, unproductive Sea, - And mourn with her her dread virginity. - We clasp her naked rocks with our two hands, - Barefoot we tread her barren waste of sands, - Her breadths of shingle and her treeless shore, - Knowing her griefs are as our griefs, and more, - An eternal lack of love. - - 'Twas in this guise - Griselda cradled her soul's miseries, - And nursed it in its anguish like a child, - And soothed it to oblivion. The sea smiled - With its eternal smile upon her sorrow, - The selfsame yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, - And kept its tears in its own bosom sealed, - A mystery of passion unrevealed, - Save in the tremor of its voice at noon, - When the wind rose and played wild chords thereon. - So she. - - The memory of that place long stood - In her remembrance as a dream of good, - Dividing life as sleep divides the day, - A place of utter weakness. Let those say - Who will, that deeds of strength life's milestones are. - The dearest days are not the days of war, - And victory is forgotten in the peace - Of certain hours gone by in helplessness, - When the soul ceased to battle, and lay still - As on a deathbed dumb to good and ill. - These are its treasures. - - Nor was silence all - Griselda's ointment. Hard by the sea-wall, - Where daily her steps turned fresh peace to find, - A convent stood, inviting to the mind. - Here she found entrance at the chapel gate, - And knelt in prayer half-inarticulate, - Bowed to the earth. For patron saints it had - The Marys three--"two virtuous, and one bad," - Griselda thought, "like her own self"--who came - In flight together from Jerusalem, - And landed there; and these in her great need, - She suppliant asked for her soul's daily bread, - Using all fondest words her lips could frame, - To speak her secret wishes without blame. - Six candlesticks she vowed, to each a pair, - So they would listen to and grant her prayer. - The superstition pleased her. In her pride - She bowed and begged like any peasant's bride, - For what? for whom? she hardly could explain - Even to her, the dear St. Magdalen. - "And yet," she argued, "she at least will know - And understand me if no other do." - - All this was folly, but it comforted - And gave her strength. Then with a calmer head, - If not a calmer heart, she turned once more - From love to life. Her first strong grief was o'er. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - - How shall I take up this vain parable - And ravel out its issue? Heaven and hell, - The principles of good and evil thought, - Embodied in our lives, have blindly fought - Too long for empire in my soul to leave - Much for its utterance, much that it can grieve. - A soldier on the battlefield of life, - I have grown callous to the signs of strife, - And feel the wounds of others and my own - With scarce a tremor and without a groan. - I have seen many perish in their sins, - Known much of frailty and inconsequence, - And if I laughed once, now I dare not be - Other than sad at man's insanity. - Therefore, in all humility of years, - Colder and wiser for hopes drowned in tears, - And seeking no more quarries for my mirth, - Who most need pity of the sons of earth, - I dip in kindlier ink my chastened pen, - And fill of my lost tale what leaves remain. - - Years passed. Griselda from my wandering sight - Had waned and vanished, like a meteor bright, - Leaving no pathway in my manhood's heaven, - Save only memories vaguely unforgiven - Of something fair and sad, which for a day - Had lit its zenith and had gone its way. - Rome and the Prince, the tale that I had heard, - Griselda's beauty--all that once had stirred - My curious thought to wonder and regret, - In the vexed problem of her woman's fate, - Had yielded place to the world's work-day cares, - The wealth it covets and the toil it dares. - I was no more a boy, when idle chance - And that light favour which attends romance - Brought me once more within the transient spell - Of other days, and dreams of Lady L. - - 'Twas in September (I have always found - That month in my life's record dangerous ground, - Whether it be due to some unreasoned stress - Of the mad stars which dog our happiness, - Or whether--since in truth most things are due - To natural causes, if our blindness knew-- - To the strong law of Nature's first decay, - Warning betimes of time that cannot stay, - And summer perishing, and hours to come, - Lit by less hope in the year's martyrdom; - And so we needs must seize at any cost - Fleet pleasure's hem lest all our day be lost) - 'Twas in September, at a country house - In the Midland shires, where I had come, God knows, - Without a thought but of such joyous sort - As manhood ventures in the realms of sport - With that dear god of slaughter England's sons - Adore with incense-smoke and roar of guns, - That this new chapter opens. Who had guessed - So rare a phoenix housed in such a nest? - - For we, in truth, were no wise company, - Men strong and joyous, keen of hand and eye, - And shrewd for pleasure, but whose subtlest wit - Was still to jest at life while using it, - And jest at love, as at a fruit low hung - To all men's lips, no matter whence it sprung. - A fool's philosophy, yet dear to youth - Bred without knowledge of the nobler truth, - And seeming wisdom, till the bitter taste - Of grief has come to cure its overhaste. - Naught was there, in the scene nor in the parts - Played by the actors, worthy serious hearts, - Or worthy her whose passion trod a stage - High o'er the frailties of our prurient age, - Griselda and her unattained fair dream - Of noble deeds and griefs unknown to them. - How came she there? - - Our hostess was a woman - Less famed for wisdom than a heart all human, - Rich in life's gifts, a wealthy generous soul, - But still too fair and still too bountiful. - The rest, mad hoydens of the world, whose worth - Lay mired with folly, earthiest of the earth. - How came she there? - - When