Chapter 11

An English Inn

The "inn album" or visitors' book is a feature of inns. In this country we simply sign our names in the visitors' book, but the "album" feature of the visitors' book of an English inn is its glory and too often its shame, for as Mr. Harper says, "Bathos, ineptitude, and lines that refuse to scan are the stigmata of visitors' book verse. There is289no worse poetry on earth than that which lurks between those covers, or in the pages of young ladies' albums." He declares that "The interesting pages of visitors' books are generally those that are not there, as an Irishman might say; for the world is populated very densely with those appreciative people who, whether from a love of literature, or with an instinct for collecting autographs that may have a realizable value, remove the signatures of distinguished men, and with them anything original they may have written."

Browning pokes fun at the poetry of his inn album, but at the same time uses it as an important part of the machinery in the action. His English "Iago" writes in it the final damnation of his own character—the threat by means of which he hopes to ruin his victims, but which, instead, causes the lady to take poison and the young man to murder "Iago."

The presence of the two men at this particular inn is explained in the following bit of conversation between them.

"Youwrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs!Because you happen to be twice my ageAnd twenty times my master, must perforceNo blink of daylight struggle through the web290There's no unwinding? You entoil my legs,And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no!A very pretty piece of shuttle-workWas that—your mere chance question at the club—'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?I'm off for Paris, there's the Opera—there'sThe Salon, there's a china-sale,—besideChantilly; and, for good companionship,There's Such-and-such and So-and-so. SupposeWe start together?' 'No such holiday!'I told you: 'Paris and the rest be hanged!Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?I'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowseThe week away down with the Aunt and Niece?No help: it's leisure, loneliness and love.Wish I could take you; but fame travelsfast,—A man of much newspaper-paragraph,You scare domestic circles; and besideWould not you like your lot, that second tasteOf nature and approval of the grounds!You might walk early or lie late, so shirkWeek-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er,And morning church is obligatory:No mundane garb permissible, or dreadThe butler's privileged monition! No!Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!'Whereon how artlessly the happy flashFollowed, by inspiration! 'Tell you what—Let's turn their flank, try things on t'other side!Inns for my money! Liberty's the life!We'll lie in hiding: there's the crow-nest nook,The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about,Inn that's out—out of sight and out of mind291And out of mischief to all four of us—Auntandniece, you and me. At night arrive;At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-viewOf my friend's Land of Promise; then depart.And while I'm whizzing onward by first train,Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulksAnd says I shun him like the plague) yourself—Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gayDespite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,—Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, waitThe faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,'Said I to you; said I to mine own self:'Does he believe I fail to comprehendHe wants just one more final friendly snackAt friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth,Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?'And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave?Your pupil does you better credit! No!I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pairAt the big balance in my banker's hands,—Folded a cheque cigar-case-shape,—just wantsFilling and signing,—and took train, resolvedTo execute myself with decencyAnd let you win—if not Ten thousand quite,Something by way of wind-up-farewell burstOf firework-nosegay! Where's your fortune fled?Or is not fortune constant after all?You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost halfOr half that, I should bite my lips, I think.You man of marble! Strut and stretch my bestOn tiptoe, I shall never reach your height.How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"The more refined man smiles a frown away.

The more refined man smiles a frown away.

292

On the way to the station where the older man is to take the train they have another talk, in which each tells the other of his experience, but they do not find out yet that they have both loved the same woman.

