One day a friend who understood his position in society said to him —
“Why don’t you marry?”
“Marry!” exclaimed Ellison. “I would as soon think of jumping into the river.”
“Why not?”
“I’m hardly able to support myself.”
“Get a wife with money. Your talents are a fair set off to a fortune.”
“A very poor fortune they have yielded so far.”
“It will be different a few years hence. Get a wife with money enough to make you easy and comfortable, and then give yourself up heart and soul to your profession without a thought or care about dollars and cents. Your wife will make a good investment of her money, and you will be as happy as a king.”
“Upon my word!” said Ellison, laughing, “you have made out the case finely.”
“Wont it do?”
“It looks all very pretty.”
“Can you make out a better case yourself?”
“Perhaps not. But the next thing is the lady.”
“No difficulty about that.”
“Indeed! Well, who is the fair creature?”
“I could mention half a dozen. But I choose for you a good sensible woman as a wife.”
“Her name?”
“Clara Deville.”
The young man shook his head.
“What’s your objection?”
“Clara is an excellent girl. I have always liked her as a friend, but to make her my wife is another thing. I don’t think I could love her well enough for that.”
“Nonsense! She is a girl possessing most excellent qualities of head and heart. The very qualities that wear longest. If she give you her affections you have something worth having, to say nothing of the money.”
But Ellison shook his head in a very positive way.
“Just as you like,” said the friend. “Every one to his fancy. But it strikes me that you could not do a more sensible thing than make Clara Deville your wife. You at once have a home, a pleasant companion, and come into the possession of sufficient property to relieve you of all care about the common and perplexing concerns of life. Think with what delight, ardor, and success you could then devote yourself to painting.”
When these things were first said by the friend they did not make much impression on the mind of the young artist. But a seed was sown, and in a few days it began to send forth little fibres into the earth, and to shoot up a tender blade. From that time Ellison thought more and more about the suggestion of his friend. Whenever he met Clara he observed her more closely, and her image, when it arose in his mind, associated itself with the idea of a life-companionship. Particularly did his mind dwell upon the happy change that would come over his worldly affairs if Clara, possessing the handsome little property of twenty thousand dollars, were his wife. It did not take a very long time for the young man to be able to look at Clara Deville in a different light from that in which he had previously viewed her. The oftener he met the young lady, the more did he find in her that was attractive. Even her plain features underwent a change, and he could see in her face many points of beauty. In fact, before two months had elapsed, he was, or imagined himself to be, deeply in love with the maiden.
The desire of possession comes next after the passion of love. It proved so in this case, and in a much shorter time than the friend who suggested the alliance had dreamed of such an event taking place, Clara was not only wooed and won, but wedded.
——
It was one of the happiest days in Ellison’s life when he pressed upon the lips of the gentle girl whom he had won, the sweet bridal kiss. Over his future course through life hung a cloudless sky. The doubt and difficulty that had been on his way for years were removed—success to the utmost extent of his wishes was before him. Already, in imagination, he was in Italy, among the glorious creations of the old masters, drinking in from their sublime works an inspiration that was to him half immortal in his art.
For a few weeks these bright visions remained. Then his thoughts began to come down into the present, and to consider the real aspect of things around him. In regard to Clara’s fortune, all the knowledge he possessed was that obtained through common report. It was known that her father, while living, was in the enjoyment of a handsome property, and that this on his death had been divided equally among his children. As to the nature or value of his wife’s share, he was entirely ignorant; a certain feeling of delicacy kept him from seeking or even seeming to seek for information on the subject prior to marriage. In fact, he tried at times to persuade himself that the property of Clara had nothing whatever to do with his affection for her.