I, unconscious all - Of such high presence at our festival, - Heard her name bandied in the general hum - Of hungry tongues, which told the guests had come, - And saw in converse with our host the form, - Familiar once in sunshine and in storm, - Of her who was to me the type and sign - Of all things noble, not to say Divine, - Breathing the atmosphere of that vain house, - My heart stopped beating. Half incredulous, - I looked and questioned in my neighbours' eyes, - Seeking the sense of this supreme surprise. - My thought took words, as at the table set - Men's lips were loosed, discoursing while they ate, - And each to each. - - Beside me, of the crew - Of gilded youths who swelled the retinue - Of our fair hostess in her daily lot - Of hunting laughter when field sports were not, - Sat one, a joyous boy, whom fashion's freak, - A mad-cap courage and a beardless cheek, - Had set pre-eminent in pleasure's school - To play the hero and to play the fool - For those few years which are the summer's day - Of fashion's foils ere they are cast away. - Young Jerry Manton! Happy fortune's son, - What heights of vanity your creed had won, - Creed of adventure, and untiring words - And songs and loves as brainless as a bird's. - Who would not envy you your lack of sense, - Your lawless jibes, your wealth of insolence, - The glory of your triumphs unconcealed - In pleasure's inmost and most sacred field! - Who would not share the sunshine of your mirth, - Your god-like smile, your consciousness of worth, - The keenness of your wit in the world's ways, - Your heart so callous to its blame or praise! - Him I addressed, in pursuance of my doubt - How such a prodigy had come about. - - Young Manton eyed me. "Every road," he said, - "Leads--well--to Rome." He laughed and shook his head, - As if in censure of a thought less sage. - "My lady's thirty is a dangerous age, - And of the three where most misfortunes come - Is the worst strewn with wrecks in Christendom." - "You see," he added, "we are not all wise - In all dilemmas and all companies, - And there are times and seasons when the best - Has need of an hour's frolic with the rest, - If only to set free the importunate load - Of trouble pressing on an uphill road. - Women's first snare is vanity. At twenty - Praises are pleasant, be they ne'er so plenty; - And some, the foolish ones, are thus soon caught - Seeking to justify the flattery taught. - These are the spendthrifts, dear ingenuous souls, - Whose names emblazoned stand on pleasure's rolls, - Manning the hosts of mirth. Apart from them, - More serious or less eager in their aim, - The wise ones wait like birds that hold aloof, - Conscious of danger and the cloven hoof. - Yet there are times." - - He paused awhile and sighed. - "The second snare," said he, "is set less wide; - It stands midway between the dawn of youth - And beauty's sunset, with its naked truth, - A danger hidden cunningly in flowers, - And the wild drowsing of the noontide hours. - Here fall the elect, the chosen virtuous few, - Who have outlived the worst the storm could do, - But faint when it is over, through mere stress - Of their mortality's first weariness. - 'Tis hard to see youth perish, even when - Ourselves to the mad warrant have set pen; - And for the wisest there are days of grief - And secret doubts and hours of unbelief - In all things but the one forbidden bliss - Churchmen forbid, and poets call a kiss. - Why should we wonder? 'Tis a kindlier fate - At least than that, the last, which comes too late, - The old fool's folly nursed at forty-five. - Griselda is an angel, but alive, - Believe me, to her wings." A fatuous flush - Mantled his face, not quite perhaps a blush, - But something conscious, as of one who knows. - "Virtue and pleasure are not always foes," - He sighed. "And much depends upon the man." - - I turned impatient. There, behind her fan, - At the far table's end, Griselda's eyes - Were watching us, half hid by its disguise, - But conscious too, as if a secret string - Had vibrated 'twixt her and that vain thing, - The cynic boy, whose word was in my ear, - Dishonouring to me and him and her. - Our eyes met, and hers fell; a sudden pain - Touched me of memory, and in every vein - Ran jealous anger at young Manton's wit, - While, half aloud, I flung my curse on it. - - Later, I found Griselda gravely gay, - And glad to see me in the accustomed way - Of half affection my long zeal had won, - Her face no older, though the years had spun - Some threads unnoticed in her fair brown hair - Of lighter hue than I remembered there, - Less silver streaked than gold. All else had grown - Fairer with time, and tenderer in its tone, - As when in August woods a second burst - Of leaves is seen more golden than the first. - A woman truly to be loved--but loving? - There was the riddle wit despaired of proving, - For who can read the stars? I sat with her - The evening through, and rose up happier: - In all that crowd there was no single face - Worthy her notice, not to say her grace, - And once again her charm was on my soul. - "If she love any"--this was still the goal - Of my night thoughts in argument with fear-- - "Say what they will, the lover is not here." - Not here! And yet, at parting, she had pressed - Manton's sole hand, and nodded to the rest. - - Four days I lived in my fool's paradise, - Importuning Griselda's changing eyes - With idle flattery. I found her mood - Softer than once in her young womanhood, - Yet restless and uncertain. There were hours - Of a wild gaiety, when all the powers - Of her keen mind were in revolt with folly, - Others bedimmed with wordless melancholy. - Once too or twice she shocked me with a phrase - Of doubtful sense, revealing thoughts and ways - New to her past, an echo of the noise - Of that mad world we lived in and its joys: - Such things were sacrilege. I could not see - Unmoved my angel smirched with vanity, - Even though, it seemed at moments, for