"Stop, my boy!Don't think I'm stingy of experience! Life—It's like this wood we leave. Should you and IGo wandering about there, though the gapsWe went in and came out by were opposedAs the two poles, still, somehow, all the same,By nightfall we should probably have chancedOn much the same main points of interest—Both of us measured girth of mossy trunk,Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped handsAt squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow,And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt.So in our lives; allow I entered mineAnother way than you: 't is possibleI ended just by knocking head againstThat plaguy low-hung branch yourself beganBy getting bump from; as at last you tooMay stumble o'er that stump which first of allBade me walk circumspectly. Head and feetAre vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure,Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.I, early old, played young man four years sinceAnd failed confoundedly: so, hate alikeFailure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!""Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah293—But how should chits distinguish? She admiredYour marvel of a mind, I'll undertake!But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,When years have told on face and figure....""Thanks,MisterSufficiently-Instructed! SuchNo doubt was bound to be the consequenceTo suit your self-complacency: she likedMy head enough, but loved some heart beneathSome head with plenty of brown hair a-topAfter my young friend's fashion! What becomesOf that fine speech you made a minute sinceAbout the man of middle age you foundA formidable peer at twenty-one?So much for your mock-modesty! and yetI back your first against this second sproutOf observation, insight, what you please.My middle age, Sir, had too much success!It's odd: my case occurred four years ago—I finished just while you commenced that turnI' the wood of life that takes us to the wealthOf honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.Now, I don't boast: it's bad style, and beside,The feat proves easier than it looks: I pluckedFull many a flower unnamed in that bouquet(Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)Good nature sticks into my button-hole.Therefore it was with nose in want of snuffRather than Ess or Psidium, that I chancedOn what—so far from 'rosebud beauty'.... Well—She's dead: at least you never heard her name;She was no courtly creature, had nor birthNor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; but294Oh, such a wonder of a woman! GrandAs a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know,Artists would make an outcry: all the more,That she had just a statue's sleepy graceWhich broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault(Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for supposeOnly the little flaw, and I had peepedInside it, learned what soul inside was like.At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneathA Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife—I wish,—now,—I had played that brute, brought bloodTo surface from the depths I fancied chalk!As it was, her mere face surprised so muchThat I stopped short there, struck on heap, as staresThe cockney stranger at a certain bustWith drooped eyes,—she's the thing I have in mind,—Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize—Suchoutside! Now,—confound me for a prig!—Who cares? I'll make a clean breast once for all!Beside, you've heard the gossip. My life longI've been a woman-liker,—liking meansLoving and so on. There's a lengthy listBy this time I shall have to answer for—So say the good folk: and they don't guess half—For the worst is, let once collecting-itchPossess you, and, with perspicacity,Keeps growing such a greediness that theftFollows at no long distance,—there's the fact!I knew that on my Leporello-listMight figure this, that, and the other nameOf feminine desirability,But if I happened to desire inscribe,Along with these, the only Beautiful295—Here was the unique specimen to snatchOr now or never. 'Beautiful' I said—'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling thenTo tune of 'Haste, secure whate'er the costThis rarity, die in the act, be damned,So you complete collection, crown your list!'It seemed as though the whole world, once arousedBy the first notice of such wonder's birth,Would break bounds to contest my prize with meThe first discoverer, should she but emergeFrom that safe den of darkness where she dozedTill I stole in, that country-parsonageWhere, country-parson's daughter, motherless,Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen yearsShe had been vegetating lily-like.Her father was my brother's tutor, gotThe living that way: him I chanced to see—Her I saw—her the world would grow one eyeTo see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterwardArrange for the disposal of the prize!'The devil's doing! yet I seem to think—Now, when all's done,—think with 'a head reposed'In French phrase—hope I think I meant to doAll requisite for such a rarityWhen I should be at leisure, have due timeTo learn requirement. But in evil day—Bless me, at week's end, long as any year,The father must begin 'Young Somebody,Much recommended—for I break a rule—Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.' 'Young!'That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,''Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but—'Young!'"296"I say—just a word! I want to know—You are not married?""I?""Nor ever were?""Never! Why?""Oh, then—never mind! Go on!I had a reason for the question.""Come,—You could not be the young man?""No, indeed!Certainly—if you never married her!""That I did not: and there's the curse, you'll see!Nay, all of it's one curse, my life's mistakeWhich, nourished with manure that's warrantedTo make the plant bear wisdom, blew out fullIn folly beyond field-flower-foolishness!The lies I used to tell my womankind,Knowing they disbelieved me all the timeThough they required my lies, their decent due,This woman—not so much believed, I'll say,As just anticipated from my mouth:Since being true, devoted, constant—sheFound constancy, devotion, truth, the plainAnd easy commonplace of character.No mock-heroics but seemed naturalTo her who underneath the face, I knewWas fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judgedMust correspond in folly just as farBeyond the common,—and a mind to match,—Not made to puzzle conjurers like meWho, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir,297And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest!'Trust me!' I said: she trusted. 'Marry me!'Or rather, 'We are married: when, the rite?'That brought on the collector's next-day qualmAt counting acquisition's cost. There layMy marvel, there my purse more light by muchBecause of its late lie-expenditure:Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand—To cage as well as catch my rarity!So, I began explaining. At first wordOutbroke the horror. 'Then, my truths were lies!'I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strangeAll-unsuspected revelation—soulAs supernaturally grand as faceWas fair beyond example—that at onceEither I lost—or, if it please you, foundMy senses,—stammered somehow—'Jest! and now,Earnest! Forget all else but—heart has loved,Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!'Not she! no marriage for superb disdain,Contempt incarnate!""Yes, it's different,—It's only like in being four years since.I see now!""Well, what did disdain do next,Think you?""That's past me: did not marry you!—That's the main thing I care for, I suppose.Turned nun, or what?""Why, married in a month298Some parson, some smug crop-haired smooth-chinned sortOf curate-creature, I suspect,—dived down,Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else—I don't know where—I've not tried much to know,—In short, she's happy: what the clodpoles call'Countrified' with a vengeance! leads the lifeRespectable and all that drives you mad:Still—where, I don't know, and that's best for both.""Well, that she did not like you, I conceive.But why should you hate her, I want to know?""My good young friend,—because or her or elseMalicious Providence I have to hate.For, what I tell you proved the turning-pointOf my whole life and fortune toward successOr failure. If I drown, I lay the faultMuch on myself who caught at reed not rope,But more on reed which, with a packthread's pith,Had buoyed me till the minute's cramp could thawAnd I strike out afresh and so be saved.It's easy saying—I had sunk before,Disqualified myself by idle daysAnd busy nights, long since, from holding hardOn cable, even, had fate cast me such!You boys don't know how many times men failPerforce o' the little to succeed i' the large,Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey,Collect the whole power for the final pounce.My fault was the mistaking man's main prizeFor intermediate boy's diversion; clapOf boyish hands here frightened game awayWhich, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at firstI took the anger easily, nor much299Minded the anguish—having learned that stormsSubside, and teapot-tempests are akin.Time would arrange things, mend whate'er might beSomewhat amiss; precipitation, eh?Reason and rhyme prompt—reparation! TiffsEnd properly in marriage and a dance!I said 'We'll marry, make the past a blank'—And never was such damnable mistake!That interview, that laying bare my soul,As it was first, so was it last chance—oneAnd only. Did I write? Back letter cameUnopened as it went. InexorableShe fled, I don't know where, consoled herselfWith the smug curate-creature: chop and change!Sure am I, when she told her shaveling allHis Magdalen's adventure, tears were shed,Forgiveness evangelically shown,'Loose hair and lifted eye,'—as some one says.And now, he's worshipped for his pains, the sneak!""Well, but your turning-point of life,—what's hereTo hinder you contesting FinsburyWith Orton, next election? I don't see....""Notyou! ButIsee. Slowly, surely, creepsDay by day o'er me the conviction—hereWas life's prize grasped at, gained, and then let go!—That with her—may be, for her—I had feltIce in me melt, grow steam, drive to effectAny or all the fancies sluggish hereI' the head that needs the hand she would not takeAnd I shall never lift now. Lo, your wood—Its turnings which I likened life to! Well,—There she stands, ending every avenue,300Her visionary presence on each goalI might have gained had we kept side by side!Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids:The steam congeals once more: I'm old again!Therefore I hate myself—but how much worseDo not I hate who would not understand,Let me repair things—no, but sent a-slideMy folly falteringly, stumblinglyDown, down and deeper down until I dropUpon—the need of your ten thousand poundsAnd consequently loss of mine! I loseCharacter, cash, nay, common-sense itselfRecounting such a lengthy cock-and-bullAdventure—lose my temper in the act....""And lose beside,—if I may supplementThe list of losses,—train and ten-o'clock!Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign!So much the better! You're my captive now!I'm glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thickThis way—that's twice said; we were thickish, though,Even last night, and, ere night comes again,I prophesy good luck to both of us!For see now!—back to 'balmy eminence'Or 'calm acclivity,' or what's the word!Bestow you there an hour, concoct at easeA sonnet for the Album, while I putBold face on, best foot forward, make for house,March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth—(Even white-lying goes against my tasteAfter your little story). Oh, the nieceIs rationality itself! The aunt—If she's amenable to reason too—Why, you stooped short to pay her due respect,301And let the Duke wait (I'll work well the Duke).If she grows gracious, I return for you;If thunder's in the air, why—bear your doom,Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dustOf aunty from your shoes as off you goBy evening-train, nor give the thing a thoughtHow you shall pay me—that's as sure as fate,Old fellow! Off with you, face left about!Yonder's the path I have to pad. You see,I'm in good spirits, God knows why! PerhapsBecause the woman did not marry you—Who look so hard at me,—and have the right,One must be fair and own."The two stand stillUnder an oak."Look here!" resumes the youth."I never quite knew how I came to likeYou—so much—whom I ought not court at all;Nor how you had a leaning just to meWho am assuredly not worth your pains.For there must needs be plenty such as youSomewhere about,—although I can't say where,—Able and willing to teach all you know;While—how can you have missed a score like meWith money and no wit, precisely eachA pupil for your purpose, were it—easeFool's poke of tutor'shonorarium-fee?And yet, howe'er it came about, I feltAt once my master: you as prompt descriedYour man, I warrant, so was bargain struck.Now, these same lines of liking, loving, runSometimes so close together they converge302—Life's great adventures—you know what I mean—In people. Do you know, as you advanced,It got to be uncommonly like factWe two had fallen in with—liked and lovedJust the same woman in our different ways?I began life—poor groundling as I prove—Winged and ambitious to fly high: why not?There's something in 'Don Quixote' to the point,My shrewd old father used to quote and praise—'Am I born man?' asks Sancho: 'being man,By possibility I may be Pope!'So, Pope I meant to make myself, by stepAnd step, whereof the first should be to findA perfect woman; and I tell you this—If what I fixed on, in the order dueOf undertakings, as next step, had firstOf all disposed itself to suit my tread,And I had been, the day I came of age,Returned at head of poll for Westminster—Nay, and moreover summoned by the QueenAt week's end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit,To form and head a Tory ministry—It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor beenMore strange to me, as now I estimate,Than what did happen—sober truth, no dream.I saw my wonder of a woman,—laugh,I'm past that!—in Commemoration-week.A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul,—With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink;But one to match that marvel—no least trace,Least touch of kinship and community!The end was—I did somehow state the fact,Did, with no matter what imperfect words,One way or other give to understand303That woman, soul and body were her slaveWould she but take, but try them—any testOf will, and some poor test of power beside:So did the strings within my brain grow tenseAnd capable of ... hang similitudes!She answered kindly but beyond appeal.'No sort of hope for me, who came too late.She was another's. Love went—mine to her,Hers just as loyally to some one else.'Of course! I might expect it! Nature's law—Given the peerless woman, certainlySomewhere shall be the peerless man to match!I acquiesced at once, submitted meIn something of a stupor, went my way.I fancy there had been some talk beforeOf somebody—her father or the like—To coach me in the holidays,—that's howI came to get the sight and speech of her,—But I had sense enough to break off sharp,Save both of us the pain.""Quite right there!""Eh?Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all!Yes, I did sulk aloof and let aloneThe lovers—Idisturb the angel-mates?""Seraph paired off with cherub!""Thank you! WhileI never plucked up courage to inquireWho he was, even,—certain-sure of this,That nobody I knew of had blue wingsAnd wore a star-crown as he needs must do,304—Some little lady,—plainish, pock-marked girl,—Finds out my secret in my woful face,Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball,And pityingly pours her wine and oilThis way into the wound: 'Dear f-f-friend,Why waste affection thus on—must I say,A somewhat worthless object? Who's her choice—Irrevocable as deliberate—Out of the wide world? I shall name no names—But there's a person in society,Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown grayIn idleness and sin of every sortExcept hypocrisy: he's thrice her age,A by-word for "successes with the sex"As the French say—and, as we ought to say,Consummately a liar and a rogue,Since—show me where's the woman won withoutThe help of this one lie which she believes—That—never mind how things have come to pass,And let who loves have loved a thousand times—All the same he now loves her only, lovesHer ever! if by "won" you just mean "sold,"That's quite another compact. Well, this scamp,Continuing descent from bad to worse,Must leave his fine and fashionable prey(Who—fathered, brothered, husbanded,—are hedgedAbout with thorny danger) and applyHis arts to this poor country ignoranceWho sees forthwith in the first rag of manHer model hero! Why continue wasteOn such a woman treasures of a heartWould yet find solace,—yes, my f-f-friend—In some congenial—fiddle-diddle-dee?'"305"Pray, is the pleasant gentleman describedExact the portrait which my 'f-f-friends'Recognize as so like? 'T is evidentYou half surmised the sweet originalCould be no other than myself, just now!Your stop and start were flattering!""Of courseCaricature's allowed for in a sketch!The longish nose becomes a foot in length,The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored,—still,Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts:And 'parson's daughter'—'young man coachable'—'Elderly party'—'four years since'—were factsTo fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though—That made the difference, I hope.""All right!I never married; wish I had—and thenUnwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes!I hate my mistress, but I'm murder-free.In your case, where's the grievance? You came last,The earlier bird picked up the worm. SupposeYou, in the glory of your twenty-one,Had happened to precede myself! 't is oddsBut this gigantic juvenility,This offering of a big arm's bony hand—I'd rather shake than feel shake me, I know—Had movedmydainty mistress to admireAn altogether new Ideal—deemIdolatry less due to life's declineProductive of experience, powers matureBy dint of usage, the made man—no boyThat's all to make! I was the earlier bird306—And what I found, I let fall: what you missedWho is the fool that blames you for?"

