Chapter 11

“And I,” replied I, “not for future gain,For what he may become, would prize my friend;I prize the thing he is; nor wish him changed.I would not dare disturb for aught besidesThe poise of traits composing sympathy,Which, as they are, so balance my desires.Ah, did I chiefly look for gain to come,For him or me, where were my present joy?—Nay, nay, that love I, which I find possess’d.”“Pray, how much can you find possess’d?” she ask’d.“Enough to love,” I said.“What holds enoughFor that?” she laugh’d.“Enough,” I answer’d her,—“To make his presence here a boon to me;To make his wishes a behest for me;To make me feel an instinct seeking him,And, finding him, a consciousness of all.”“‘A consciousness of all,’ is vague,” she said.“I ask for reasons and you rave alone.This very vagueness, while you answer me,Proves all your love a myth, or immature.”“Ah, dear,” replied I, “there is higher love,—A love of God, a love all worshipful;And that love should you ask me to define,I might an answer vaguer still give back:The finite only can be well defined.”“The finite!” she repeated; then exclaim’d:“Oh, you wish worship! We must find you thenAn idol! and I know a golden one;And so do you—nay, nay, deny it not.—And father’s heart is fix’d on him; besidesYour lover could fall down and worship you;So father says. Two idols you could have,—Your home a very temple; only, dear,Be not so backward. Had but I your chance—To you our suitors all present their best.You get the diamonds as if you were noon;While I, I get but coals. They never touch,Unless to burn or else to blacken me.”

“And I,” replied I, “not for future gain,

For what he may become, would prize my friend;

I prize the thing he is; nor wish him changed.

I would not dare disturb for aught besides

The poise of traits composing sympathy,

Which, as they are, so balance my desires.

Ah, did I chiefly look for gain to come,

For him or me, where were my present joy?—

Nay, nay, that love I, which I find possess’d.”

“Pray, how much can you find possess’d?” she ask’d.

“Enough to love,” I said.“What holds enoughFor that?” she laugh’d.“Enough,” I answer’d her,—“To make his presence here a boon to me;To make his wishes a behest for me;To make me feel an instinct seeking him,And, finding him, a consciousness of all.”

“Enough to love,” I said.

“What holds enough

For that?” she laugh’d.

“Enough,” I answer’d her,—

“To make his presence here a boon to me;

To make his wishes a behest for me;

To make me feel an instinct seeking him,

And, finding him, a consciousness of all.”

“‘A consciousness of all,’ is vague,” she said.“I ask for reasons and you rave alone.This very vagueness, while you answer me,Proves all your love a myth, or immature.”

“‘A consciousness of all,’ is vague,” she said.

“I ask for reasons and you rave alone.

This very vagueness, while you answer me,

Proves all your love a myth, or immature.”

“Ah, dear,” replied I, “there is higher love,—A love of God, a love all worshipful;And that love should you ask me to define,I might an answer vaguer still give back:The finite only can be well defined.”

“Ah, dear,” replied I, “there is higher love,—

A love of God, a love all worshipful;

And that love should you ask me to define,

I might an answer vaguer still give back:

The finite only can be well defined.”

“The finite!” she repeated; then exclaim’d:“Oh, you wish worship! We must find you thenAn idol! and I know a golden one;And so do you—nay, nay, deny it not.—And father’s heart is fix’d on him; besidesYour lover could fall down and worship you;So father says. Two idols you could have,—Your home a very temple; only, dear,Be not so backward. Had but I your chance—To you our suitors all present their best.You get the diamonds as if you were noon;While I, I get but coals. They never touch,Unless to burn or else to blacken me.”

“The finite!” she repeated; then exclaim’d:

“Oh, you wish worship! We must find you then

An idol! and I know a golden one;

And so do you—nay, nay, deny it not.—

And father’s heart is fix’d on him; besides

Your lover could fall down and worship you;

So father says. Two idols you could have,—

Your home a very temple; only, dear,

Be not so backward. Had but I your chance—

To you our suitors all present their best.

You get the diamonds as if you were noon;

While I, I get but coals. They never touch,

Unless to burn or else to blacken me.”

She spoke, then left abruptly. Strange it was,With what abhorrence I would shrink from herWhile speaking thus. Not selfish seem’d she all,But so insensible; and these, our tastes,These dainty despots of desire, our tastesThe worst of tyrants are; nor brook offense.I wellnigh hated her. Yet minded thus,While musing on her moods that seemed so hard—Have not you noticed at the arsenal,At times, when watching those grim helmets there,All suddenly, upon their polish’d brassA wondrous brightness? then, within the disk,Your own face hideous render’d? So with me:Amid her harsher traits that there appear’d,Shone soon the brighter metal; out of it,Leer’d back to greet me my own hideousness!—For I, it seem’d, had been the selfish one.Had I regarded her, my father’s wish,That suitor’s choice?—Nay, I had thought of none,None saving Haydn.Then I ask’d again,Could this be true—the thing my sister said,—Could aught so sweet as Haydn’s love exudeFrom moods, all mushroom’d by disease? I thoughtHow marvellously throng’d with strange weird shapesDeep halls of fancy loom, when lighted upBy fires of fever; how, with trust complete,The weak lean oft on all beside themselves,And soon I blamed my heart that it could dareTo lure his poor, weak, crazed confession on;And then I flush’d, and broke in passionate sobs,To think Doretta dared to hint such things.

She spoke, then left abruptly. Strange it was,

With what abhorrence I would shrink from her

While speaking thus. Not selfish seem’d she all,

But so insensible; and these, our tastes,

These dainty despots of desire, our tastes

The worst of tyrants are; nor brook offense.

I wellnigh hated her. Yet minded thus,

While musing on her moods that seemed so hard—

Have not you noticed at the arsenal,

At times, when watching those grim helmets there,

All suddenly, upon their polish’d brass

A wondrous brightness? then, within the disk,

Your own face hideous render’d? So with me:

Amid her harsher traits that there appear’d,

Shone soon the brighter metal; out of it,

Leer’d back to greet me my own hideousness!—

For I, it seem’d, had been the selfish one.

Had I regarded her, my father’s wish,

That suitor’s choice?—Nay, I had thought of none,

None saving Haydn.

Then I ask’d again,

Could this be true—the thing my sister said,—

Could aught so sweet as Haydn’s love exude

From moods, all mushroom’d by disease? I thought

How marvellously throng’d with strange weird shapes

Deep halls of fancy loom, when lighted up

By fires of fever; how, with trust complete,

The weak lean oft on all beside themselves,

And soon I blamed my heart that it could dare

To lure his poor, weak, crazed confession on;

And then I flush’d, and broke in passionate sobs,

To think Doretta dared to hint such things.