my sake. - Her laughter, when she laughed, made my heart ache, - And I had spared some pain to see her sad - Rather than thus unseasonably glad. - - Who would have dreamed it? Each new idle day, - When, tired with sport, we rested from the fray, - Five jovial shooters, jaded by the sun, - Seeking refreshment at the stroke of noon,-- - There, with the luncheon carts all trimly dight, - Stood Lady L., to the fool crowd's delight. - You would have thought her life had always been - Passed in the stubbles, as, with questions keen, - She eyed the bags and parleyed with the "guns;" - Rome's matron she with us the Goths and Huns. - Young Manton proudly spread for her his coat - Under a hedge, and she resented not. - Resented! Why resent? Nay, smiles were there. - And a swift look of pleasure, still more rare, - Pleasure and gratitude, as though the act - Had been of chivalry in form and fact - Transcending Raleigh's. Ay, indeed! Resent! - That eye were blind which doubted what it meant. - - And still I doubted. Vanity dies hard. - And love, however starving of reward, - And youth's creed of belief. It seemed a thing - Monstrous, impossible, bewildering, - As tales of dwarfs and giants gravely told - By men of science, and transmuted gold, - And magic potions turning men to beasts, - And lewd witch Sabbaths danced by unfrocked priests. - Griselda! Manton! In what mood or tense - Could folly conjugate such dreams to sense, - Or draw the contract not in terms absurd - Of such a friendship or of act or word? - Where was the common thought between the two-- - Even of partridges--the other knew? - Manton--Griselda! Nay 'twere fabulous, - A mere profanity, to argue thus; - Only I watched them closer when they strayed - To gather blackberries, as boy and maid - In a first courting, and her eager eyes - Turned as he spoke, and laughter came unwise - Before she answered, and an hour was flown, - Before he joined the rest and she was gone. - - O Love! what an absurdity thou art, - How heedless of proportion, whole or part! - Time, place, occasion, what are they to thee? - Thou playest the wanton with Solemnity, - The prince with Poverty, the rogue with Worth, - The fool with all the Wisdoms of the Earth. - Thou art a leveller, more renowned than Death, - For he, when in his rage he stops our breath, - Leaves us at least the harvest of our years, - The right to be heroic in our tears. - But thou dost only mock. Thou art a king - Dealing with slaves, who waits no questioning, - But gives--to this a province and a crown, - To that a beggar's staff and spangled gown; - And when some weep their undeserved disgrace, - Plucks at their cheeks and smites them in the face. - Thou hast no reverence, no respect for right. - Virtue to thee is a lewd appetite, - Remorse a pastime, modesty a lure, - And love, the malady, love's only cure. - - Griselda, in her love at thirty-three, - Was the supreme fool of felicity. - Reason and she had taken separate roads, - A spectacle of mirth for men and gods. - And the world laughed--discreetly in its sleeves-- - At her poor artless shifts and make-believes. - For it was true, true to the very text, - This whispered thing that had my soul perplexed, - Manton was her beloved--by what art, - What mute equation of the human heart, - What blind jibe of dame Fortune, who shall say? - The road of passion is no king's highway, - Mapped out with finger-posts for all to see, - But each soul journeys on it separately, - And only those who have walked its mazes through - Remember on what paths the wild flowers grew. - - Ay, who shall say? Nor had the truth been sung, - Save for the incontinence of Manton's tongue, - Wagging in argument on certain themes, - With boast of craft in pleasure's stratagems. - "For Love" ('twas thus he made his parable - In cynic phrase, as hero of his tale, - One evening when the others were abed, - And we two sat on smoking, head to head, - Discoursing in that tone of men scarce friends, - Who prate philosophy to candle ends), - "Love, though its laws have not as yet been written - By any Balzac for our modern Britain, - And though perhaps there is no strategy - Youth can quite count upon or argue by, - Is none the less an art, with some few rules - Wise men observe, who would outrun the fools. - Now, for myself" (here Manton spread his hands - With professorial wave in white wrist-bands) - "I hold it as a maxim always wise - In making love to deal with contraries. - Colours, books tell us, to be strongly blent, - Need opposite colours for their complement, - And so too women whose ill-reasoning mind - Requires some contradiction to be kind." - - "It is not enough in this late year of grace - To answer fools with their own foolishness-- - Rather with your best wisdom. You will need - Your folly to perplex some wiser head. - And so my maxim is, whatever least - Women expect, that thing will serve you best. - Thus, with young souls in their first unfledged years, - Ask their opinion as philosophers: - Consult their knowledge in the ways of life. - The repute of sin will please a too chaste wife. - Your deference keep for harlots: these you touch - Best by your modesty, which makes them blush. - With a proud beauty deal out insolence, - And bear her fence down with a stronger fence. - She will be angry, but a softer cheek - Turn to the smiter who has proved her weak. - And so with wisdom: meet it with surprise, - Laugh at it idly gazing in its eyes, - Leave it no solid ground for its fair feet, - And lead it lightly where love's waters meet. - Even virtue--virtue of the noblest type, - The fair sad woman, whose romance is ripe, - Needs but a little knowledge to be led, - Perhaps less than the rest if truth be said. - You must not parley with her. Words are vain, - And you might wake some half forgotten pain. - Avoid her soul. It is a place too strong - For your assaulting, and a siege were long. - Others have failed before it. Touch it not, - But