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah293—But how should chits distinguish? She admiredYour marvel of a mind, I'll undertake!But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,When years have told on face and figure...."

"Thanks,MisterSufficiently-Instructed! SuchNo doubt was bound to be the consequenceTo suit your self-complacency: she likedMy head enough, but loved some heart beneathSome head with plenty of brown hair a-topAfter my young friend's fashion! What becomesOf that fine speech you made a minute sinceAbout the man of middle age you foundA formidable peer at twenty-one?So much for your mock-modesty! and yetI back your first against this second sproutOf observation, insight, what you please.My middle age, Sir, had too much success!It's odd: my case occurred four years ago—I finished just while you commenced that turnI' the wood of life that takes us to the wealthOf honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.Now, I don't boast: it's bad style, and beside,The feat proves easier than it looks: I pluckedFull many a flower unnamed in that bouquet(Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)Good nature sticks into my button-hole.Therefore it was with nose in want of snuffRather than Ess or Psidium, that I chancedOn what—so far from 'rosebud beauty'.... Well—She's dead: at least you never heard her name;She was no courtly creature, had nor birthNor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; but294Oh, such a wonder of a woman! GrandAs a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know,Artists would make an outcry: all the more,That she had just a statue's sleepy graceWhich broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault(Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for supposeOnly the little flaw, and I had peepedInside it, learned what soul inside was like.At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneathA Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife—I wish,—now,—I had played that brute, brought bloodTo surface from the depths I fancied chalk!As it was, her mere face surprised so muchThat I stopped short there, struck on heap, as staresThe cockney stranger at a certain bustWith drooped eyes,—she's the thing I have in mind,—Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize—Suchoutside! Now,—confound me for a prig!—Who cares? I'll make a clean breast once for all!Beside, you've heard the gossip. My life longI've been a woman-liker,—liking meansLoving and so on. There's a lengthy listBy this time I shall have to answer for—So say the good folk: and they don't guess half—For the worst is, let once collecting-itchPossess you, and, with perspicacity,Keeps growing such a greediness that theftFollows at no long distance,—there's the fact!I knew that on my Leporello-listMight figure this, that, and the other nameOf feminine desirability,But if I happened to desire inscribe,Along with these, the only Beautiful295—Here was the unique specimen to snatchOr now or never. 'Beautiful' I said—'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling thenTo tune of 'Haste, secure whate'er the costThis rarity, die in the act, be damned,So you complete collection, crown your list!'It seemed as though the whole world, once arousedBy the first notice of such wonder's birth,Would break bounds to contest my prize with meThe first discoverer, should she but emergeFrom that safe den of darkness where she dozedTill I stole in, that country-parsonageWhere, country-parson's daughter, motherless,Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen yearsShe had been vegetating lily-like.Her father was my brother's tutor, gotThe living that way: him I chanced to see—Her I saw—her the world would grow one eyeTo see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterwardArrange for the disposal of the prize!'The devil's doing! yet I seem to think—Now, when all's done,—think with 'a head reposed'In French phrase—hope I think I meant to doAll requisite for such a rarityWhen I should be at leisure, have due timeTo learn requirement. But in evil day—Bless me, at week's end, long as any year,The father must begin 'Young Somebody,Much recommended—for I break a rule—Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.' 'Young!'That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,''Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but—'Young!'"

296"I say—just a word! I want to know—You are not married?""I?"

"Nor ever were?""Never! Why?""Oh, then—never mind! Go on!I had a reason for the question."

"Come,—You could not be the young man?""No, indeed!Certainly—if you never married her!"

"That I did not: and there's the curse, you'll see!Nay, all of it's one curse, my life's mistakeWhich, nourished with manure that's warrantedTo make the plant bear wisdom, blew out fullIn folly beyond field-flower-foolishness!The lies I used to tell my womankind,Knowing they disbelieved me all the timeThough they required my lies, their decent due,This woman—not so much believed, I'll say,As just anticipated from my mouth:Since being true, devoted, constant—sheFound constancy, devotion, truth, the plainAnd easy commonplace of character.No mock-heroics but seemed naturalTo her who underneath the face, I knewWas fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judgedMust correspond in folly just as farBeyond the common,—and a mind to match,—Not made to puzzle conjurers like meWho, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir,297And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest!'Trust me!' I said: she trusted. 'Marry me!'Or rather, 'We are married: when, the rite?'That brought on the collector's next-day qualmAt counting acquisition's cost. There layMy marvel, there my purse more light by muchBecause of its late lie-expenditure:Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand—To cage as well as catch my rarity!So, I began explaining. At first wordOutbroke the horror. 'Then, my truths were lies!'I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strangeAll-unsuspected revelation—soulAs supernaturally grand as faceWas fair beyond example—that at onceEither I lost—or, if it please you, foundMy senses,—stammered somehow—'Jest! and now,Earnest! Forget all else but—heart has loved,Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!'Not she! no marriage for superb disdain,Contempt incarnate!"

"Yes, it's different,—It's only like in being four years since.I see now!"

"Well, what did disdain do next,Think you?"

"That's past me: did not marry you!—That's the main thing I care for, I suppose.Turned nun, or what?"

"Why, married in a month298Some parson, some smug crop-haired smooth-chinned sortOf curate-creature, I suspect,—dived down,Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else—I don't know where—I've not tried much to know,—In short, she's happy: what the clodpoles call'Countrified' with a vengeance! leads the lifeRespectable and all that drives you mad:Still—where, I don't know, and that's best for both."

"Well, that she did not like you, I conceive.But why should you hate her, I want to know?"

"My good young friend,—because or her or elseMalicious Providence I have to hate.For, what I tell you proved the turning-pointOf my whole life and fortune toward successOr failure. If I drown, I lay the faultMuch on myself who caught at reed not rope,But more on reed which, with a packthread's pith,Had buoyed me till the minute's cramp could thawAnd I strike out afresh and so be saved.It's easy saying—I had sunk before,Disqualified myself by idle daysAnd busy nights, long since, from holding hardOn cable, even, had fate cast me such!You boys don't know how many times men failPerforce o' the little to succeed i' the large,Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey,Collect the whole power for the final pounce.My fault was the mistaking man's main prizeFor intermediate boy's diversion; clapOf boyish hands here frightened game awayWhich, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at firstI took the anger easily, nor much299Minded the anguish—having learned that stormsSubside, and teapot-tempests are akin.Time would arrange things, mend whate'er might beSomewhat amiss; precipitation, eh?Reason and rhyme prompt—reparation! TiffsEnd properly in marriage and a dance!I said 'We'll marry, make the past a blank'—And never was such damnable mistake!That interview, that laying bare my soul,As it was first, so was it last chance—oneAnd only. Did I write? Back letter cameUnopened as it went. InexorableShe fled, I don't know where, consoled herselfWith the smug curate-creature: chop and change!Sure am I, when she told her shaveling allHis Magdalen's adventure, tears were shed,Forgiveness evangelically shown,'Loose hair and lifted eye,'—as some one says.And now, he's worshipped for his pains, the sneak!"

"Well, but your turning-point of life,—what's hereTo hinder you contesting FinsburyWith Orton, next election? I don't see...."