Three days my woes alternated, and thenI went to my confessor for relief.“What, child,” he said, “love troubles you again?The rest of us poor mortals here, we fretBecause we have too little of it, youBecause you have too much. All girls are prone,Young girls, to deem their own love great and grand;But you, my child, find yours a very monster!It taxes all your powers to get it food;Yet nothing does unless to tramp on you.Now tell me, think you God it is, or man,Who makes our earthly love so troublesome?”“Why, man,” I said, “of course.”“Of course,” he said;“Then think you not it might be wise to getSome less of man in you, and more of God?—How fares it with your prayers?”“But yet,” I urged,“It scarcely seems my fault, this woe of mine.”“Seems not your fault?” he answer’d; “weigh the sides:One for you—three against you—which shouldyield?”“No; two for me,” I said,—“myself and Haydn;Besides, the other three have no such love.”“No love?” he said. “Is that a Christian mood?A modest, humble mood?—‘Have no such love’?How test we love, my child? It seems to meThat love, like light, is tested by its rays.The halo crowns the saints, our lights of life,Just as the love they shed surrounds their souls.Where one is God’s, the strong soul serves the weak;The mother yields her powers to bless her babes;The man his powers, for her; and Christ for all.Ah, child, if you were strong! had love like theirs!”I sigh’d, “But how can one know whom to serve?”“How?—Put it thus:—your own wish? or your father’s?—How reads the decalogue?”“But,” answer’d I,“It seems as if some higher power there wereThat first should be obey’d—some power like God.”“Yes, child,” he said, “there is, of course, the Church:Of course, of course.”“Who is the Church?” I ask’d.And then he laugh’d: “Who?—What a question, child!—Why, read your prayer-book. Why, of course, the Church,Speaks through its ministers.”“If you speak then,”Inquired I, trembling,—“give advice to us,Is that the last resort?—must one obey?”“Why, that depends,” he said;—“but, dear me, child,You must not think us bears! We growl at timesIn sermons, eh?—But then, dear me, dear me,We would not eat our flock up, little lamb!—But come,” he added, “come; enough of this;How fares it with your prayers?”

Three days my woes alternated, and thenI went to my confessor for relief.

Three days my woes alternated, and then

I went to my confessor for relief.

“What, child,” he said, “love troubles you again?The rest of us poor mortals here, we fretBecause we have too little of it, youBecause you have too much. All girls are prone,Young girls, to deem their own love great and grand;But you, my child, find yours a very monster!It taxes all your powers to get it food;Yet nothing does unless to tramp on you.Now tell me, think you God it is, or man,Who makes our earthly love so troublesome?”

“What, child,” he said, “love troubles you again?

The rest of us poor mortals here, we fret

Because we have too little of it, you

Because you have too much. All girls are prone,

Young girls, to deem their own love great and grand;

But you, my child, find yours a very monster!

It taxes all your powers to get it food;

Yet nothing does unless to tramp on you.

Now tell me, think you God it is, or man,

Who makes our earthly love so troublesome?”

“Why, man,” I said, “of course.”“Of course,” he said;“Then think you not it might be wise to getSome less of man in you, and more of God?—How fares it with your prayers?”“But yet,” I urged,“It scarcely seems my fault, this woe of mine.”

“Why, man,” I said, “of course.”

“Of course,” he said;

“Then think you not it might be wise to get

Some less of man in you, and more of God?—

How fares it with your prayers?”

“But yet,” I urged,

“It scarcely seems my fault, this woe of mine.”

“Seems not your fault?” he answer’d; “weigh the sides:One for you—three against you—which shouldyield?”

“Seems not your fault?” he answer’d; “weigh the sides:

One for you—three against you—which should

yield?”

“No; two for me,” I said,—“myself and Haydn;Besides, the other three have no such love.”

“No; two for me,” I said,—“myself and Haydn;

Besides, the other three have no such love.”

“No love?” he said. “Is that a Christian mood?A modest, humble mood?—‘Have no such love’?How test we love, my child? It seems to meThat love, like light, is tested by its rays.The halo crowns the saints, our lights of life,Just as the love they shed surrounds their souls.Where one is God’s, the strong soul serves the weak;The mother yields her powers to bless her babes;The man his powers, for her; and Christ for all.Ah, child, if you were strong! had love like theirs!”

“No love?” he said. “Is that a Christian mood?

A modest, humble mood?—‘Have no such love’?

How test we love, my child? It seems to me

That love, like light, is tested by its rays.

The halo crowns the saints, our lights of life,

Just as the love they shed surrounds their souls.

Where one is God’s, the strong soul serves the weak;

The mother yields her powers to bless her babes;

The man his powers, for her; and Christ for all.

Ah, child, if you were strong! had love like theirs!”

I sigh’d, “But how can one know whom to serve?”

“How?—Put it thus:—your own wish? or your father’s?—How reads the decalogue?”“But,” answer’d I,“It seems as if some higher power there wereThat first should be obey’d—some power like God.”

“How?—Put it thus:—your own wish? or your father’s?—

How reads the decalogue?”

“But,” answer’d I,

“It seems as if some higher power there were

That first should be obey’d—some power like God.”

“Yes, child,” he said, “there is, of course, the Church:Of course, of course.”“Who is the Church?” I ask’d.And then he laugh’d: “Who?—What a question, child!—Why, read your prayer-book. Why, of course, the Church,Speaks through its ministers.”“If you speak then,”Inquired I, trembling,—“give advice to us,Is that the last resort?—must one obey?”

“Yes, child,” he said, “there is, of course, the Church:

Of course, of course.”

“Who is the Church?” I ask’d.

And then he laugh’d: “Who?—What a question, child!—

Why, read your prayer-book. Why, of course, the Church,

Speaks through its ministers.”

“If you speak then,”

Inquired I, trembling,—“give advice to us,

Is that the last resort?—must one obey?”

“Why, that depends,” he said;—“but, dear me, child,You must not think us bears! We growl at timesIn sermons, eh?—But then, dear me, dear me,We would not eat our flock up, little lamb!—But come,” he added, “come; enough of this;How fares it with your prayers?”

“Why, that depends,” he said;—“but, dear me, child,

You must not think us bears! We growl at times

In sermons, eh?—But then, dear me, dear me,

We would not eat our flock up, little lamb!—

But come,” he added, “come; enough of this;

How fares it with your prayers?”

Soon after that,One day, while troubled much, I met by chance,My Haydn, half restored, outside his room.For once, he sat alone; and, seeing me,—“Why, friend, what accident is this?” he ask’d.“In tears, too, tears?—Tell now, what sullen stormHas left such heavy drops? Did it not knowThat these too tender lids might droop? if droop,What rare views they might close to some one here?—What can have happen’d?“Why not speak to me?—You seem the very statue of yourself.—Why, what has chill’d you so?—Not I?—Not I?—Pauline, I know, if I to you were cold,A certain rosy face with opening lipsCould come with power to bring me summer air,Dispelling sweetly my most wintry wish,Despite myself!—Why will you trust me not?”And then I spoke to him. I hinted firstMy moods were odd; not moods for him to mind.“Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a familyWhere all the children grew so very odd,—Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste.Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they,And not enough of summer in their home.—I know that you are not so very oddThat you would keep apart from one you love.And I, can I not hope that I am one?”

Soon after that,One day, while troubled much, I met by chance,My Haydn, half restored, outside his room.For once, he sat alone; and, seeing me,—

Soon after that,

One day, while troubled much, I met by chance,

My Haydn, half restored, outside his room.

For once, he sat alone; and, seeing me,—

“Why, friend, what accident is this?” he ask’d.“In tears, too, tears?—Tell now, what sullen stormHas left such heavy drops? Did it not knowThat these too tender lids might droop? if droop,What rare views they might close to some one here?—What can have happen’d?

“Why, friend, what accident is this?” he ask’d.

“In tears, too, tears?—Tell now, what sullen storm

Has left such heavy drops? Did it not know

That these too tender lids might droop? if droop,

What rare views they might close to some one here?—

What can have happen’d?