march beyond, nor fire a single shot. - The fields of pleasure less defended lie: - These are your vantage-ground for victory. - Strike boldly for possession and command; - An hour may win it, if you hold her hand. - I knew one once:"... - - I would have stopped him here - But for the shame which held me prisoner; - And his undaunted reassuring smile, - Commanding confidence. "I knew once on a while," - He said, "a woman whom the world called proud, - A saintly soul, untouched by the vain crowd, - Who had survived all battle, siege, and sack, - Love ever led with armies at his back, - Yet fell at last to the mere accident - Of a chance meeting, for another meant: - Her lover had not dared it, had he known, - But faces in the dark are all as one. - You know the rhyme." - - But at this point I rose, - Fearing what worse his folly might disclose, - And having learned my lesson of romance, - A sadder man and wiser for the chance, - Bade him good night: (it was in truth good-bye, - For pretexting next morning some small lie - Of business calling me in haste to town, - I fled the house). He looked me up and down, - Yawned, rose to light his candle at the lamp, - Pressed with warm hand my own hand which was damp, - And as he sauntered cheerily to bed, - I heard him sing--they linger in my head-- - The first staves of a ballad, then the fashion - With the young bloods who shape their love and passion - At the music-halls of the Metropolis; - What I remember of the song was this: - - But, no, I cannot write it. There are things - Too bitter in their taste, and this one stings - My soul to a mad anger even yet. - I seem to hear the voices of the pit - Lewdly discoursing of incestuous scenes, - Bottom the weaver's and the enamoured queen's. - Alas, Titania! thou poor soul, alas! - How art thou fallen, and to what an ass! - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - - Griselda's madness lasted forty days, - Forty eternities! Men went their ways, - And suns arose and set, and women smiled, - And tongues wagged lightly in impeachment wild - Of Lady L.'s adventure. She was gone, - None knew by whom escorted or alone, - Or why or whither, only that one morning, - Without pretext or subterfuge or warning, - She had disappeared in silence from L. House, - Leaving her lord in multitudinous - And agonised conjecture of her fate: - So the tale went. And truly less sedate - Than his wont was in intricate affairs, - Such as his Garter or his lack of heirs, - Lord L. was seen in this new tribulation. - Griselda long had been his life's equation, - The pivot of his dealings with the world, - The mainstay of his comfort, all now hurled - To unforeseen confusion by her flight: - There was need of action swift and definite. - Where was she? Who could tell him? Divers visions - Passed through his fancy--thieves, and street collisions, - And all the hundred accidents of towns, - From broken axle trees to broken crowns. - In vain he questioned; no response was made - More than the fact that, as already said, - My lady, unattended and on foot, - (A sad imprudence here Lord L. took note), - Had gone out dressed in a black morning gown - And dark tweed waterproof, 'twixt twelve and one, - Leaving no orders to her maid, or plan - About her carriage to or groom or man. - Such was in sum the downstairs' evidence. - The hall porter, a man of ponderous sense, - Averred her ladyship had eastward turned - From the front door, and some small credit earned - For the suggestion that her steps were bent - To Whitechapel on merciful intent, - A visit of compassion to the poor, - A clue which led to a commissioner - Being sent for in hot haste from Scotland Yard. - And so the news was bruited abroad. - - It reached my ears among the earliest, - And from Lord L. himself, whose long suppressed - Emotion found its vent one afternoon - On me, the only listener left in town. - His thoughts now ran on "a religious craze - Of his poor wife's," he said, "in these last days - Indulged beyond all reason." The police - Would listen to no talk of casualties, - Still less of crime, since they had nothing found - In evidence above or under ground, - But held the case to be of simpler kind, - Home left in a disordered state of mind - Lord L. had noticed, now they talked of it, - Temper less equable and flightier wit, - "A craving for religious services - And sacred music." Something was amiss, - Or why were they in London in September? - Griselda latterly, he could remember, - Had raved of a conventual retreat - In terms no Protestant would deem discreet, - As the sole refuge in a world of sin - For human frailty, griefs best anodyne. - "The _Times_ was right. Rome threatened to absorb us: - The convents must be searched by _habeas corpus_." - - And so I came to help him. I had guessed - From his first word the vainness of his quest, - And half was moved to serve him in a strait - Where her fair fame I loved was in debate, - Yet held my peace, nor hazarded a word - Save of surprise at the strange case I heard, - Till, fortune aiding, I should find the clue - My heart desired to do what I would do. - And not in vain. Night found me duly sped, - Lord L.'s ambassador accredited, - With fullest powers to find and fetch her home, - If need should be, from the Pope's jaws in Rome. - - Gods! what a mission! First my round I went - Through half the slums of Middlesex and Kent, - Surrey and Essex--this to soothe Lord L., - Though witless all, as my heart told too well; - The hospitals no less and casual wards, - Each house as idly as his House of Lords, - And only at the week's end dared to stop - At the one door I knew still housing hope, - Young Manton's chambers. There, with reddened cheek - I heard the answer given I came to seek: - Manton was gone, his landlady half feared - He too, in some mishap, and disappeared,-- - Proof all too positive. His letters lay - A fortnight deep untouched upon the tray. - She could not forward