"Notyou! ButIsee. Slowly, surely, creepsDay by day o'er me the conviction—hereWas life's prize grasped at, gained, and then let go!—That with her—may be, for her—I had feltIce in me melt, grow steam, drive to effectAny or all the fancies sluggish hereI' the head that needs the hand she would not takeAnd I shall never lift now. Lo, your wood—Its turnings which I likened life to! Well,—There she stands, ending every avenue,300Her visionary presence on each goalI might have gained had we kept side by side!Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids:The steam congeals once more: I'm old again!Therefore I hate myself—but how much worseDo not I hate who would not understand,Let me repair things—no, but sent a-slideMy folly falteringly, stumblinglyDown, down and deeper down until I dropUpon—the need of your ten thousand poundsAnd consequently loss of mine! I loseCharacter, cash, nay, common-sense itselfRecounting such a lengthy cock-and-bullAdventure—lose my temper in the act...."

"And lose beside,—if I may supplementThe list of losses,—train and ten-o'clock!Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign!So much the better! You're my captive now!I'm glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thickThis way—that's twice said; we were thickish, though,Even last night, and, ere night comes again,I prophesy good luck to both of us!For see now!—back to 'balmy eminence'Or 'calm acclivity,' or what's the word!Bestow you there an hour, concoct at easeA sonnet for the Album, while I putBold face on, best foot forward, make for house,March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth—(Even white-lying goes against my tasteAfter your little story). Oh, the nieceIs rationality itself! The aunt—If she's amenable to reason too—Why, you stooped short to pay her due respect,301And let the Duke wait (I'll work well the Duke).If she grows gracious, I return for you;If thunder's in the air, why—bear your doom,Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dustOf aunty from your shoes as off you goBy evening-train, nor give the thing a thoughtHow you shall pay me—that's as sure as fate,Old fellow! Off with you, face left about!Yonder's the path I have to pad. You see,I'm in good spirits, God knows why! PerhapsBecause the woman did not marry you—Who look so hard at me,—and have the right,One must be fair and own."

The two stand stillUnder an oak.

"Look here!" resumes the youth."I never quite knew how I came to likeYou—so much—whom I ought not court at all;Nor how you had a leaning just to meWho am assuredly not worth your pains.For there must needs be plenty such as youSomewhere about,—although I can't say where,—Able and willing to teach all you know;While—how can you have missed a score like meWith money and no wit, precisely eachA pupil for your purpose, were it—easeFool's poke of tutor'shonorarium-fee?And yet, howe'er it came about, I feltAt once my master: you as prompt descriedYour man, I warrant, so was bargain struck.Now, these same lines of liking, loving, runSometimes so close together they converge302—Life's great adventures—you know what I mean—In people. Do you know, as you advanced,It got to be uncommonly like factWe two had fallen in with—liked and lovedJust the same woman in our different ways?I began life—poor groundling as I prove—Winged and ambitious to fly high: why not?There's something in 'Don Quixote' to the point,My shrewd old father used to quote and praise—'Am I born man?' asks Sancho: 'being man,By possibility I may be Pope!'So, Pope I meant to make myself, by stepAnd step, whereof the first should be to findA perfect woman; and I tell you this—If what I fixed on, in the order dueOf undertakings, as next step, had firstOf all disposed itself to suit my tread,And I had been, the day I came of age,Returned at head of poll for Westminster—Nay, and moreover summoned by the QueenAt week's end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit,To form and head a Tory ministry—It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor beenMore strange to me, as now I estimate,Than what did happen—sober truth, no dream.I saw my wonder of a woman,—laugh,I'm past that!—in Commemoration-week.A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul,—With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink;But one to match that marvel—no least trace,Least touch of kinship and community!The end was—I did somehow state the fact,Did, with no matter what imperfect words,One way or other give to understand303That woman, soul and body were her slaveWould she but take, but try them—any testOf will, and some poor test of power beside:So did the strings within my brain grow tenseAnd capable of ... hang similitudes!She answered kindly but beyond appeal.'No sort of hope for me, who came too late.She was another's. Love went—mine to her,Hers just as loyally to some one else.'Of course! I might expect it! Nature's law—Given the peerless woman, certainlySomewhere shall be the peerless man to match!I acquiesced at once, submitted meIn something of a stupor, went my way.I fancy there had been some talk beforeOf somebody—her father or the like—To coach me in the holidays,—that's howI came to get the sight and speech of her,—But I had sense enough to break off sharp,Save both of us the pain."

"Quite right there!""Eh?Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all!Yes, I did sulk aloof and let aloneThe lovers—Idisturb the angel-mates?"

"Seraph paired off with cherub!"

"Thank you! WhileI never plucked up courage to inquireWho he was, even,—certain-sure of this,That nobody I knew of had blue wingsAnd wore a star-crown as he needs must do,304—Some little lady,—plainish, pock-marked girl,—Finds out my secret in my woful face,Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball,And pityingly pours her wine and oilThis way into the wound: 'Dear f-f-friend,Why waste affection thus on—must I say,A somewhat worthless object? Who's her choice—Irrevocable as deliberate—Out of the wide world? I shall name no names—But there's a person in society,Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown grayIn idleness and sin of every sortExcept hypocrisy: he's thrice her age,A by-word for "successes with the sex"As the French say—and, as we ought to say,Consummately a liar and a rogue,Since—show me where's the woman won withoutThe help of this one lie which she believes—That—never mind how things have come to pass,And let who loves have loved a thousand times—All the same he now loves her only, lovesHer ever! if by "won" you just mean "sold,"That's quite another compact. Well, this scamp,Continuing descent from bad to worse,Must leave his fine and fashionable prey(Who—fathered, brothered, husbanded,—are hedgedAbout with thorny danger) and applyHis arts to this poor country ignoranceWho sees forthwith in the first rag of manHer model hero! Why continue wasteOn such a woman treasures of a heartWould yet find solace,—yes, my f-f-friend—In some congenial—fiddle-diddle-dee?'"

305"Pray, is the pleasant gentleman describedExact the portrait which my 'f-f-friends'Recognize as so like? 'T is evidentYou half surmised the sweet originalCould be no other than myself, just now!Your stop and start were flattering!"

"Of courseCaricature's allowed for in a sketch!The longish nose becomes a foot in length,The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored,—still,Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts:And 'parson's daughter'—'young man coachable'—'Elderly party'—'four years since'—were factsTo fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though—That made the difference, I hope."

"All right!I never married; wish I had—and thenUnwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes!I hate my mistress, but I'm murder-free.In your case, where's the grievance? You came last,The earlier bird picked up the worm. SupposeYou, in the glory of your twenty-one,Had happened to precede myself! 't is oddsBut this gigantic juvenility,This offering of a big arm's bony hand—I'd rather shake than feel shake me, I know—Had movedmydainty mistress to admireAn altogether new Ideal—deemIdolatry less due to life's declineProductive of experience, powers matureBy dint of usage, the made man—no boyThat's all to make! I was the earlier bird306—And what I found, I let fall: what you missedWho is the fool that blames you for?"

They become so deeply interested in this talk that the train is missed, and, in the meantime, the lady who now lives in the neighborhood as the wife of the hard-working country parson meets the young girl at the inn. They are great friends and have come there, at the girl's invitation, to talk over her prospective husband. She desires her friend to come to her home and meet her fiancé, but the lady, who is in constant fear of meeting "Iago," never goes anywhere, and proposes a meeting with him at the inn. While she waits, "Iago" comes in upon her. There is a terrible scene of recrimination between these two, the man again daring to prefer his love. The lady scorns him. Horror is added to horror when the young man appears at the door, and recognizes the woman he really loves. His faith in her and his love are shaken for a moment, but return immediately and he stands her true friend and lover. The complete despicableness of "Iago's" nature finally reveals itself in the lines he writes in the album and gives to the lady to read. The poem is too long to quote in full. The closing scene, however, will give the reader a good idea of307the poet's handling of this nineteenth-century tragedy.

The true nobility of soul of the younger man links him with Mertoun among Browning's heroes and represents the Englishman or the man of any country for that matter at his highest. Whether redemption for the older man would have been possible had the lady believed him in the inn parlor is doubtful. Such natures are like Ibsen's "Peer Gynt." They need to be put into a button mould and moulded over again.

"Here's the lady back!So, Madam, you have conned the Album-pageAnd come to thank its last contributor?How kind and condescending! I retireA moment, lest I spoil the interview,And mar my own endeavor to make friends—You with him, him with you, and both with me!If I succeed—permit me to inquireFive minutes hence! Friends bid good-by, you know."And out he goes.