The mind of Ellison being proud, sensitive and independent, this delicacy remained equally strong after marriage. He took his wife to a good boarding-house, where he had engaged a large, handsomely furnished room at the rate of twelve dollars a week, and here they commenced their matrimonial life. From a friend, a short time previous to marriage, Ellison had borrowed a couple of hundred dollars, and this gave him the means of meeting all the necessary expenses attendant on the important event, besides leaving him with seventy or eighty dollars in possession as a little fund to use until some portion of his wife’s income should begin to find its way into his hands.
Two or three weeks passed, during which time Ellison went daily to paint and draw in his studio, though he did not work with his former earnestness. From some cause he found it impossible to bring his mind down to a present interest in his profession; that is, to an interest in what he was then engaged in doing. His mind was continually wandering away, and his fancy teeming with bright and beautiful images. He saw the pure blue skies of Italy; he felt the fragrant airs of the sunny clime breaking over his forehead; he was a worshiper among her galleries of immortal art; and more than all this, he was panting to be in the land of art and song, and felt his impatience to be away increasing every moment. And yet, his gentle, loving young wife, for whom a profound respect as well as affection had been awakened, said nothing of her property, nor had he permitted her to look deep enough into his mind to see his dream of Italy. He had carefully avoided this lest she should suspect the motive that first drew him to her side; a motive which, could he have done so, he would gladly have concealed even from himself.
Weeks went by, and still Clara said nothing about her little fortune; nor did she place money in the hands of her husband. The small sum he had in possession was daily growing less, and the income from his pencil was far from being sufficient to meet his expenses. To introduce the subject was next to impossible. The young man’s mind shrunk from even the remotest allusion thereto. To dreams of Italy, soon succeeded an anxious desire to turn what ability he possessed to some profitable account in the present, in order that he might retain his independence—something that had always been dear to him. It was barely possible, it occurred to his mind, that Clara had no property in herown right. Were this so, he was indeed in an embarrassed position.
Thus matters continued until nearly the last dollar of the young artist’s money was gone, and he began to be so unhappy that it was next to impossible to hide from his wife the troubled state of his feelings. What was he to do? From the thought of revealing to Clara the true nature of his affairs he shrunk away with exquisite pain. The moment that was done his independence was gone, and to retain his independence he was ready to make all other sacrifices. Daily he met her gentle, love-beaming face, and daily saw more and more of her pure, high-minded character, and all the while he felt guilty in her presence, and struggled to hide from her the wild disturbance of his heart.
One day, it was about six weeks after their marriage, Clara said to her husband, looking slightly grave, yet smiling as she spoke.
She had a letter in her hand.
“I’m afraid I am going to bring you more trouble than profit.”
Instantly, in spite of his effort to control himself, the blood sprung to the very forehead of the young man.
“I shall cheerfully meet all the trouble, and be content with the profit,” he replied, as quickly as he could speak, forcing a smile as he did so, and endeavoring to drive back the tell-tale blood to his heart.
Clara looked at her husband earnestly, and seemed to be perplexed at the singular effect produced by her words.
“There is a valuable tract of land in Ohio,” said she, “which was left me by my father, that I am in danger of losing. The title deed, it is alleged, is defective.”
“Ah! What is the nature of the defect?” Ellison’s voice, schooled under a brief but strong effort into composure, was calm as he asked this question.
“It is claimed,” answered Clara, “that a former sale was fraudulent, and therefore illegal, and that it must now revert to certain individuals who have been deprived of their rights.”
“Did the property come into your father’s hands by inheritance or purchase?”
“He bought the property, and therefore, as far as I am concerned, the title to its possession is an honest one.”
“How large is the tract of land?”
Because Ellison especially desired to avoid showing any particular interest in knowing the extent of the property, his voicefaltered on this question, and he was conscious that his countenance was slightly marked with confusion.
“Five hundred acres,” was replied.
“Is it near a town?”
“Yes. It lies not over two miles distant from a flourishing town, and was considered by my father before his death to be worth seven or eight thousand dollars. He was repeatedly offered that sum for it, but always refused, for he considered its value to be yearly increasing. ‘It will be worth twenty thousand to my children,’ he would say in reply to all offers.”