them or risk a guess - As to his last or likeliest address. - He was in Scotland often at this season, - "But not without his guns"--a cogent reason, - And leaving, too, his valet here in town, - Perplexed of what to do or leave undone. - Abroad? Perhaps. If so, his friends might try - As a best chance the Paris Embassy. - He had been there last Spring, and might be now. - - Paris! It was enough, I made my bow, - And took my leave. I seemed to touch the thread - Of the blind labyrinth 'twas mine to tread. - Where should they be, in truth, these too fond lovers, - But in the land of all such lawless rovers: - The land of Gautier, Bourget, Maupassant, - Where still "you can" makes answer to "I can't:" - The fair domain where all romance begins - In a light borderland of venial sins, - But deepening onwards, till the fatal day - Vice swoops upon us, plead we as we may. - Griselda's bonnet o'er the windmills thrown, - Had surely crossed the Seine e'er it came down; - And I, if I would find and win her back, - Must earliest search the boulevards for her track: - And so to Paris in my zeal I passed, - Breaking my idol, mad Iconoclast. - - There is a little inn by Meudon wood - Dear to Parisians in their amorous mood, - A place of rendezvous, where bourgeois meet - Their best beloved in congregation sweet: - Clandestine, undisturbed, illicit loves, - Made half romantic by the adjoining groves, - So beautiful in spring, with the new green - Clothing the birch stems scattered white between, - Nor yet, in autumn, when the first frosts burn, - And the wind rustles in the reddening fern, - Quite robbed of sentiment for lovers' eyes, - Who seek earth's blessing on a bliss unwise, - And find the happy sanction for their state - In nature's face, unshocked by their debate, - As who should say "Let preachers frown their fill, - Here one approves. 'Tis Eden with us still." - - Such fancy, may be, in her too fond heart - Had led Griselda--with her friend--apart, - Yet not apart, from the world's curious gaze, - To this secluded, ill-frequented place: - A compromise of wills and varying moods, - His for gay crowds, her own for solitudes. - Manton knew Paris well, and loved its noise, - Its mirthful parody of serious joys, - Its pomp and circumstance. His wish had been - To flaunt the boulevards with his captured queen, - And make parade of a last triumph won - In the chaste field of prudish Albion, - Outscandalising scandal. Love and he - In any sense but of male vanity, - And the delirium of adventures new - In the world's eye--the thing he next should do-- - Were terms diverse and incompatible. - Griselda, to his eyes, was Lady L., - The fair, the chaste, the unapproached proud name - Men breathed in reverence, woman, all the same, - And not as such, and when the truth was said, - Worth more than others lightlier credited. - It all had been a jest from the beginning, - A _tour de force_, whose wit was in the winning, - A stroke of fortune and of accident, - The embrace he had told of for another meant, - While she stood grieving for a first grey hair - (A psychologic moment) on the stair, - And, kneeling down, he had adored her foot, - The one weak spot where her self-love had root, - And laughed at her, and told her she was old, - Yet growing tenderer as he grew more bold; - And so from jest to jest, and chance to chance, - To that last scene at the mad country dance - Where she had played the hoyden, he the swain, - Pretending love till love was in their brain, - And he had followed to her chamber door, - And helped her to undo the dress she wore. - - Then the elopement. That had been her doing, - Which he accepted to make good his wooing, - And careless what to both the result might be, - So it but served his end of vanity. - It all had been to this vain boy a whim, - Something grotesque, a play, a pantomime, - Where nothing had been serious but her heart, - And that was soon too tearful for its part. - He wearied in a week of her mature - Old maidish venturings in ways obscure, - Her agony of conscience dimly guessed, - The silences she stifled in her breast, - Her awkwardness--it was his word--in all - That love could teach; her sighs funereal, - And more the unnatural laughter she essayed - To meet the doubtful sense of things he said. - She was at once too tender and too prim, - Too prudish and too crazed with love and him. - At a month's end his flame had leaped beyond - Already to friends frailer and less fond, - The light Parisian world of venal charms - Which welcomed him with wide and laughing arms: - There he was happier, more at home, more gay, - King of the "high life," hero of the day. - - Griselda, in her sad suburban nook - Watched his departures with a mute rebuke, - Yet daring not to speak. The choice was hers - To stay at home or run the theatres - With her young lover in such company - As her soul loathed. She had tried despairingly - To be one, even as these, for his loved sake, - And would have followed spite of her heart's ache, - But that he hardly further cared to press, - After one failure, stamped with "dowdiness:" - That too had been his word, a bitter word, - Biting and true, which smote her like a sword, - Or rather a whip's sting to her proud cheek, - Leaving her humbled, agonised and weak. - - Poor beautiful Griselda! What was now - The value of thy beauty, chaste as snow - In thy youth's morning, the unchallenged worth - Of thy eyes' kindness, queenliest of the earth; - The tradition of thy Fra-angelic face, - Blessed as Mary's, and as full of grace; - The fame which thou despisedst, yet which made - A glory for thee meet for thy dear head? - What, if in this last crisis of thy fate, - When all a heaven and hell was in debate, - And thy archangel, with the feet of clay, - Stood mocking there in doubt to go or stay, - The unstable fabric of thy woman's dower, - Thy beauty, failed and left thee in _their_ power - Whose only law of beauty was the sting - Lent to man's lust by light bedizening? - What use was in thy beauty, if, alas! - Thou gavest them cause to mock--those tongues of brass-- - At thy too crude and insular attire, - Thy naivetes of colour, the false fire - Of thy first dallyings with the red and white, - Thy sweet pictorial robes, Pre-Raphaelite, - Quaint in their tones and _outrees_ in design, - Thy lack of unity and shape and line, - Thy English angularity--who knows, - The less than perfect fitting of thy shoes? - - Griselda, in her flight, had left behind - All but the dress she stood in, too refined, - In her fair righteousness of thought and deed, - To make provision for a future need, - However dire. She was no Israelite - To go forth from her Pharaoh in the night, - With spoils of the Egyptians in her hands, - And had thrown herself on Manton and on France - With a full courage worth a nobler cause, - Grandly oblivious of prudential laws. - Her earliest trouble, marring even the bliss - Of love's first ecstasy, had come of this, - Her want of clothes--a worse and weightier care - At the mere moment than her soul's despair - For its deep fall from virtuous estate. - How should she dress herself, she asked of Fate, - With neither maid, nor money, nor a name? - It was her first experiment in shame. - Now, after all her poor economies, - This was the ending read in his vexed eyes, - And spoken by his lips: her utmost art - Had failed to please that idle thing, his heart, - Or even to avert his petulant scorn - For one so little to love's manner born. - - And thus I found them, at the angry noon - Of their "red month," the next to honeymoon: - Two silent revellers at a loveless feast, - Scared by hate's morning breaking in their east-- - A dawn which was of penance and despair, - With pleasure's ghost to fill the vacant chair. - I took it, and was welcomed rapturously, - As a far sail by shipwrecked souls at sea, - An opportune deliverer, timely sent - To break the autumn of their discontent, - And give a pretext to their need grown sore - Of issue from joys dead by any door. - - Manton, all confidential from the first, - Told me the tale of his last sins and worst, - As meriting a sympathy not less - Than the best actions virtuous men confess. - He was overwhelmed with women and with debt-- - Women who loved him, bills which must be met. - What could he do? Her ladyship was mad-- - It was her fault, not his, this escapade. - He had warned her from the first, and as a friend, - That all such frolics had a serious end, - And that to leave her home was the worst way - A woman would who wanted to be gay. - - "For look," said he, "we men, who note these things, - And how the unthinking flutterers burn their wings, - Know that a woman, be she what she will, - The fairest, noblest, most adorable, - Dowered in her home with all seraphic charms, - Whom heaven itself might envy in your arms, - A paragon of pleasure undenied - At her own chaste respectable fireside, - Becomes, what shall I say, when she steps down - From the high world of her untouched renown-- - A something differing in no serious mood - From the sad rest of the light sisterhood: - Perhaps indeed more troublesome than these, - Because she keenlier feels the agonies: - A wounded soul, who has not even the wit - To hide its hurt and make a jest of it; - A maid of Astolat, launched in her barge, - A corpse on all the world, a _femme a charge_." - - "'Tis not," he argued, "our poor human sins - That make us what we are when shame begins, - But the world pointing at our naked state: - Then we are shocked and humbled at our fate, - Silent and shamed in all we honour most-- - For what is virtue but the right to boast? - A married woman's love, three weeks from home, - Is the absurdest thing in Christendom, - Dull as a _menage_ in the demi-monde - And dismaller far by reason of the bond. - All this I told my lady ere we went, - But warning wasted is on sentiment. - You see the net result here in one word, - A crying woman and a lover bored." - - So far young Manton. She for whom I came, - Griselda's self, sweet soul, in her new shame - Essayed awhile to hide from me the truth - Of this last hap of her belated youth, - Her disillusion with her graceless lover. - She made sad cloaks for him which could not cover - His great unworthiness and her despair, - All with a frightened half-maternal air, - Most pitiful and touching. To my plea, - Urging her home, she answered mournfully, - That she was bound now to her way of life, - And owed herself no less than as his wife - To him she had chosen out of all mankind. - 'Twas better to be foolish, even blind, - If he had faults, so she could serve him still-- - And this had been her promise and her will. - She would not hear of duties owed elsewhere: - What was she to Lord L., or he to her? - I need not speak of it. And yet she clung - To my protecting presence in her wrong; - And once, when Manton's jibes made bitterer play, - Implored me with appealing eyes to stay. - And so I lingered on. - - Those autumn days, - Spent with Griselda in the woodland ways - Of Meudon with her lover, or alone, - When his mad fancies carried him to town, - Remain to me an unsubstantial act - Of dreaming fancy, rather than the fact - Of any waking moment in my past, - The sweetest, saddest, and with her the last-- - For suddenly they ended. - - We had been - One Sunday for a jaunt upon the Seine, - We two--in Manton's absence, now prolonged - To a third night--and in a steamboat, thronged - With idle bourgeois folk, whom the last glory - Of a late autumn had sent forth in foray - To Passy and St. Cloud, from stage to stage, - Had made with heavy souls our pilgrimage; - And homeward turning and with little zest, - The fair day done, to love's deserted nest - Had come with lagging feet and weary eyes, - Expectant still of some new dark surprise, - When the blow fell unsparing on her head, - Already by what fortunes buffeted. - - How did it happen, that last tragedy?