She, face, form, bearing, oneSuperb composure—"He has told you all?Yes, he has told you all, your silence says—What gives him, as he thinks the masteryOver my body and my soul!—has told308That instance, even, of their servitudeHe now exacts of me? A silent blush!That's well, though better would white ignoranceBeseem your brow, undesecrate before—Ay, when I left you! I too learn at last—Hideously learned as I seemed so late—What sin may swell to. Yes,—I needed learnThat, when my prophet's rod became the snakeI fled from, it would, one day, swallow up—Incorporate whatever serpentineFalsehood and treason and unmanlinessBeslime earth's pavement: such the power of Hell,And so beginning, ends no otherwiseThe Adversary! I was ignorant,Blameworthy—if you will; but blame I takeNowise upon me as I ask myself—You—how can you, whose soul I seemed to readThe limpid eyes through, have declined so deepEven with him for consort? I revolveMuch memory, pry into the looks and wordsOf that day's walk beneath the College wall,And nowhere can distinguish, in what gleamsOnly pure marble through my dusky past,A dubious cranny where such poison-seedMight harbor, nourish what should yield to-dayThis dread ingredient for the cup I drink.Do not I recognize and honor truthIn seeming?—take your truth and for return,Give you my truth, a no less precious gift?You loved me: I believed you. I replied—How could I other? 'I was not my own,'—No longer had the eyes to see, the earsTo hear, the mind to judge, since heart and soulNow were another's. My own right in me,309For well or ill, consigned away—my faceFronted the honest path, deflection whenceHad shamed me in the furtive backward lookAt the late bargain—fit such chapman's phrase!—As though—less hasty and more provident—Waiting had brought advantage. Not for meThe chapman's chance! Yet while thus much was true,I spared you—as I knew you then—one moreConcluding word which, truth no less, seemed bestBuried away forever. Take it nowIts power to pain is past! Four years—that day—Those lines that make the College avenue!I would that—friend and foe—by miracle,I had, that moment, seen into the heartOf either, as I now am taught to see!I do believe I should have straight assumedMy proper function, and sustained a soul,Nor aimed at being just sustained myselfBy some man's soul—the weaker woman's-want!So had I missed the momentary thrillOf finding me in presence of a god,But gained the god's own feeling when he givesSuch thrill to what turns life from death before.'Gods many and Lords many,' says the Book:You would have yielded up your soul to me—Not to the false god who has burned its clayIn his own image. I had shed my loveLike Spring dew on the clod all flowery thence,Not sent up a wild vapor to the sunthat drinks and then disperses. Both of usBlameworthy,—I first meet my punishment—And not so hard to bear. I breathe again!Forth from those arms' enwinding leprosyAt last I struggle—uncontaminate:310Why must I leaveyoupressing to the breastThat's all one plague-spot? Did you love me once?Then take love's last and best return! I think,Womanliness means only motherhood;All love begins and ends there,—roams enough,But, having run the circle, rests at home.Why is your expiation yet to make?Pull shame with your own hands from your own headNow,—never wait the slow envelopmentSubmitted to by unelastic age!One fierce throe frees the sapling: flake on flakeLull till they leave the oak snow-stupefied.Your heart retains its vital warmth—or whyThat blushing reassurance? Blush, young blood!Break from beneath this icy prematureCaptivity of wickedness—I warnBack, in God's name! No fresh encroachment here!This May breaks all to bud—No Winter now!Friend, we are both forgiven! Sin no more!I am past sin now, so shall you become!Meanwhile I testify that, lying once,My foe lied ever, most lied last of all.He, waking, whispered to your sense asleepThe wicked counsel,—and assent might seem;But, roused, your healthy indignation breaksThe idle dream-pact. You would die—not dareConfirm your dream-resolve,—nay, find the wordThat fits the deed to bear the light of day!Say I have justly judged you! then farewellTo blushing—nay, it ends in smiles, not tears!Why tears now? I have justly judged, thank God!"He does blush boy-like, but the man speaks out,—Makes the due effort to surmount himself.311"I don't know what he wrote—how should I? NorHow he could read my purpose which, it seems,He chose to somehow write—mistakenlyOr else for mischief's sake. I scarce believeMy purpose put before you fair and plainWould need annoy so much; but there's my luck—From first to last I blunder. Still, one moreTurn at the target, try to speak my thought!Since he could guess my purpose, won't you readRight what he set down wrong? He said—let's think!Ay, so!—he did begin by telling heapsOf tales about you. Now, you see—supposeAny one told me—my own mother diedBefore I knew her—told me—to his cost!—Such tales about my own dead mother: why,You would not wonder surely if I knew,By nothing but my own heart's help, he lied,Would you? No reason's wanted in the case.So with you! In they burnt on me, his tales,Much as when madhouse-inmates crowd around,Make captive any visitor and screamAll sorts of stories of their keeper—he'sBoth dwarf and giant, vulture, wolf, dog, cat,Serpent and scorpion, yet man all the same;Sane people soon see through the gibberish!I just made out, you somehow lived somewhereA life of shame—I can't distinguish more—Married or single—how, don't matter much:Shame which himself had caused—that point was clear,That fact confessed—that thing to hold and keep.Oh, and he added some absurdity—That you were here to make me—ha, ha, ha!—Still love you, still of mind to die for you,Ha, ha—as if that needed mighty pains!312Now, foolish as ... but never mind myself—What I am, what I am not, in the eyeOf the world, is what I never cared for much.Fool then or no fool, not one single wordIn the whole string of lies did I believe,But this—this only—if I choke, who cares?—I believe somehow in your purityPerfect as ever! Else what use is God?He is God, and work miracles He can!Then, what shall I do? Quite as clear, my course!They've got a thing they call their LabyrinthI' the garden yonder: and my cousin playedA pretty trick once, led and lost me deepInside the briery maze of hedge round hedge;And there might I be staying now, stock-still,But that I laughing bade eyes follow noseAnd so straight pushed my path through let and stopAnd soon was out in the open, face all scratched,But well behind my back the prison-barsIn sorry plight enough, I promise you!So here: I won my way to truth through lies—Said, as I saw light,—if her shame be shameI'll rescue and redeem her,—shame's no shame?Then, I'll avenge, protect—redeem myselfThe stupidest of sinners! Here I stand!Dear,—let me once dare call you so,—you saidThus ought you to have done, four years ago,Such things and such! Ay, dear, and what ought I?You were revealed to me: where's gratitude,Where's memory even, where the gain of youDiscernible in my low after-lifeOf fancied consolation? why, no horseOnce fed on corn, will, missing corn, go munchMere thistles like a donkey! I missed you,313And in your place found—him, made him my love,Ay, did I,—by this token, that he taughtSo much beast-nature that I meant ... God knowsWhether I bow me to the dust enough!...To marry—yes, my cousin here! I hopeThat was a master-stroke! Take heart of hers,And give her hand of mine with no more heartThan now you see upon this brow I strike!What atom of a heart do I retainNot all yours? Dear, you know it! EasilyMay she accord me pardon when I placeMy brow beneath her foot, if foot so deign,Since uttermost indignity is spared—Mere marriage and no love! And all this timeNot one word to the purpose! Are you free?Only wait! only let me serve—deserveWhere you appoint and how you see the good!I have the will—perhaps the power—at leastMeans that have power against the world. For time—Take my whole life for your experiment!If you are bound—in marriage, say—why, still,Still, sure, there's something for a friend to do,Outside? A mere well-wisher, understand!I'll sit, my life long, at your gate, you know,Swing it wide open to let you and himPass freely,—and you need not look, much lessFling me a 'Thank you—are you there, old friend?'Don't say that even: I should drop like shot!So I feel now at least: some day, who knows?After no end of weeks and months and yearsYou might smile 'I believe you did your best!'And that shall make my heart leap—leap such leapAs lands the feet in Heaven to wait you there!Ah, there's just one thing more! How pale you look!314Why? Are you angry? If there's, after all,Worst come to worst—if still there somehow beThe shame—I said was no shame,—none! I swear!