This last sentence caused the heart of Ellison to sink almost like lead. Here, then, was the twenty thousand dollars’ worth of property which his wife possessed in her own right, and upon the income of which he was to dream over and study the old masters in Italy! And so Clara was really worth twenty thousand dollars; but it was in Ohio wild lands, and even for these there was another claimant! It required a very strong effort on the part of the young man to conceal what he felt. How quickly into thin air vanished his hopes! How coldly broke the morning whose dim light showed the painful and embarrassing reality of his position!
“Has a suit been commenced?” asked Ellison.
“Yes. I have just received word from my agent that the parties claiming the tract of land have instituted legal proceedings.”
“What does he say in regard to the matter?”
“He says that he has consulted a lawyer, who after looking pretty carefully into the subject, is clearly of opinion that no suit can be sustained. But says that a good deal of trouble may be occasioned, and that the question may be kept open for two or three years.”
Here was some real intelligence bearing upon the question of Clara’s property, its amount and condition. Certainty was something; but it was not a certainty in any way calculated to elevate or tranquilize the feelings of the young artist. Instead of obtaining with his wife a handsome productive property, in stocks or city real estate, of twenty thousand dollars, he had become possessor of a law suit, and prospective owner of five hundred acres of uncultivated land in Ohio. And, by the time this knowledge was gained, he was so well acquainted with the character of his wife as to entertain for her a respect that was almost deferential. There was nothing frivolous or selfish about her—nothing trifling—nothing vulgar. She was a pure, high-minded, clear-seeing, yet deeply affectionate woman, and her husband, while he loved her tenderly, was painfully conscious that, in seeking her, he had been governed by motives that, if known, she must instinctively despise. Moreover, the fact that he had deceived her by offering his hand in marriage and leading her to the altar when his income was not large enough to support even himself in comfort, must soon appear, and that revelation he dreaded above all things; for, when it was made, the veil would be torn from Clara’s eyes, and she would see him as he was.
——
How completely scattered to the winds was Ellison’s long, fond dream of Italy! How obscured was the beautiful ideal of his art, toward which his mind had aspired with such an intense devotion! The cold present, with its imperious demands and uncovered facts was before him, and turn this way or that, he could not shut out the vision.
As calmly as he could, he conferred with his wife about her property in the West. Placing in his hands the various papers relating thereto, Clara asked him to make the business his own, as it now really was, and do whatever in his judgment seemed best. All this was easily said, but how was the young man to act without means? His own income, uncertain as it was in its nature, did not yet exceed three hundred dollars a year, and his expense for boarding alone woulddouble that sum. Embarrassment, privation, and deep mortification must soon come, and so oppressed did Ellison feel in view of this, that he could no longer conceal, even from the eyes of his wife, his unhappiness, although the cause lay hidden in his heart.
“Are you not well?” Clara frequently asked, as she looked at him with earnest tenderness.
“Oh yes! I’m very well,” Ellison would reply quickly, forcing a smile, and then endeavoring to appear cheerful and unconcerned; but his real feelings would flow into the tell-tale muscles of his face and betray the uneasiness of mind from which he was suffering.
“Something troubles you, Alfred,” said Clara, a few days after she had informed him of the attempt to deprive her of her property in the West. “What is it? I will not be content to share only your happy feelings. Life, I know, is not all sunshine. Disappointments must come in the nature of things. You will have them and so will I. Let us, from the beginning, divide our griefs and fears as well as our joys and hopes.”
And Alfred did not only look troubled; he felt also deeply depressed and anxious. Not a single new sitter had come to his rooms since his marriage; nor had he been able to get any thing to do that would yield even a small return, although he had offered to paint, at mere nominal prices, portraits from daguerreotypes—work that he had previously declined doing in a way to leave the impression that he looked upon the proposition as little less than a professional insult. On that very day he had paid out the last of his borrowed two hundred dollars. Where was the next supply to come from? How was he to obtain the sum he had expended, when the friend from whom he had received it should ask to have it returned?