“Why not speak to me?—You seem the very statue of yourself.—Why, what has chill’d you so?—Not I?—Not I?—Pauline, I know, if I to you were cold,A certain rosy face with opening lipsCould come with power to bring me summer air,Dispelling sweetly my most wintry wish,Despite myself!—Why will you trust me not?”

“Why not speak to me?—

You seem the very statue of yourself.—

Why, what has chill’d you so?—Not I?—Not I?—

Pauline, I know, if I to you were cold,

A certain rosy face with opening lips

Could come with power to bring me summer air,

Dispelling sweetly my most wintry wish,

Despite myself!—Why will you trust me not?”

And then I spoke to him. I hinted firstMy moods were odd; not moods for him to mind.

And then I spoke to him. I hinted first

My moods were odd; not moods for him to mind.

“Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a familyWhere all the children grew so very odd,—Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste.Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they,And not enough of summer in their home.—I know that you are not so very oddThat you would keep apart from one you love.And I, can I not hope that I am one?”

“Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a family

Where all the children grew so very odd,—

Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste.

Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they,

And not enough of summer in their home.—

I know that you are not so very odd

That you would keep apart from one you love.

And I, can I not hope that I am one?”

At these words then (how could I help myself?)My heart-gates flew wide open; emptied all,—The whole the priest had told me of my sin;And how we should not talk together more.How wild it made him! Never had I seenOne shaken so. His anger frighten’d me.“This crafty priest,” he said, “you ask’d of God:He answer’d you about the Church, ‘of course.’And of the Church about the priests, ‘of course,’And of the priests about himself, ‘of course.’I tell you this is cursèd selfishness;I tell you it is downright sacrilege!—To strain the oceans of the InfiniteDown through that sieve, man’s windpipe, wheezing out,‘I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest.’”“O Haydn,” said I, “How—how can you dare?”“How dare?” he cried out, “dare? Am I a dog,A dog or woman cringing to a man,Because of kicks or curses?”“Nay,” I sobb’d,“I kneel before his office, not to him.”“Poor girl,” he said, “forgive me—stop—I beg—What? can you think that I would make you weep?Not, darling, not of you, I meant to speak,But of the system.”“System,” I replied;“Why, Haydn, are you not a Christian, then?”“And wherefore not?” he ask’d.“Because,” I said,“You speak so of the Church.”“But I,” said he,“Was arguing not of that, but of the priest.”“And he has been ordain’d,” I said: “And you,You reverence not the ministers of God?”“Of God,” he mutter’d,—“yes, when that they are.I reverence the princeship; not the princeWho doffs his regal robes, and leaves his throne,And lowers his aims and slaves it with mere serfs.”

At these words then (how could I help myself?)My heart-gates flew wide open; emptied all,—The whole the priest had told me of my sin;And how we should not talk together more.

At these words then (how could I help myself?)

My heart-gates flew wide open; emptied all,—

The whole the priest had told me of my sin;

And how we should not talk together more.

How wild it made him! Never had I seenOne shaken so. His anger frighten’d me.“This crafty priest,” he said, “you ask’d of God:He answer’d you about the Church, ‘of course.’And of the Church about the priests, ‘of course,’And of the priests about himself, ‘of course.’I tell you this is cursèd selfishness;I tell you it is downright sacrilege!—To strain the oceans of the InfiniteDown through that sieve, man’s windpipe, wheezing out,‘I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest.’”

How wild it made him! Never had I seen

One shaken so. His anger frighten’d me.

“This crafty priest,” he said, “you ask’d of God:

He answer’d you about the Church, ‘of course.’

And of the Church about the priests, ‘of course,’

And of the priests about himself, ‘of course.’

I tell you this is cursèd selfishness;

I tell you it is downright sacrilege!—

To strain the oceans of the Infinite

Down through that sieve, man’s windpipe, wheezing out,

‘I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest.’”

“O Haydn,” said I, “How—how can you dare?”

“How dare?” he cried out, “dare? Am I a dog,A dog or woman cringing to a man,Because of kicks or curses?”“Nay,” I sobb’d,“I kneel before his office, not to him.”

“How dare?” he cried out, “dare? Am I a dog,

A dog or woman cringing to a man,

Because of kicks or curses?”

“Nay,” I sobb’d,

“I kneel before his office, not to him.”

“Poor girl,” he said, “forgive me—stop—I beg—What? can you think that I would make you weep?Not, darling, not of you, I meant to speak,But of the system.”“System,” I replied;“Why, Haydn, are you not a Christian, then?”

“Poor girl,” he said, “forgive me—stop—I beg—

What? can you think that I would make you weep?

Not, darling, not of you, I meant to speak,

But of the system.”

“System,” I replied;

“Why, Haydn, are you not a Christian, then?”

“And wherefore not?” he ask’d.“Because,” I said,“You speak so of the Church.”“But I,” said he,“Was arguing not of that, but of the priest.”

“And wherefore not?” he ask’d.

“Because,” I said,

“You speak so of the Church.”

“But I,” said he,

“Was arguing not of that, but of the priest.”

“And he has been ordain’d,” I said: “And you,You reverence not the ministers of God?”

“And he has been ordain’d,” I said: “And you,

You reverence not the ministers of God?”

“Of God,” he mutter’d,—“yes, when that they are.I reverence the princeship; not the princeWho doffs his regal robes, and leaves his throne,And lowers his aims and slaves it with mere serfs.”

“Of God,” he mutter’d,—“yes, when that they are.

I reverence the princeship; not the prince

Who doffs his regal robes, and leaves his throne,

And lowers his aims and slaves it with mere serfs.”

“What can you mean?” I ask’d.“I mean that priestsAre not ordain’d for work in every sphere.A prince dispenses, does not mine, his gold.A priest administers the truth reveal’d;What power has he to delve divine designs,Or minister dictation, in the spheresWhere God, to train our reason, leaves us free?Your priest who tampers with our home-life here,—What warrant holds he, human or divine?Whatever move him—if he serve your father,Or deem that gifts like those he fancies mine,May worthier prove, devoted to the Church,Is he in this our final arbiter?—Have I no judgment?—are not you of age?Pauline, but heed me; let no power, I beg,Succeed in sundering us. Heaven hears my wordsI fear some plot may crush, or make your soul(God save you if you yield) a mere bent truckTo bear some weight of meanness on to ill.”“But I,” I said, “had ask’d the priest’s advice.”“He handled ill th’ occasion,” answer’d he.“I would not dare to mould another thus.Nay, though I knew that I could model thenceThe best-form’d manhood of my mind’s ideal.Who knows?—My own ideal, my wisest aim,May tempt myself, and others, too, astray.If I be made one soul to answer for,And make myself responsible for two,I may be doubly damn’d. How impious,—The will that thus would manage other wills;As though we men were puppets of a show,Not spirits, restless and irresolute,Poised on a point between the right and wrongFrom which a breath may launch for heaven or hell!—You dare submit to this impiety?”“But, Haydn,” said I, “you, too, heed advice.”“Advice?” he answer’d. “What?—is this the groundOn which these base authority?—Nay, nay,Base where they may, their ground is wilfulness,Years back invested; not disrobed, becauseOld forms are reverenced.—Yes, but are they right?Think you God gives to strength of will the rightTo say what is right? And if not, what then?If one obey then, how can he be sureThat he obeys not sin?”“They may have will,”I said, “but you forget; the priests are wise.”“About what life?” he cried. “In every pathExperience is the warrant for advice.But life for them—what know they real of life?—Naught, naught; and if they give you their adviceThey give you naught, or else they give you whims;—A bachelor teaching dames about their babes!Or matrons how to guide their grown-up girls!Alas, their counsels ignorant, partial, false,Repel toward infidelity the wise;And half of those they hope will follow themMake hypocrites or hypochondriacs.”