—In that case, if my hand and what it holds,—My name,—might be your safeguard now—at once—Why, here's the hand—you have the heart! Of course—No cheat, no binding you, because I'm bound,To let me off probation by one day,Week, month, year, lifetime! Prove as you propose!Here's the hand with the name to take or leave!That's all—and no great piece of news, I hope!""Give me the hand, then!" she cries hastily."Quick, now! I hear his footstep!"Hand in handThe couple face him as he enters, stopsShort, stands surprised a moment, laughs awaySurprise, resumes the much-experienced man."So, you accept him?""Till us death do part!""No longer? Come, that's right and rational!I fancied there was power in common sense,But did not know it worked thus promptly. Well—At last each understands the other, then?Each drops disguise, then? So, at supper-timeThese masquerading people doff their gear,Grand Turk his pompous turban, QuakeressHer stiff-starched bib and tucker,—make-believeThat only bothers when, ball-business done,Nature demands champagne andmayonnaise.Just so has each of us sage three abjuredHis and her moral pet particular315Pretension to superiority,And, cheek by jowl, we henceforth munch and joke!Go, happy pair, paternally dismissedTo live and die together—for a month,Discretioncan award no more! DepartFrom whatsoe'er the calm sweet solitudeSelected—Paris not improbably—At month's end, when the honeycomb's left wax,—You, daughter, with a pocketful of goldEnough to find your village boys and girlsIn duffel cloaks and hobnailed shoes from MayTo—what's the phrase?—Christmas-come-never-mas!You, son and heir of mine, shall re-appearEre Spring-time, that's the ring-time, lose one leaf,And—not without regretful smack of lipThe while you wipe it free of honey-smear—Marry the cousin, play the magistrate,Stand for the country, prove perfection's pink—Master of hounds, gay-coated dine—nor dieSooner than needs of gout, obesity,And sons at Christ Church! As for me,—ah me,I abdicate—retire on my success,Four years well occupied in teaching youth—My son and daughter the exemplary!Time for me to retire now, having placedProud on their pedestal the pair: in turn,Let them do homage to their master! You,—Well, your flushed cheek and flashing eye proclaimSufficiently your gratitude: you paidThehonorarium, the ten thousand poundsTo purpose, did you not? I told you so!And you, but, bless me, why so pale—so faintAt influx of good fortune? Certainly,No matter how or why or whose the fault,316I save your life—save it, nor less nor more!You blindly were resolved to welcome deathIn that black boor-and-bumpkin-haunted holeOf his, the prig with all the preachments!YouInstalled as nurse and matron to the cronesAnd wenches, while there lay a world outsideLike Paris (which again I recommend)In company and guidance of—first, this,Then—all in good time—some new friend as fit—What if I were to say, some fresh myself,As I once figured? Each dog has his day,And mine's at sunset: what should old dog doBut eye young litters' frisky puppyhood?Oh I shall watch this beauty and this youthFrisk it in brilliance! But don't fear! Discreet,I shall pretend to no more recognizeMy quondam pupils than the doctor nodsWhen certain old acquaintances may crossHis path in Park, or sit down prim besideHis plate at dinner-table: tip nor winkScares patients he has put, for reason good,Under restriction,—maybe, talked sometimesOf douche or horsewhip to,—for why? becauseThe gentleman would crazily declareHis best friend was—Iago! Ay, and worse—The lady, all at once grown lunatic,In suicidal monomania vowed,To save her soul, she needs must starve herself!They're cured now, both, and I tell nobody.Why don't you speak? Nay, speechless, each of youCan spare,—without unclasping plighted troth,—At least one hand to shake! Left-hands will do—Yours first, my daughter! Ah, it guards—it gripesThe precious Album fast—and prudently!317As well obliterate the record thereOn page the last: allow me tear the leaf!Pray, now! And afterward, to make amends,What if all three of us contribute eachA line to that prelusive fragment,—helpThe embarrassed bard who broke out to break downDumbfoundered at such unforeseen success?'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot'You begin—place aux dames! I'll prompt you then!'Here do I take the good the gods allot!'Next you, Sir! What, still sulky? Sing, O Muse!'Here does my lord in full discharge his shot!'Now for the crowning flourish! mine shall be....""Nothing to match your first effusion, marWhat was, is, shall remain your masterpiece!Authorship has the alteration-itch!No, I protest against erasure. Read,My friend!" (she gasps out). "Read and quickly read'Before us death do part,' what made you mineAnd made me yours—the marriage-license here!Decide if he is like to mend the same!"And so the lady, white to ghastliness,Manages somehow to display the pageWith left-hand only, while the right retainsThe other hand, the young man's,—dreaming-drunkHe, with this drench of stupefying stuff,Eyes wide, mouth open,—half the idiot's stareAnd half the prophet's insight,—holding tight,All the same, by his one fact in the world—The lady's right-hand: he but seems to read—Does not, for certain; yet, how understandUnless he reads?318So, understand he does,For certain. Slowly, word by word,shereadsAloud that license—or that warrant, say."'One against two—and two that urge their oddsTo uttermost—I needs must try resource!Madam, I laid me prostrate, bade you spurnBody and soul: you spurned and safely spurnedSo you had spared me the superfluous taunt"Prostration means no power to stand erect,Stand, trampling on who trampled—prostrate now!"So, with my other fool-foe: I was fainLet the boy touch me with the buttoned foil,And him the infection gains, he too must needsCatch up the butcher's cleaver. Be it so!Since play turns earnest, here's my serious fence.He loves you; he demands your love: both knowWhat love means in my language. Love him then!Pursuant to a pact, love pays my debt:Therefore, deliver me from him, therebyLikewise delivering from me yourself!For, hesitate—much more, refuse consent—I tell the whole truth to your husband. FlatCards lie on table, in our gamester-phrase!Consent—you stop my mouth, the only way.'"I did well, trusting instinct: knew your handHad never joined with his in fellowshipOver this pact of infamy. You known—As he was known through every nerve of me.Therefore I 'stopped his mouth the only way'Butmyway! none was left for you, my friend—The loyal—near, the loved one! No—no—no!Threaten? Chastise? The coward would but quail.319Conquer who can, the cunning of the snake!Stamp out his slimy strength from tail to head,And still you leave vibration of the tongue.His malice had redoubled—not on meWho, myself, choose my own refining fire—But on poor unsuspicious innocence;And,—victim,—to turn executionerAlso—that feat effected, forky tongueHad done indeed its office! One snake's 'mouth'Thus 'open'—how could mortal 'stop it'?"So!"A tiger-flash—yell, spring, and scream: halloo!Death's out and on him, has and holds him—ugh!Butne trucidet coram populoJuvenis senem! Right the Horatian rule!There, see how soon a quiet comes to pass!The youth is somehow by the lady's side.His right-hand grasps her right-hand once again.Both gaze on the dead body. Hers the word."And that was good but useless. Had I livedThe danger was to dread: but, dying now—Himself would hardly become talkative,Since talk no more means torture. Fools—what foolsThese wicked men are! Had I borne four years,Four years of weeks and months and days and nights,Inured me to the consciousness of lifeCoiled round by his life, with the tongue to ply,—But that I bore about me, for prompt useAt urgent need, the thing that 'stops the mouth'And stays the venom? Since such need was nowOr never,—how should use not follow need?Bear witness for me, I withdraw from life320By virtue of the license—warrant, say,That blackens yet this Album—white again,Thanks still to my one friend who tears the page!Now, let me write the line of supplement,As counselled by my foe there: 'each a line!'"And she does falteringly write to end."I die now through the villain who lies dead,Righteously slain. He would have outraged me,So, my defender slew him. God protectThe right! Where wrong lay, I bear witness now.Let man believe me, whose last breath is spentIn blessing my defender from my soul!"And so ends the Inn Album.As she dies,Begins outside a voice that sounds like song,And is indeed half song though meant for speechMuttered in time to motion—stir of heartThat unsubduably must bubble forthTo match the fawn-step as it mounts the stair."All's ended and all's over! Verdict found'Not guilty'—prisoner forthwith set free,Mid cheers the Court pretends to disregard!Now Portia, now for Daniel, late severe,At last appeased, benignant! 'This young man—Hem—has the young man's foibles but no fault.He's virgin soil—a friend must cultivate.I think no plant called "love" grows wild—a friendMay introduce, and name the bloom, the fruit!'Here somebody dares wave a handkerchief321—She'll want to hide her face with presently!Good-by then! 'Cigno fedel, cigno fedel,Addio!' Now, was ever such mistake—Ever such foolish ugly omen? Pshaw!Wagner, beside! 'Amo te solo, teSolo amai!' That's worth fifty such!But, mum, the grave face at the opened door!"And so the good gay girl, with eyes and cheeksDiamond and damask,—cheeks so white erewhileBecause of a vague fancy, idle fearChased on reflection!—pausing, taps discreet;And then, to give herself a countenance,Before she comes upon the pair inside,Loud—the oft-quoted, long-laughed-over line—"'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'Open the door!"No: let the curtain fall!