The first impulse of Ellison after this tender appeal from his wife, was to throw open to her the whole truth in regard to his circumstances. But an instant’s reflection caused him to shrink back from the exposure. Pride drew around him a mantle of concealment, while his heart became faint with the bare imagination of Clara’s discovering that he had, too evidently, been won more by her supposed wealth than her virtues.
“It’s a little matter, not worth troubling you about,” was his evasive reply.
“If it trouble you, let it trouble me. To share the pressure will make it lighter for both. Come, Alfred! Let us have no concealments. Do not fear my ability to stand by your side under any circumstances. When I gave you my heart, it was with no selfish feeling. I loved you purely and tenderly, and was prepared to go with you through the world amid good or evil report, joy or sorrow, health or sickness, prosperity or adversity. I promised not only with my lips but in my inmost spirit, that I would be to you all that a wife could or should be. Meet me then freely and fully. Let us begin without a concealment, and go through life as if we possessed but one mind and heart.”
While Clara was speaking thus, Ellison partly shaded his face and tried to think to some right conclusion. But the more he thought, the more embarrassed did he feel, and the more entire became the confusion of his ideas. At length, finding it impossible to avoid uttering at least a portion of the truth, and perceiving that the truth must soon become known, he concluded to make at least some allusion to the embarrassment under which he was laboring. Suffering from a most oppressive sense of humiliation, he said —
“Clara, there is one thing that troubles me, and as you urge me to speak of what is in my mind, I don’t see that I can with justice conceal it any longer. I find myself not only disappointed in my expectations, but seriously embarrassed in consequence.”
The young man paused, while an expression of pain went over his face, which was reflected in that of his wife. He saw this, and read it as the effect a glimpse of the real truth had produced on her mind.
“Go on. Speak plainly, Alfred. Am I not your wife?” said Clara, tenderly and encouragingly.
“In a word, then, Clara, I have not, since our marriage, obtained a single new sitter, nor received an order for a picture of any kind.”
“And is that all!” exclaimed the young wife, while a light went over her face.
“Little as it may seem to you,” said Ellison in reply to this, “it is a matter of great trouble to me. In my ability as a painter lies my only claim upon the world. I have no fortune but in my talents and skill, and if these find not employment, I am poor and helpless indeed.”
The young artist spoke with emotion, and as the last word was uttered, he hid his face with his hands to conceal its troubled expression. Ah! the terrible humiliation of that moment! Never through life was it forgotten, and never through life could memory go back to the time when a confession of his poverty was made, without a shrinking and shuddering of the heart. Some moments elapsed before Clara made any answer; and these were, to Ellison, moments of heart-aching suspense. The truth having been wrung from him by mental torture, a breathless pause followed.
“And so you fear,” said Clara, with something like rebuke in her voice, “that I do not love you well enough to share your fortune, be it what it may? Alfred, when I gave you my hand it was with no external or worldly views in my mind. You said you loved me, and my own heart responded fully to the sentiment. In giving you my hand, I gave you myself entirely; for you were virtuous and I couldconfidein as well as love you. To share with you any condition in life, no matter how many privations it may involve, will always be my highest pleasure —
‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,Were better far than joy apart.’
‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,Were better far than joy apart.’
‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,Were better far than joy apart.’
‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,Were better far than joy apart.’
‘E’en grief, divided with thy heart,
Were better far than joy apart.’
“And is this all that troubles you?” she added, in a cheerful voice.
“Heaven knows that it is enough, Clara! But what adds to the pain of my embarrassment, is the fact, that for me to marry you with such slender prospects was little more than a deception. It was unjust to you.”