“What can you mean?” I ask’d.

“I mean that priests

Are not ordain’d for work in every sphere.

A prince dispenses, does not mine, his gold.

A priest administers the truth reveal’d;

What power has he to delve divine designs,

Or minister dictation, in the spheres

Where God, to train our reason, leaves us free?

Your priest who tampers with our home-life here,—

What warrant holds he, human or divine?

Whatever move him—if he serve your father,

Or deem that gifts like those he fancies mine,

May worthier prove, devoted to the Church,

Is he in this our final arbiter?—

Have I no judgment?—are not you of age?

Pauline, but heed me; let no power, I beg,

Succeed in sundering us. Heaven hears my words

I fear some plot may crush, or make your soul

(God save you if you yield) a mere bent truck

To bear some weight of meanness on to ill.”

“But I,” I said, “had ask’d the priest’s advice.”

“He handled ill th’ occasion,” answer’d he.“I would not dare to mould another thus.Nay, though I knew that I could model thenceThe best-form’d manhood of my mind’s ideal.Who knows?—My own ideal, my wisest aim,May tempt myself, and others, too, astray.If I be made one soul to answer for,And make myself responsible for two,I may be doubly damn’d. How impious,—The will that thus would manage other wills;As though we men were puppets of a show,Not spirits, restless and irresolute,Poised on a point between the right and wrongFrom which a breath may launch for heaven or hell!—You dare submit to this impiety?”

“He handled ill th’ occasion,” answer’d he.

“I would not dare to mould another thus.

Nay, though I knew that I could model thence

The best-form’d manhood of my mind’s ideal.

Who knows?—My own ideal, my wisest aim,

May tempt myself, and others, too, astray.

If I be made one soul to answer for,

And make myself responsible for two,

I may be doubly damn’d. How impious,—

The will that thus would manage other wills;

As though we men were puppets of a show,

Not spirits, restless and irresolute,

Poised on a point between the right and wrong

From which a breath may launch for heaven or hell!—

You dare submit to this impiety?”

“But, Haydn,” said I, “you, too, heed advice.”

“Advice?” he answer’d. “What?—is this the groundOn which these base authority?—Nay, nay,Base where they may, their ground is wilfulness,Years back invested; not disrobed, becauseOld forms are reverenced.—Yes, but are they right?Think you God gives to strength of will the rightTo say what is right? And if not, what then?If one obey then, how can he be sureThat he obeys not sin?”“They may have will,”I said, “but you forget; the priests are wise.”

“Advice?” he answer’d. “What?—is this the ground

On which these base authority?—Nay, nay,

Base where they may, their ground is wilfulness,

Years back invested; not disrobed, because

Old forms are reverenced.—Yes, but are they right?

Think you God gives to strength of will the right

To say what is right? And if not, what then?

If one obey then, how can he be sure

That he obeys not sin?”

“They may have will,”

I said, “but you forget; the priests are wise.”

“About what life?” he cried. “In every pathExperience is the warrant for advice.But life for them—what know they real of life?—Naught, naught; and if they give you their adviceThey give you naught, or else they give you whims;—A bachelor teaching dames about their babes!Or matrons how to guide their grown-up girls!Alas, their counsels ignorant, partial, false,Repel toward infidelity the wise;And half of those they hope will follow themMake hypocrites or hypochondriacs.”

“About what life?” he cried. “In every path

Experience is the warrant for advice.

But life for them—what know they real of life?—

Naught, naught; and if they give you their advice

They give you naught, or else they give you whims;—

A bachelor teaching dames about their babes!

Or matrons how to guide their grown-up girls!

Alas, their counsels ignorant, partial, false,

Repel toward infidelity the wise;

And half of those they hope will follow them

Make hypocrites or hypochondriacs.”

What could I say? I rose to leave him then.“And have they really separated us?”He ask’d.And I, “What mean you?”“Are you thenMy friend or not?” he went on, mournfully.“What is a friend?” I ask’d.“What else,” he said,“But, in a world, where all misjudge one so,A soul to whom one dares to speak the truth?”“Ah, Haydn,” ask’d I, “must we speak all truth?”“Why not?” he said, “is ill less ill when hid?—Is not the penitent a sinner frank,The hypocrite a sinner not so frank?”—“But yet,” protested I, “the truth may harm.”“How so?” he ask’d. “If one show naked sin,—Who knows?—it then may shame men from the sin.And could the naked good accomplish more?Must not we Christians here confess our faults?Why should we not? Has wrong such lovely smilesAnd loving tones, that men should long for it?The harm is in the lie that masks the sin.”“And yet,” I said, “the young—the prejudiced”—“For their sake,” said he, “wisdom may be wiseIn what it screens from folly.—Yet you knowThe crime of Socrates,—‘corrupting youth’?The tale is old; this lying world wants liars,But what of that? The Christs lie not: they die.Our God is great. I deem Him great enoughHis truth to save without subverting ours.True sovereignty has truth: ’tis not a shamThat holds high rank because we courteous men,Considerate men, allow it seeming rank.Who lies to save the truth, distrusts the truth,Disowns the soul, and does despite to God.Who strives to save his life thus, loses it,In evil trusting and the Evil One,—Salvation through the Devil, not through Christ!”

What could I say? I rose to leave him then.

“And have they really separated us?”He ask’d.And I, “What mean you?”“Are you thenMy friend or not?” he went on, mournfully.

“And have they really separated us?”

He ask’d.

And I, “What mean you?”

“Are you then

My friend or not?” he went on, mournfully.

“What is a friend?” I ask’d.“What else,” he said,“But, in a world, where all misjudge one so,A soul to whom one dares to speak the truth?”

“What is a friend?” I ask’d.

“What else,” he said,

“But, in a world, where all misjudge one so,

A soul to whom one dares to speak the truth?”

“Ah, Haydn,” ask’d I, “must we speak all truth?”

“Why not?” he said, “is ill less ill when hid?—Is not the penitent a sinner frank,The hypocrite a sinner not so frank?”—

“Why not?” he said, “is ill less ill when hid?—

Is not the penitent a sinner frank,

The hypocrite a sinner not so frank?”—

“But yet,” protested I, “the truth may harm.”

“How so?” he ask’d. “If one show naked sin,—Who knows?—it then may shame men from the sin.And could the naked good accomplish more?Must not we Christians here confess our faults?Why should we not? Has wrong such lovely smilesAnd loving tones, that men should long for it?The harm is in the lie that masks the sin.”

“How so?” he ask’d. “If one show naked sin,—

Who knows?—it then may shame men from the sin.

And could the naked good accomplish more?

Must not we Christians here confess our faults?

Why should we not? Has wrong such lovely smiles

And loving tones, that men should long for it?

The harm is in the lie that masks the sin.”