-- - For tragedy it was, let none deny, - Though all ignoble. Every soul of us - Touches one moment in death's darkened house - The plane of the heroic, and compels - Men's laughter into tears--ay, heaven's and hell's. - How did it happen? There was that upon - Their faces at the door more than the tone - Of their replies, that warned us of the thing - We had not looked for in our questioning; - And our lips faltered, and our ears, afraid, - Shrank from more hearing. What was it they said - In their fool's jargon, that he lay upstairs? - He? Manton? The dispenser of our cares? - The mountebank young reveller? Suffering? Ill? - And she, poor soul, that suffered at his will! - A sinister case? Not dying? Pitiful God! - Truly Thou smitest blindly with Thy rod. - For Manton was not worthy to die young, - Beloved by her with blessings on her tongue. - And such a cause of death! - - She never heard - The whole truth told, for each one spared his word, - And he lay mute for ever. But to me - The thing was storied void of mystery, - And thus they told it. Hardly had we gone - On our sad river outing, when from town - Manton had come with a gay troop of friends, - Such as the _coulisse_ of the opera lends, - To breakfast at the inn and spend the day - In mirthful noise, as was his vagrant way. - A drunken frolic, and most insolent - To her whose honour with his own was blent, - To end in this last tragedy. None knew - Quite how it happened, or a cause could shew - Further than this, that, rising from the table - The last to go, with steps perhaps unstable-- - For they had feasted freely, and the stair - Was steep and iron-edged, and needed care; - And singing, as he went, the selfsame song, - Which I remembered, to the laughing throng, - He had slipped his length, and fallen feet-first down. - When they picked him up his power to move was gone, - Though he could speak. They laid him on a bed, - Her bed, Griselda's, and called in with speed - Such help of doctors and commissioners - As law prescribed, and medicine for their fears. - 'Twas his last night. - - There, in Griselda's hands, - Young Jerry Manton lay with the last sands - Of his life's hour-glass trickling to its close, - Griselda watching, with what thoughts, God knows. - We did not speak. But her lips moved in prayer, - And mine too, in the way of man's despair. - I did not love him, yet a human pity - Softened my eyes. Afar, from the great city, - The sound came to us of the eternal hum, - Unceasing, changeless, pregnant with all doom - Of insolent life that rises from its streets, - The pulse of sin which ever beats and beats, - Wearying the ears of God. O Paris, Paris! - What doom is thine for every soul that tarries - Too long with thee, a stranger in thy arms. - Thy smiles are incantations, thy brave charms - Death to thy lovers. Each gay mother's son, - Smitten with love for thee, is straight undone. - And lo the chariot wheels upon thy ways! - And a new garland hung in _Pere la Chaise_! - - Poor soul! I turned and looked into the night, - Through the uncurtained windows, and there bright - Saw the mute twinkle of a thousand stars. - One night! the least in all time's calendars, - Yet fraught with what a meaning for this one! - One star, the least of all that million! - One room in that one city! Yet for him - The universe there was of space and time. - What were his thoughts? In that chaotic soul, - Home of sad jests, obscene, unbeautiful, - Mired with the earthiest of brute desires, - And lit to sentience only with lewd fires, - Was there no secret, undisturbed, fair place - Watered with love and favoured with God's grace - To which the wounded consciousness had fled - For its last refuge from a world of dread? - Was his soul touched to tenderness, to awe, - To softer recollection? All we saw - Was the maimed body gasping forth its breath, - A rigid setting of the silent teeth, - And the hands trembling. Death was with us there. - But where was he--O Heaven of pity! where? - - We watched till morning by the dying man, - She weeping silently, I grieved and wan, - And still he moved not. But with the first break - Of day in the window panes we saw him make - A sign as if of speaking. Pressing near-- - For his lips moved, Griselda deemed, in prayer-- - We heard him make profession of his faith, - As a man of pleasure face to face with death, - A kind of gambler's Athanasian Creed, - Repeated at the hour of his last need. - "Five sovereigns," said he, steadying his will, - As in defiance of death's power to kill, - And with that smile of a superior mind, - Which was his strength in dealing with mankind, - The world of sporting jargon and gay livers. - "Five sovereigns is a fiver, and five fivers - A pony, and five ponies are a hundred-- - No, four," he added, seeing he had blundered. - "_Four_ to the hundred and _five_ centuries - Make up the monkey." From his dying eyes - The smile of triumph faded. "There, I've done it," - He said, "but there was no great odds upon it, - You see with a broken back." - - He spoke no more, - And in another hour had passed the door - Which shuts the living from eternity. - Where was he? God of pity, where was he? - - This was the end of Lady L.'s romance. - - When we had buried him, as they do in France, - In a tomb inscribed "_a perpetuite_" - (Formally rented till the Judgment Day), - She put off black, and shed no further tears; - Her face for the first time showed all its years, - But not a trace beyond. Without demur - She gave adhesion to my plans for her, - And we went home to London and Lord L., - Silent together, by the next night's mail. - She had been six weeks away. - - The interview - Between them was dramatic. I, who knew - Her whole mad secret, and had seen her soul - Stripped of its covering, and without control, - Bowed down by circumstance and galled with shame, - Yielding to wounds and griefs without a name, - Had feared for her a