She, face, form, bearing, oneSuperb composure—

"He has told you all?Yes, he has told you all, your silence says—What gives him, as he thinks the masteryOver my body and my soul!—has told308That instance, even, of their servitudeHe now exacts of me? A silent blush!That's well, though better would white ignoranceBeseem your brow, undesecrate before—Ay, when I left you! I too learn at last—Hideously learned as I seemed so late—What sin may swell to. Yes,—I needed learnThat, when my prophet's rod became the snakeI fled from, it would, one day, swallow up—Incorporate whatever serpentineFalsehood and treason and unmanlinessBeslime earth's pavement: such the power of Hell,And so beginning, ends no otherwiseThe Adversary! I was ignorant,Blameworthy—if you will; but blame I takeNowise upon me as I ask myself—You—how can you, whose soul I seemed to readThe limpid eyes through, have declined so deepEven with him for consort? I revolveMuch memory, pry into the looks and wordsOf that day's walk beneath the College wall,And nowhere can distinguish, in what gleamsOnly pure marble through my dusky past,A dubious cranny where such poison-seedMight harbor, nourish what should yield to-dayThis dread ingredient for the cup I drink.Do not I recognize and honor truthIn seeming?—take your truth and for return,Give you my truth, a no less precious gift?You loved me: I believed you. I replied—How could I other? 'I was not my own,'—No longer had the eyes to see, the earsTo hear, the mind to judge, since heart and soulNow were another's. My own right in me,309For well or ill, consigned away—my faceFronted the honest path, deflection whenceHad shamed me in the furtive backward lookAt the late bargain—fit such chapman's phrase!—As though—less hasty and more provident—Waiting had brought advantage. Not for meThe chapman's chance! Yet while thus much was true,I spared you—as I knew you then—one moreConcluding word which, truth no less, seemed bestBuried away forever. Take it nowIts power to pain is past! Four years—that day—Those lines that make the College avenue!I would that—friend and foe—by miracle,I had, that moment, seen into the heartOf either, as I now am taught to see!I do believe I should have straight assumedMy proper function, and sustained a soul,Nor aimed at being just sustained myselfBy some man's soul—the weaker woman's-want!So had I missed the momentary thrillOf finding me in presence of a god,But gained the god's own feeling when he givesSuch thrill to what turns life from death before.'Gods many and Lords many,' says the Book:You would have yielded up your soul to me—Not to the false god who has burned its clayIn his own image. I had shed my loveLike Spring dew on the clod all flowery thence,Not sent up a wild vapor to the sunthat drinks and then disperses. Both of usBlameworthy,—I first meet my punishment—And not so hard to bear. I breathe again!Forth from those arms' enwinding leprosyAt last I struggle—uncontaminate:310Why must I leaveyoupressing to the breastThat's all one plague-spot? Did you love me once?Then take love's last and best return! I think,Womanliness means only motherhood;All love begins and ends there,—roams enough,But, having run the circle, rests at home.Why is your expiation yet to make?Pull shame with your own hands from your own headNow,—never wait the slow envelopmentSubmitted to by unelastic age!One fierce throe frees the sapling: flake on flakeLull till they leave the oak snow-stupefied.Your heart retains its vital warmth—or whyThat blushing reassurance? Blush, young blood!Break from beneath this icy prematureCaptivity of wickedness—I warnBack, in God's name! No fresh encroachment here!This May breaks all to bud—No Winter now!Friend, we are both forgiven! Sin no more!I am past sin now, so shall you become!Meanwhile I testify that, lying once,My foe lied ever, most lied last of all.He, waking, whispered to your sense asleepThe wicked counsel,—and assent might seem;But, roused, your healthy indignation breaksThe idle dream-pact. You would die—not dareConfirm your dream-resolve,—nay, find the wordThat fits the deed to bear the light of day!Say I have justly judged you! then farewellTo blushing—nay, it ends in smiles, not tears!Why tears now? I have justly judged, thank God!"

He does blush boy-like, but the man speaks out,—Makes the due effort to surmount himself.

311"I don't know what he wrote—how should I? NorHow he could read my purpose which, it seems,He chose to somehow write—mistakenlyOr else for mischief's sake. I scarce believeMy purpose put before you fair and plainWould need annoy so much; but there's my luck—From first to last I blunder. Still, one moreTurn at the target, try to speak my thought!Since he could guess my purpose, won't you readRight what he set down wrong? He said—let's think!Ay, so!—he did begin by telling heapsOf tales about you. Now, you see—supposeAny one told me—my own mother diedBefore I knew her—told me—to his cost!—Such tales about my own dead mother: why,You would not wonder surely if I knew,By nothing but my own heart's help, he lied,Would you? No reason's wanted in the case.So with you! In they burnt on me, his tales,Much as when madhouse-inmates crowd around,Make captive any visitor and screamAll sorts of stories of their keeper—he'sBoth dwarf and giant, vulture, wolf, dog, cat,Serpent and scorpion, yet man all the same;Sane people soon see through the gibberish!I just made out, you somehow lived somewhereA life of shame—I can't distinguish more—Married or single—how, don't matter much:Shame which himself had caused—that point was clear,That fact confessed—that thing to hold and keep.Oh, and he added some absurdity—That you were here to make me—ha, ha, ha!—Still love you, still of mind to die for you,Ha, ha—as if that needed mighty pains!312Now, foolish as ... but never mind myself—What I am, what I am not, in the eyeOf the world, is what I never cared for much.Fool then or no fool, not one single wordIn the whole string of lies did I believe,But this—this only—if I choke, who cares?—I believe somehow in your purityPerfect as ever! Else what use is God?He is God, and work miracles He can!Then, what shall I do? Quite as clear, my course!They've got a thing they call their LabyrinthI' the garden yonder: and my cousin playedA pretty trick once, led and lost me deepInside the briery maze of hedge round hedge;And there might I be staying now, stock-still,But that I laughing bade eyes follow noseAnd so straight pushed my path through let and stopAnd soon was out in the open, face all scratched,But well behind my back the prison-barsIn sorry plight enough, I promise you!So here: I won my way to truth through lies—Said, as I saw light,—if her shame be shameI'll rescue and redeem her,—shame's no shame?Then, I'll avenge, protect—redeem myselfThe stupidest of sinners! Here I stand!Dear,—let me once dare call you so,—you saidThus ought you to have done, four years ago,Such things and such! Ay, dear, and what ought I?You were revealed to me: where's gratitude,Where's memory even, where the gain of youDiscernible in my low after-lifeOf fancied consolation? why, no horseOnce fed on corn, will, missing corn, go munchMere thistles like a donkey! I missed you,313And in your place found—him, made him my love,Ay, did I,—by this token, that he taughtSo much beast-nature that I meant ... God knowsWhether I bow me to the dust enough!...To marry—yes, my cousin here! I hopeThat was a master-stroke! Take heart of hers,And give her hand of mine with no more heartThan now you see upon this brow I strike!What atom of a heart do I retainNot all yours? Dear, you know it! EasilyMay she accord me pardon when I placeMy brow beneath her foot, if foot so deign,Since uttermost indignity is spared—Mere marriage and no love! And all this timeNot one word to the purpose! Are you free?Only wait! only let me serve—deserveWhere you appoint and how you see the good!I have the will—perhaps the power—at leastMeans that have power against the world. For time—Take my whole life for your experiment!If you are bound—in marriage, say—why, still,Still, sure, there's something for a friend to do,Outside? A mere well-wisher, understand!I'll sit, my life long, at your gate, you know,Swing it wide open to let you and himPass freely,—and you need not look, much lessFling me a 'Thank you—are you there, old friend?'Don't say that even: I should drop like shot!So I feel now at least: some day, who knows?After no end of weeks and months and yearsYou might smile 'I believe you did your best!'And that shall make my heart leap—leap such leapAs lands the feet in Heaven to wait you there!Ah, there's just one thing more! How pale you look!314Why? Are you angry? If there's, after all,Worst come to worst—if still there somehow beThe shame—I said was no shame,—none! I swear!—In that case, if my hand and what it holds,—My name,—might be your safeguard now—at once—Why, here's the hand—you have the heart! Of course—No cheat, no binding you, because I'm bound,To let me off probation by one day,Week, month, year, lifetime! Prove as you propose!Here's the hand with the name to take or leave!That's all—and no great piece of news, I hope!"

"Give me the hand, then!" she cries hastily."Quick, now! I hear his footstep!"Hand in handThe couple face him as he enters, stopsShort, stands surprised a moment, laughs awaySurprise, resumes the much-experienced man.

"So, you accept him?""Till us death do part!"