“And yet,” I said, “the young—the prejudiced”—

“For their sake,” said he, “wisdom may be wiseIn what it screens from folly.—Yet you knowThe crime of Socrates,—‘corrupting youth’?The tale is old; this lying world wants liars,But what of that? The Christs lie not: they die.Our God is great. I deem Him great enoughHis truth to save without subverting ours.True sovereignty has truth: ’tis not a shamThat holds high rank because we courteous men,Considerate men, allow it seeming rank.Who lies to save the truth, distrusts the truth,Disowns the soul, and does despite to God.Who strives to save his life thus, loses it,In evil trusting and the Evil One,—Salvation through the Devil, not through Christ!”

“For their sake,” said he, “wisdom may be wise

In what it screens from folly.—Yet you know

The crime of Socrates,—‘corrupting youth’?

The tale is old; this lying world wants liars,

But what of that? The Christs lie not: they die.

Our God is great. I deem Him great enough

His truth to save without subverting ours.

True sovereignty has truth: ’tis not a sham

That holds high rank because we courteous men,

Considerate men, allow it seeming rank.

Who lies to save the truth, distrusts the truth,

Disowns the soul, and does despite to God.

Who strives to save his life thus, loses it,

In evil trusting and the Evil One,—

Salvation through the Devil, not through Christ!”

Then while he sat there, with his flushing cheeks,Himself defending thus,—I, charm’d the while,—The door flew open, and behind it stoodMy father and the priest.Then had they saidBut one harsh word, it had not been so sad.But kind they were, too kind. Ah, sister dear,Have you not felt how much more pain it gives,This pain from kindness? Love is like the sun:It brightens life, but yet may parch it too.And wind may blow, and man may screen himself;And rain may fall, and he may shelter find;And frost may chill, and he may clothing wear;But what can ward off sun-stroke?—Love,Its first degree may bring fertility;Its next one barrenness. It lights; it blights.The flames of heaven, flash’d far and spent, turn smokeTo glut the gloom of hell.Words kind as these(We could have braced ourselves against them else)Threw wide, like spells, each passage to our heartsThat caution should have guarded. “We knew notOur own minds, poor young pair,” they said. “At least,Our love could wait: meantime, whose love could claimOur trust, like theirs whose treasure lay in us?”

Then while he sat there, with his flushing cheeks,

Himself defending thus,—I, charm’d the while,—

The door flew open, and behind it stood

My father and the priest.

Then had they said

But one harsh word, it had not been so sad.

But kind they were, too kind. Ah, sister dear,

Have you not felt how much more pain it gives,

This pain from kindness? Love is like the sun:

It brightens life, but yet may parch it too.

And wind may blow, and man may screen himself;

And rain may fall, and he may shelter find;

And frost may chill, and he may clothing wear;

But what can ward off sun-stroke?—Love,

Its first degree may bring fertility;

Its next one barrenness. It lights; it blights.

The flames of heaven, flash’d far and spent, turn smoke

To glut the gloom of hell.

Words kind as these(We could have braced ourselves against them else)Threw wide, like spells, each passage to our heartsThat caution should have guarded. “We knew notOur own minds, poor young pair,” they said. “At least,Our love could wait: meantime, whose love could claimOur trust, like theirs whose treasure lay in us?”

Words kind as these

(We could have braced ourselves against them else)

Threw wide, like spells, each passage to our hearts

That caution should have guarded. “We knew not

Our own minds, poor young pair,” they said. “At least,

Our love could wait: meantime, whose love could claim

Our trust, like theirs whose treasure lay in us?”

And then to me alone they spoke of Haydn:—“He passionate had been:—how knew I whenHis passion might be turn’d against myself?And he had sinn’d, so sorely, sorely sinn’d:—How could one thus defame the Church and priest?And did my love for him suggest such words,Or should my love hereafter sanction them,Might not his wrong prove mine?—If I should yield,Be won by his unbridled words, might notMy act confirm his trust in thought uncheck’d?And thought uncheck’d,—it oft more danger frontsThan does the uncheck’d steed, whose frenzied flightDefies the rein, and, dashing down a roadStraight deathward, trails his luckless driver on,Whirl’d powerless to prevent all as a babe.”I spake of Haydn’s love.They bade me think“How often love that loses earthly friends,Comes back from all things outward toward itself;And finding self, finds heaven’s design within?Did not I know that loss and gain are bothSent here to aid the worth of inner traitsAnd change the phases of the spirit’s growth?—Each passing season circling round a treeLeaves, clasping it, a ring; the rings remain,So seasons past remain about the soul:And men can trace its former life far lessBy tales the tongue may tell, than by the rangeAnd reach of that which circumscribes the mood,Including or excluding right or wrong.”

And then to me alone they spoke of Haydn:—

“He passionate had been:—how knew I when

His passion might be turn’d against myself?

And he had sinn’d, so sorely, sorely sinn’d:—

How could one thus defame the Church and priest?

And did my love for him suggest such words,

Or should my love hereafter sanction them,

Might not his wrong prove mine?—If I should yield,

Be won by his unbridled words, might not

My act confirm his trust in thought uncheck’d?

And thought uncheck’d,—it oft more danger fronts

Than does the uncheck’d steed, whose frenzied flight

Defies the rein, and, dashing down a road

Straight deathward, trails his luckless driver on,

Whirl’d powerless to prevent all as a babe.”

I spake of Haydn’s love.They bade me think“How often love that loses earthly friends,Comes back from all things outward toward itself;And finding self, finds heaven’s design within?Did not I know that loss and gain are bothSent here to aid the worth of inner traitsAnd change the phases of the spirit’s growth?—Each passing season circling round a treeLeaves, clasping it, a ring; the rings remain,So seasons past remain about the soul:And men can trace its former life far lessBy tales the tongue may tell, than by the rangeAnd reach of that which circumscribes the mood,Including or excluding right or wrong.”

I spake of Haydn’s love.

They bade me think

“How often love that loses earthly friends,

Comes back from all things outward toward itself;

And finding self, finds heaven’s design within?

Did not I know that loss and gain are both

Sent here to aid the worth of inner traits

And change the phases of the spirit’s growth?—

Each passing season circling round a tree

Leaves, clasping it, a ring; the rings remain,

So seasons past remain about the soul:

And men can trace its former life far less

By tales the tongue may tell, than by the range

And reach of that which circumscribes the mood,

Including or excluding right or wrong.”

And then they added: “Might it not be foundThat loss of my love was the very meansDesign’d by Providence for Haydn’s good?”To this I could but answer that “his loveSeem’d Providential too, a holy thing.”They only frown’d, and said: “The Prince of IllCame oft robed like an angel of the light;—Why not like love?—The only holy thing,Such proven to be, was Christ. And what of HimWhen moved by love?—of His great sacrifice!—And did I really prize this Haydn so,Would love prompt naught in me!”And thus they talk’d,Till, welcoming doubt, my faith succumb’d to it;And all the love once making me so proud,Whose growth, I thought, would be so sweet and fair,Stung like a very thistle in my soul;Each breath of theirs would blow its prickles keen,And sow its pestering seedlets far and wideO’er every pleasing prospect of my life.

And then they added: “Might it not be foundThat loss of my love was the very meansDesign’d by Providence for Haydn’s good?”

And then they added: “Might it not be found

That loss of my love was the very means

Design’d by Providence for Haydn’s good?”

To this I could but answer that “his loveSeem’d Providential too, a holy thing.”

To this I could but answer that “his love

Seem’d Providential too, a holy thing.”