wild unhappy scene. - I held Lord L. for the least stern of men, - And yet I dared not hope even he would crave - No explanation e'er he quite forgave. - - I was with them when they met, unwilling third, - In their mute bandying of the unspoken word. - Lord L. essayed to speak. I saw his face - Made up for a high act of tragic grace - As he came forward. It was grave and mild, - A father's welcoming a truant child, - Forgiving, yet intent to mark the pain - With hope "the thing should not occur again." - His lips began to move as to some speech - Framed in this sense, as one might gently preach - A word in season to too gadding wives - Of duties owed, at least by those whose lives - Moved in high places. But it died unsaid. - There was that about Griselda that forbade - Marital questionings. Her queenly eyes - Met his with a mute answer of surprise, - Marking the unseemliness of all display - More strongly than with words, as who should say - _Noblesse oblige._ She took his outstretched hand, - And kissed his cheek, but would not understand - A word of his reproaches. Even I, - With my full knowledge and no more a boy, - But versed by years in the world's wickedness, - And open-eyed to her, alas! no less - Than to all womanhood, even I felt shame, - And half absolved her in my mind from blame. - And he, how could he less? He was but human, - The fortunate husband of how fair a woman! - He stammered his excuses. - - What she told - When I had left them (since all coin is gold - To those who would believe, and who the key - Hold of their eyes, in blind faith's alchemy) - I never learned. - - I did not linger on, - Seeing her peril past and the day won, - But took my leave. She led me to the door - With her old kindness of the days of yore, - And thanked me as one thanks for little things. - "You have been," she said, "an angel without wings, - And I shall not forget,--nor will Lord L.; - And yet," she said, with an imperceptible - Change in her voice, "there are things the world will say - Which are neither just nor kind, and, if to-day - We part awhile, remember we are friends, - If not now later. Time will make amends, - And we shall meet again." I pressed her hand - A moment to my lips. "I understand," - I said, and gazed a last time in her eyes; - "Say all you will. I am your sacrifice." - - And so, in truth, it was. Henceforth there lay - A gulf between us, widening with delay, - And which our souls were impotent to pass, - The gulf of a dead secret; and, alas! - Who knows what subtle treacheries within, - For virtue rends its witnesses of sin, - And hearts are strangely fashioned by their fears. - We met no more in friendship through the years, - Although I held her secret as my own, - And fought her battles, her best champion, - On many a stricken field in scandal's war, - Till all was well forgotten. From afar - I watched her fortunes still with tenderness, - Yet sadly, as cast out of Paradise. - For ever, spite her promise, from that day, - When I met L., he looked another way; - And she, Griselda, was reserved and chill. - I had behaved, her women friends said, ill, - And caused a needless scandal in her life, - --They told not what. Enough, that as a wife - She had been compelled to close her doors on me, - And that her lord knew all the iniquity. - - And so I bore the burden of her sin. - - What more shall I relate? The cynic vein - Has overwhelmed my tale, and I must stop. - Its heroine lived to justify all hope - Of her long-suffering lord, that out of pain - Blessings would grow, and his house smile again - With the fulfilled expectance of an heir. - Griselda sat no longer in despair, - Nor wasted her full life on dreams of folly; - She had little time for moods of melancholy, - Or heart to venture further in love's ways; - She was again the theme of all men's praise, - And suffered no man's passion. Once a year, - In the late autumn, when the leaves grew sere - She made retreat to a lay sisterhood, - And lived awhile there for her soul's more good, - In pious meditation, fasts and prayer. - Some say she wore concealed a shirt of hair - Under her dresses, even at court balls, - And certain 'tis that all Rome's rituals - Were followed daily at the private Mass - In her new chauntry built behind Hans Place. - Lord L. approved of all she did, even this, - Strange as it seemed to his old fashionedness. - - He, gentle soul, grown garrulous with years, - Prosed of her virtues to all listeners, - And of their son's, the child of his old age, - A prodigy of beauty and ways sage. - It was a vow, he said, once made in Rome, - Had brought them this chief treasure of their home. - A vow! The light world laughed--for miracles - Are not believed in now, except as hell's. - And yet the ways of God are passing strange. - And this is certain (and therein the range - Of my long tale is reached, and I am free), - --There is at Ostia, close beside the sea, - A convent church, the same where years ago - Griselda kneeled in tears and made her vow; - And in that shrine, beneath the crucifix, - They show a votive offering, candlesticks - Of more than common workmanship and size, - And underneath inscribed the votary's - Name in initials, and the date, all told, - Hall-marked in England, and of massive gold. - - -THE END. - - -_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. _Edinburgh and London_ - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - - -Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant -preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected. - -Page 81: "spendthrifts" was printed as "spendthifts". - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Griselda, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRISELDA *** - -***** This file should be named 43066.txt or 43066.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/0/6/43066/ - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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