"No longer? Come, that's right and rational!I fancied there was power in common sense,But did not know it worked thus promptly. Well—At last each understands the other, then?Each drops disguise, then? So, at supper-timeThese masquerading people doff their gear,Grand Turk his pompous turban, QuakeressHer stiff-starched bib and tucker,—make-believeThat only bothers when, ball-business done,Nature demands champagne andmayonnaise.Just so has each of us sage three abjuredHis and her moral pet particular315Pretension to superiority,And, cheek by jowl, we henceforth munch and joke!Go, happy pair, paternally dismissedTo live and die together—for a month,Discretioncan award no more! DepartFrom whatsoe'er the calm sweet solitudeSelected—Paris not improbably—At month's end, when the honeycomb's left wax,—You, daughter, with a pocketful of goldEnough to find your village boys and girlsIn duffel cloaks and hobnailed shoes from MayTo—what's the phrase?—Christmas-come-never-mas!You, son and heir of mine, shall re-appearEre Spring-time, that's the ring-time, lose one leaf,And—not without regretful smack of lipThe while you wipe it free of honey-smear—Marry the cousin, play the magistrate,Stand for the country, prove perfection's pink—Master of hounds, gay-coated dine—nor dieSooner than needs of gout, obesity,And sons at Christ Church! As for me,—ah me,I abdicate—retire on my success,Four years well occupied in teaching youth—My son and daughter the exemplary!Time for me to retire now, having placedProud on their pedestal the pair: in turn,Let them do homage to their master! You,—Well, your flushed cheek and flashing eye proclaimSufficiently your gratitude: you paidThehonorarium, the ten thousand poundsTo purpose, did you not? I told you so!And you, but, bless me, why so pale—so faintAt influx of good fortune? Certainly,No matter how or why or whose the fault,316I save your life—save it, nor less nor more!You blindly were resolved to welcome deathIn that black boor-and-bumpkin-haunted holeOf his, the prig with all the preachments!YouInstalled as nurse and matron to the cronesAnd wenches, while there lay a world outsideLike Paris (which again I recommend)In company and guidance of—first, this,Then—all in good time—some new friend as fit—What if I were to say, some fresh myself,As I once figured? Each dog has his day,And mine's at sunset: what should old dog doBut eye young litters' frisky puppyhood?Oh I shall watch this beauty and this youthFrisk it in brilliance! But don't fear! Discreet,I shall pretend to no more recognizeMy quondam pupils than the doctor nodsWhen certain old acquaintances may crossHis path in Park, or sit down prim besideHis plate at dinner-table: tip nor winkScares patients he has put, for reason good,Under restriction,—maybe, talked sometimesOf douche or horsewhip to,—for why? becauseThe gentleman would crazily declareHis best friend was—Iago! Ay, and worse—The lady, all at once grown lunatic,In suicidal monomania vowed,To save her soul, she needs must starve herself!They're cured now, both, and I tell nobody.Why don't you speak? Nay, speechless, each of youCan spare,—without unclasping plighted troth,—At least one hand to shake! Left-hands will do—Yours first, my daughter! Ah, it guards—it gripesThe precious Album fast—and prudently!317As well obliterate the record thereOn page the last: allow me tear the leaf!Pray, now! And afterward, to make amends,What if all three of us contribute eachA line to that prelusive fragment,—helpThe embarrassed bard who broke out to break downDumbfoundered at such unforeseen success?'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot'You begin—place aux dames! I'll prompt you then!'Here do I take the good the gods allot!'Next you, Sir! What, still sulky? Sing, O Muse!'Here does my lord in full discharge his shot!'Now for the crowning flourish! mine shall be...."

"Nothing to match your first effusion, marWhat was, is, shall remain your masterpiece!Authorship has the alteration-itch!No, I protest against erasure. Read,My friend!" (she gasps out). "Read and quickly read'Before us death do part,' what made you mineAnd made me yours—the marriage-license here!Decide if he is like to mend the same!"And so the lady, white to ghastliness,Manages somehow to display the pageWith left-hand only, while the right retainsThe other hand, the young man's,—dreaming-drunkHe, with this drench of stupefying stuff,Eyes wide, mouth open,—half the idiot's stareAnd half the prophet's insight,—holding tight,All the same, by his one fact in the world—The lady's right-hand: he but seems to read—Does not, for certain; yet, how understandUnless he reads?

318So, understand he does,For certain. Slowly, word by word,shereadsAloud that license—or that warrant, say.

"'One against two—and two that urge their oddsTo uttermost—I needs must try resource!Madam, I laid me prostrate, bade you spurnBody and soul: you spurned and safely spurnedSo you had spared me the superfluous taunt"Prostration means no power to stand erect,Stand, trampling on who trampled—prostrate now!"So, with my other fool-foe: I was fainLet the boy touch me with the buttoned foil,And him the infection gains, he too must needsCatch up the butcher's cleaver. Be it so!Since play turns earnest, here's my serious fence.He loves you; he demands your love: both knowWhat love means in my language. Love him then!Pursuant to a pact, love pays my debt:Therefore, deliver me from him, therebyLikewise delivering from me yourself!For, hesitate—much more, refuse consent—I tell the whole truth to your husband. FlatCards lie on table, in our gamester-phrase!Consent—you stop my mouth, the only way.'

"I did well, trusting instinct: knew your handHad never joined with his in fellowshipOver this pact of infamy. You known—As he was known through every nerve of me.Therefore I 'stopped his mouth the only way'Butmyway! none was left for you, my friend—The loyal—near, the loved one! No—no—no!Threaten? Chastise? The coward would but quail.319Conquer who can, the cunning of the snake!Stamp out his slimy strength from tail to head,And still you leave vibration of the tongue.His malice had redoubled—not on meWho, myself, choose my own refining fire—But on poor unsuspicious innocence;And,—victim,—to turn executionerAlso—that feat effected, forky tongueHad done indeed its office! One snake's 'mouth'Thus 'open'—how could mortal 'stop it'?

"So!"A tiger-flash—yell, spring, and scream: halloo!Death's out and on him, has and holds him—ugh!Butne trucidet coram populoJuvenis senem! Right the Horatian rule!There, see how soon a quiet comes to pass!

The youth is somehow by the lady's side.His right-hand grasps her right-hand once again.Both gaze on the dead body. Hers the word."And that was good but useless. Had I livedThe danger was to dread: but, dying now—Himself would hardly become talkative,Since talk no more means torture. Fools—what foolsThese wicked men are! Had I borne four years,Four years of weeks and months and days and nights,Inured me to the consciousness of lifeCoiled round by his life, with the tongue to ply,—But that I bore about me, for prompt useAt urgent need, the thing that 'stops the mouth'And stays the venom? Since such need was nowOr never,—how should use not follow need?Bear witness for me, I withdraw from life320By virtue of the license—warrant, say,That blackens yet this Album—white again,Thanks still to my one friend who tears the page!Now, let me write the line of supplement,As counselled by my foe there: 'each a line!'"

And she does falteringly write to end.

"I die now through the villain who lies dead,Righteously slain. He would have outraged me,So, my defender slew him. God protectThe right! Where wrong lay, I bear witness now.Let man believe me, whose last breath is spentIn blessing my defender from my soul!"

And so ends the Inn Album.

As she dies,Begins outside a voice that sounds like song,And is indeed half song though meant for speechMuttered in time to motion—stir of heartThat unsubduably must bubble forthTo match the fawn-step as it mounts the stair.

"All's ended and all's over! Verdict found'Not guilty'—prisoner forthwith set free,Mid cheers the Court pretends to disregard!Now Portia, now for Daniel, late severe,At last appeased, benignant! 'This young man—Hem—has the young man's foibles but no fault.He's virgin soil—a friend must cultivate.I think no plant called "love" grows wild—a friendMay introduce, and name the bloom, the fruit!'Here somebody dares wave a handkerchief321—She'll want to hide her face with presently!Good-by then! 'Cigno fedel, cigno fedel,Addio!' Now, was ever such mistake—Ever such foolish ugly omen? Pshaw!Wagner, beside! 'Amo te solo, teSolo amai!' That's worth fifty such!But, mum, the grave face at the opened door!"

And so the good gay girl, with eyes and cheeksDiamond and damask,—cheeks so white erewhileBecause of a vague fancy, idle fearChased on reflection!—pausing, taps discreet;And then, to give herself a countenance,Before she comes upon the pair inside,Loud—the oft-quoted, long-laughed-over line—"'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'Open the door!"

No: let the curtain fall!

322

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