They only frown’d, and said: “The Prince of IllCame oft robed like an angel of the light;—Why not like love?—The only holy thing,Such proven to be, was Christ. And what of HimWhen moved by love?—of His great sacrifice!—And did I really prize this Haydn so,Would love prompt naught in me!”And thus they talk’d,Till, welcoming doubt, my faith succumb’d to it;And all the love once making me so proud,Whose growth, I thought, would be so sweet and fair,Stung like a very thistle in my soul;Each breath of theirs would blow its prickles keen,And sow its pestering seedlets far and wideO’er every pleasing prospect of my life.

They only frown’d, and said: “The Prince of Ill

Came oft robed like an angel of the light;—

Why not like love?—The only holy thing,

Such proven to be, was Christ. And what of Him

When moved by love?—of His great sacrifice!—

And did I really prize this Haydn so,

Would love prompt naught in me!”

And thus they talk’d,

Till, welcoming doubt, my faith succumb’d to it;

And all the love once making me so proud,

Whose growth, I thought, would be so sweet and fair,

Stung like a very thistle in my soul;

Each breath of theirs would blow its prickles keen,

And sow its pestering seedlets far and wide

O’er every pleasing prospect of my life.

And I recall my calling out in prayer,How long, how toilfully, how fruitlessly!At last, my doubt had made me leave my beads,And, moved as if to cool a feverish faith,Pass out, the night air seeking. There I sawThe moon. It soothed me always with strange spells,The moon. But now, as though all things would joinTo rout my peace, I seem’d this moon to seeCaught up behind an angry horde of clouds,Chased by the hot breath of a coming stormThat clang’d his thunder-bugle through the west.When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt—Or so it seem’d—and with a deafening pealIt spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit,Just in the path before me gleam’d a knife!Held o’er a form of white! To see the thingI scream’d aloud. It seem’d a ghost!My screamAwoke no echo save Doretta’s voice:—“Pauline?—and were you frighten’d?”Then to this,In part because the shock had stunn’d me much,In part because I felt me much provoked,But most because my ears were deaf to sport,I answer’d naught. Whereat, as now I think,Though then in that unnatural, nervous moodMy mind surmised more horrid inference,Her voice, in still more mischievous caprice,Went on to vex me more.“What?—Fear you me!And have you done so much against me, then!And if you have, why fear you here a knife?—You think the blade might draw some little blood;—Would that much signify?—the body pain’d?Suppose that one should wield some subtler bladeAnd draw some tears, mere watery tears, weak things;—Would they much signify?—a soul in pain?And did you never now do that?—draw tears?—And think, is not the soul much worse to harmThan is the body?—Fy! why fear a knife?If I supposed that through a lifetime longMy soul should bleed its dear strength out in tears,Why would it not be mercy to myselfFor me to check the longer, stronger woeBy shedding here some drops of weaker blood,Now, once for all?”“O dear Doretta mine,”I cried, and still more anxious, “do you mean”—“This,” answer’d she; “I mean that I would cutMy body’s life in two parts, rather thanMy soul’s life.”“Sister,” I could only gasp,“Cease—do;—put by that knife”—“Why?” answer’d she;—“For what?—Your wish? Do you so often yieldWhen I wish aught?—Say now what would you give?”“Give?—Any thing!” I answer’d.“Be not rash,”Came then. “It scarcely seems your way; besides,The light is dim. How know you? may not earsNot far off overhear us here? Beware!—But stay!” she added, “I will go my way,And you go yours. Who cares what either does?”

And I recall my calling out in prayer,

How long, how toilfully, how fruitlessly!

At last, my doubt had made me leave my beads,

And, moved as if to cool a feverish faith,

Pass out, the night air seeking. There I saw

The moon. It soothed me always with strange spells,

The moon. But now, as though all things would join

To rout my peace, I seem’d this moon to see

Caught up behind an angry horde of clouds,

Chased by the hot breath of a coming storm

That clang’d his thunder-bugle through the west.

When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt—

Or so it seem’d—and with a deafening peal

It spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit,

Just in the path before me gleam’d a knife!

Held o’er a form of white! To see the thing

I scream’d aloud. It seem’d a ghost!

My scream

Awoke no echo save Doretta’s voice:—

“Pauline?—and were you frighten’d?”

Then to this,

In part because the shock had stunn’d me much,

In part because I felt me much provoked,

But most because my ears were deaf to sport,

I answer’d naught. Whereat, as now I think,

Though then in that unnatural, nervous mood

My mind surmised more horrid inference,

Her voice, in still more mischievous caprice,

Went on to vex me more.

“What?—Fear you me!

And have you done so much against me, then!

And if you have, why fear you here a knife?—

You think the blade might draw some little blood;—

Would that much signify?—the body pain’d?

Suppose that one should wield some subtler blade

And draw some tears, mere watery tears, weak things;—

Would they much signify?—a soul in pain?

And did you never now do that?—draw tears?—

And think, is not the soul much worse to harm

Than is the body?—Fy! why fear a knife?

If I supposed that through a lifetime long

My soul should bleed its dear strength out in tears,

Why would it not be mercy to myself

For me to check the longer, stronger woe

By shedding here some drops of weaker blood,

Now, once for all?”

“O dear Doretta mine,”

I cried, and still more anxious, “do you mean”—

“This,” answer’d she; “I mean that I would cutMy body’s life in two parts, rather thanMy soul’s life.”“Sister,” I could only gasp,“Cease—do;—put by that knife”—“Why?” answer’d she;—“For what?—Your wish? Do you so often yieldWhen I wish aught?—Say now what would you give?”

“This,” answer’d she; “I mean that I would cut

My body’s life in two parts, rather than

My soul’s life.”

“Sister,” I could only gasp,

“Cease—do;—put by that knife”—

“Why?” answer’d she;—

“For what?—Your wish? Do you so often yield

When I wish aught?—Say now what would you give?”

“Give?—Any thing!” I answer’d.“Be not rash,”Came then. “It scarcely seems your way; besides,The light is dim. How know you? may not earsNot far off overhear us here? Beware!—But stay!” she added, “I will go my way,And you go yours. Who cares what either does?”

“Give?—Any thing!” I answer’d.

“Be not rash,”

Came then. “It scarcely seems your way; besides,

The light is dim. How know you? may not ears

Not far off overhear us here? Beware!—

But stay!” she added, “I will go my way,

And you go yours. Who cares what either does?”

“Doretta, nay; but stop,” I cried again,“Put by the knife!—and if you will, then I—Then I and Haydn will not”—“You?” she laugh’d,“And Haydn?—Humph!—Who cares what you may do?—But ah—if planning thus to vent your thought,Could I have chosen, eh, a shrewder way?—Ha! ha!—to murder me, or you, or him!It starts all madness, yes, to tap your moods.But go in, simpleton,—the rain has come,—And trust the knife to me. It meant no harmExcept to this beheaded cabbage here.”And, shaking this aloft, she flitted off,While I walk’d vaguely back, to find my roomStill sadder than before. I could not thinkThat my surmise was just; yet could not thinkThat all her strange demean was meaningless;To this day yet, I pause and puzzle oftThat scene to ponder; then, to moods confused,It seem’d the final blow, unsettling all.

“Doretta, nay; but stop,” I cried again,

“Put by the knife!—and if you will, then I—

Then I and Haydn will not”—

“You?” she laugh’d,

“And Haydn?—Humph!—Who cares what you may do?—

But ah—if planning thus to vent your thought,

Could I have chosen, eh, a shrewder way?—

Ha! ha!—to murder me, or you, or him!

It starts all madness, yes, to tap your moods.

But go in, simpleton,—the rain has come,—

And trust the knife to me. It meant no harm

Except to this beheaded cabbage here.”

And, shaking this aloft, she flitted off,While I walk’d vaguely back, to find my roomStill sadder than before. I could not thinkThat my surmise was just; yet could not thinkThat all her strange demean was meaningless;To this day yet, I pause and puzzle oftThat scene to ponder; then, to moods confused,It seem’d the final blow, unsettling all.

And, shaking this aloft, she flitted off,

While I walk’d vaguely back, to find my room

Still sadder than before. I could not think

That my surmise was just; yet could not think

That all her strange demean was meaningless;

To this day yet, I pause and puzzle oft

That scene to ponder; then, to moods confused,

It seem’d the final blow, unsettling all.

What comes as direful as the direful nightA spirit spends in trouble?—fill’d with fearsThat sleep may bring distressful nightmares now;And now, that morn may come before we sleep;Until, betwixt the two, distracted quite,Awake one dreams, and dreaming seems awake,And evermore does weep at what he dreams,And then does weep that he should dream no more.In darkest fancies all that night I lay,A murderess, guilty of Doretta’s death.

What comes as direful as the direful night

A spirit spends in trouble?—fill’d with fears

That sleep may bring distressful nightmares now;

And now, that morn may come before we sleep;

Until, betwixt the two, distracted quite,

Awake one dreams, and dreaming seems awake,

And evermore does weep at what he dreams,

And then does weep that he should dream no more.

In darkest fancies all that night I lay,

A murderess, guilty of Doretta’s death.

Alas! and after those long hours of woe,More woe awaited me when morning came.Our Haydn’s bed-worn frame, so frail before,New-rent by throes of passion yesterday,Once more lay prostrate in the arms of death:So thought we all: I, ere the fact I heard,Could feel its cold shade creeping over me.The shutters closed, the silence everywhere,The very coffin of our lively home,The sadden’d looks, the voices all suppress’d,The kind physician’s face, that wore no smile,—I did not need to ask the cause of all.I sought and saw my Haydn. How his faceGazed forth, a ghost’s, against my sense of guilt!For I, perhaps, had made his last thought sin;And I, perhaps, had lured him toward his doom.I thought then of my father, of the priest,What they of love had said, of genuine love,Such love as Christ had had. I ask’d myselfIf there was naught that I could sacrifice?

Alas! and after those long hours of woe,

More woe awaited me when morning came.

Our Haydn’s bed-worn frame, so frail before,

New-rent by throes of passion yesterday,

Once more lay prostrate in the arms of death:

So thought we all: I, ere the fact I heard,

Could feel its cold shade creeping over me.

The shutters closed, the silence everywhere,

The very coffin of our lively home,

The sadden’d looks, the voices all suppress’d,

The kind physician’s face, that wore no smile,—

I did not need to ask the cause of all.

I sought and saw my Haydn. How his face

Gazed forth, a ghost’s, against my sense of guilt!

For I, perhaps, had made his last thought sin;

And I, perhaps, had lured him toward his doom.

I thought then of my father, of the priest,

What they of love had said, of genuine love,

Such love as Christ had had. I ask’d myself

If there was naught that I could sacrifice?

Ah, friend, do you recall that afternoonWhen first we met? How sad yet sweet it seem’d!So many kindly sisters with me spake,And for me prayed, and when the dusk had come,And hardly any eye but God’s could see,We knelt before the altar; and I rose,Content if like that light before the shrineWithin my heart one light alone could burn;Though all the earth beside might loom as darkAs those chill, shadowy chapels down the aisle.I felt another life when walking home.Such conflicts come but seldom; storms of spring,Uprooting much, and wracking much the soil,They find it frost-bound, and they leave it green.Alas, if grain or chaff grow then, dependsUpon the germs their rains have wrought upon.

Ah, friend, do you recall that afternoon

When first we met? How sad yet sweet it seem’d!

So many kindly sisters with me spake,

And for me prayed, and when the dusk had come,

And hardly any eye but God’s could see,

We knelt before the altar; and I rose,

Content if like that light before the shrine

Within my heart one light alone could burn;

Though all the earth beside might loom as dark

As those chill, shadowy chapels down the aisle.

I felt another life when walking home.Such conflicts come but seldom; storms of spring,Uprooting much, and wracking much the soil,They find it frost-bound, and they leave it green.Alas, if grain or chaff grow then, dependsUpon the germs their rains have wrought upon.

I felt another life when walking home.

Such conflicts come but seldom; storms of spring,

Uprooting much, and wracking much the soil,

They find it frost-bound, and they leave it green.

Alas, if grain or chaff grow then, depends

Upon the germs their rains have wrought upon.

When Haydn grew less ill, could talk once more,And proved our prayers for him were not in vain,The kind physician urged that he and IBe kept no more apart. My father then,At first, would not consent. I went to him.“My father,” said I, “do not fear for me.If God will give our poor friend health once moreThen have I vow’d that never will I takeA veil, save one that weds me to the Church.”“My daughter,—what?” he ask’d, “you never take—Ay, what is this you say?—you wed the Church?—In God’s name, child, explain yourself.”“A vow,”I said, “A vow that I have made the Virgin.”“What strange, what thoughtless deed is this?” he ask’d.“You take a vow, one not to be recall’d,That you will thwart our hopes, our plans for you?—And shut away, away from all of us,This face, this form, so cherish’d all these years?—True?—Is it true?—I would not frighten you:Poor girl, God knows that you will have enoughTo shudder for.—Yet, it bewilders me:How could you, you who had been wont to beSo trustful and considerate and calm,How could you do a thing so rash, so wrong,Nor once consult me?—Tell me this, my child:What false inducement could have tempted you?”“Woe me!” I sobb’d, “I marvell’d when you saidI could do so, the time I told you hereThat I would rather be a nun than beThat rich man’s wife.”“You dear, poor girl,” he sigh’d,“Those words were but a whiff, whiff light as breathOne blows at flies that come to trouble him.And can it be that they?—I half believe(My words have conjured cursèd deeds before)The very atoms of the air, like pools,Hold spawn-strown vermin-eggs! If one but speak,But break the silence; if his breath but bearOne faintest puff from passionate heat within,Lo, breaking open some accursèd shell,It hatches forth foul broods of venomous lifeThat come, blown backward by the changing wind,To haunt him who provok’d their devilish birth!By day they sting our eyes, and make us weep;By night steal through unguarded gates of sense,And sting our souls in dreams!—My heart! and you?—How could you deem my thoughtless words to beThe voice of so deform’d a wish as this?”“But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,—At least, it seem’d—so thought.”“The priest!” he cried,“Has he been meddling with your malady?—My friend?—My friend is he no more.”“Nay, I,”I said, “had sought his counsel; even thenHe said but little.”“Little!” he rejoin’d;“That little was too much! Nay, never more—Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power—Yes, now I think of it, it need not allBe darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there isMay clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,—He shall an absolution get; yes, yes,An absolution, that shall make us right.”And then my father, in his hopeful way,Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me.“I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes.Why, here you stand a woman when I thoughtYou only were my pet, my little girl.—But do not cry: no, no; I honor you,My little woman!—There, forgive me now;Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child,The absolution, then, we then shall see,If your old father can be kind or not.”With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept;Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain.I scarce could think myself that they were vain.

When Haydn grew less ill, could talk once more,

And proved our prayers for him were not in vain,

The kind physician urged that he and I

Be kept no more apart. My father then,

At first, would not consent. I went to him.

“My father,” said I, “do not fear for me.

If God will give our poor friend health once more

Then have I vow’d that never will I take

A veil, save one that weds me to the Church.”

“My daughter,—what?” he ask’d, “you never take—Ay, what is this you say?—you wed the Church?—In God’s name, child, explain yourself.”“A vow,”I said, “A vow that I have made the Virgin.”

“My daughter,—what?” he ask’d, “you never take—

Ay, what is this you say?—you wed the Church?—

In God’s name, child, explain yourself.”

“A vow,”

I said, “A vow that I have made the Virgin.”

“What strange, what thoughtless deed is this?” he ask’d.“You take a vow, one not to be recall’d,That you will thwart our hopes, our plans for you?—And shut away, away from all of us,This face, this form, so cherish’d all these years?—True?—Is it true?—I would not frighten you:Poor girl, God knows that you will have enoughTo shudder for.—Yet, it bewilders me:How could you, you who had been wont to beSo trustful and considerate and calm,How could you do a thing so rash, so wrong,Nor once consult me?—Tell me this, my child:What false inducement could have tempted you?”

“What strange, what thoughtless deed is this?” he ask’d.

“You take a vow, one not to be recall’d,

That you will thwart our hopes, our plans for you?—

And shut away, away from all of us,

This face, this form, so cherish’d all these years?—

True?—Is it true?—I would not frighten you:

Poor girl, God knows that you will have enough

To shudder for.—Yet, it bewilders me:

How could you, you who had been wont to be

So trustful and considerate and calm,

How could you do a thing so rash, so wrong,

Nor once consult me?—Tell me this, my child:

What false inducement could have tempted you?”

“Woe me!” I sobb’d, “I marvell’d when you saidI could do so, the time I told you hereThat I would rather be a nun than beThat rich man’s wife.”“You dear, poor girl,” he sigh’d,“Those words were but a whiff, whiff light as breathOne blows at flies that come to trouble him.And can it be that they?—I half believe(My words have conjured cursèd deeds before)The very atoms of the air, like pools,Hold spawn-strown vermin-eggs! If one but speak,But break the silence; if his breath but bearOne faintest puff from passionate heat within,Lo, breaking open some accursèd shell,It hatches forth foul broods of venomous lifeThat come, blown backward by the changing wind,To haunt him who provok’d their devilish birth!By day they sting our eyes, and make us weep;By night steal through unguarded gates of sense,And sting our souls in dreams!—My heart! and you?—How could you deem my thoughtless words to beThe voice of so deform’d a wish as this?”

“Woe me!” I sobb’d, “I marvell’d when you said

I could do so, the time I told you here

That I would rather be a nun than be

That rich man’s wife.”

“You dear, poor girl,” he sigh’d,

“Those words were but a whiff, whiff light as breath

One blows at flies that come to trouble him.

And can it be that they?—I half believe

(My words have conjured cursèd deeds before)

The very atoms of the air, like pools,

Hold spawn-strown vermin-eggs! If one but speak,

But break the silence; if his breath but bear

One faintest puff from passionate heat within,

Lo, breaking open some accursèd shell,

It hatches forth foul broods of venomous life

That come, blown backward by the changing wind,

To haunt him who provok’d their devilish birth!

By day they sting our eyes, and make us weep;

By night steal through unguarded gates of sense,

And sting our souls in dreams!—My heart! and you?—

How could you deem my thoughtless words to be

The voice of so deform’d a wish as this?”

“But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,—At least, it seem’d—so thought.”“The priest!” he cried,“Has he been meddling with your malady?—My friend?—My friend is he no more.”“Nay, I,”I said, “had sought his counsel; even thenHe said but little.”“Little!” he rejoin’d;“That little was too much! Nay, never more—Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power—Yes, now I think of it, it need not allBe darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there isMay clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,—He shall an absolution get; yes, yes,An absolution, that shall make us right.”

“But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,—

At least, it seem’d—so thought.”

“The priest!” he cried,

“Has he been meddling with your malady?—

My friend?—My friend is he no more.”

“Nay, I,”

I said, “had sought his counsel; even then

He said but little.”

“Little!” he rejoin’d;

“That little was too much! Nay, never more—

Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power—

Yes, now I think of it, it need not all

Be darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there is

May clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,—

He shall an absolution get; yes, yes,

An absolution, that shall make us right.”

And then my father, in his hopeful way,Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me.“I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes.Why, here you stand a woman when I thoughtYou only were my pet, my little girl.—But do not cry: no, no; I honor you,My little woman!—There, forgive me now;Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child,The absolution, then, we then shall see,If your old father can be kind or not.”With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept;Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain.I scarce could think myself that they were vain.

And then my father, in his hopeful way,

Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me.

“I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes.

Why, here you stand a woman when I thought

You only were my pet, my little girl.—

But do not cry: no, no; I honor you,

My little woman!—There, forgive me now;

Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child,

The absolution, then, we then shall see,

If your old father can be kind or not.”

With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept;

Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain.

I scarce could think myself that they were vain.

From this time onward no one check’d me more,Attending Haydn. All the household heardMy sire “could trust his child to be discreet”;And e’en Doretta too had something learn’dThat made her caution more than half relax.Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly byIn which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start,E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars,My lips would check him, saying, gently, then,“But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.”And thus a habit grew that our two livesDwelt there like friends, made separate by war,Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand,And now a kerchief, but who never speak.And yet I cannot say love never spoke.—We did not mean it; but I think that loveMay tell its tales, unconscious of the fact,For who is conscious when God touches him?—But littlest acts there were; yet spirits readFrom signs too fine for measurements of space;Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were;And yet what words of love yield more than these?They hit the sense of love, but fail of senseWhere nothing loving waits to take the hint.This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how.And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth,We told our secrets, and none knew of them.

From this time onward no one check’d me more,

Attending Haydn. All the household heard

My sire “could trust his child to be discreet”;

And e’en Doretta too had something learn’d

That made her caution more than half relax.

Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly byIn which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start,E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars,My lips would check him, saying, gently, then,“But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.”

Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly by

In which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start,

E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars,

My lips would check him, saying, gently, then,

“But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.”

And thus a habit grew that our two livesDwelt there like friends, made separate by war,Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand,And now a kerchief, but who never speak.And yet I cannot say love never spoke.—We did not mean it; but I think that loveMay tell its tales, unconscious of the fact,For who is conscious when God touches him?—But littlest acts there were; yet spirits readFrom signs too fine for measurements of space;Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were;And yet what words of love yield more than these?They hit the sense of love, but fail of senseWhere nothing loving waits to take the hint.

And thus a habit grew that our two lives

Dwelt there like friends, made separate by war,

Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand,

And now a kerchief, but who never speak.

And yet I cannot say love never spoke.—

We did not mean it; but I think that love

May tell its tales, unconscious of the fact,

For who is conscious when God touches him?—

But littlest acts there were; yet spirits read

From signs too fine for measurements of space;

Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were;

And yet what words of love yield more than these?

They hit the sense of love, but fail of sense

Where nothing loving waits to take the hint.

This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how.And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth,We told our secrets, and none knew of them.

This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how.

And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth,

We told our secrets, and none knew of them.

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