“Love is blind, you know, dear!” Clara replied to this, with a lightness of tone that surprised Ellison; “and one who is loved will find it no hard matter to excuse a little wandering sometimes from the path ofprudence. Fortunately, in our case, the error you so grieve over will be of no account, for it happens that I have a few thousand dollars independent of the property in dispute, which is now as much yours as mine. I ought to have said this to you before, but deemed it of little consequence.”
The response of Ellison to this announcement was not so cordial as his wife had expected. His sense of humiliation was too strong to admit a free pulsation of his heart after the external pressure was removed.
“For your sake, Clara,” said he, “I rejoice to hear this. But I feel none the less conscious of having acted wrong.”
“Come, come, Alfred! This is a weakness. Am I not your wife? and do I not love you tenderly and truly?”
“I do not doubt it, Clara. But it looks so as if I had been governed by mercenary views in offering you marriage when I ought to have known, and did know in fact, that I was not able to make your external condition as comfortable as it should be.”
“Alfred! don’t speak in this way. Do I not know you to be incapable of such baseness? I could not wrong, by an unjust suspicion, one whom I love as my own life.”
And Clara drew her arm about her husband’s neck affectionately, and pressed her lips upon his forehead.
“Forgive this weakness,” said the young man. “It is wrong, I know.”
“Yes, it is wrong, very wrong. So now, let the shadow pass from your brow, and the light come back again.”
But the weight was not removed from Ellison’s feelings. And though he swept the shadow from his brow at the word of Clara, it did not pass from his heart. It was a great relief for the moment to know that he possessed the means of support for himself and wife until he could win his way to professional eminence; but this fact did not heal the wound his natural independence and sense of honor had received. Even in the language Clara had used as a means of encouragement, he saw rebuke, though he knew that it was given unconsciously.
The amount of Clara’s property, independent of her western land, was about five thousand dollars in good stocks, that were paying an annual dividend of six per cent. On the interest of this she had been living for some years. But an addition of three hundred dollars was not sufficient to meet the deficiency in Ellison’s income. Had the value of the stock been only two or three thousand dollars, the necessity for selling it would have been so apparent to Clara’s mind, as to cause her to suggest its disposal. But Ellison was not wrong in his supposition that his wife would think the mere additional income arising from the stocks all that he needed in his present embarrassment. But the sum of three hundred dollars was not enough for him at present, for he had no certain income of his own. He might succeed in earning, by means of his pencil, two, three or four hundred dollars a year for the next four or five years; but at their present rate of expense this would leave a serious deficiency. He could not say to his wife that even her three hundred dollars would not make his income sufficient, for that would be a too broad declaration of the fact, that, while actually unable to support himself he had assumed the additional expense of a wife. And a step so unreasonable could not be explained satisfactorily, except by bringing in the additional fact that this wife was reputed to be worth some twenty thousand dollars.
To the mind of the unhappy young man was presented only a choice of evils. He must lay open fully to his wife the whole truth in regard to his circumstances, or attempt to struggle on with debt and discouragement, working and hoping for a brighter day in the future when he could feel free and independent. He preferred the latter.
It was impossible for a scene such as took place between Ellison and his wife to transpire without leaving an impression behind. Clara’s thoughts, after she was alone, naturally recurred to what had passed, and she became aware of a pressure upon her feelings. She did not suspect her husband of improper motives in seeking her hand, yet the fact that he had proposed a marriage while his income was insufficient to support a wife, was indicative of a weakness in his mind, or a want of sound judgment and discretion, that it was not pleasant to think about. This conclusion was based on the supposition that he had made no calculations in regard to her property—an impression which, in the late interview, he had evidently designed to make; and she gave him the full benefit of this conclusion, for, in her eyes, he was incapable of any thing mean, selfish, or false.
On going to his studio, after the occurrence we have mentioned, Ellison was far from being happy. It did not take him long to resolve to struggle on, and thus seek to maintain his independence. That he would fall into debt and become seriously embarrassed, he knew; but that was something in every way to be preferred to further and deeper humiliation on the subject of his wife’s property. The little already suffered on this score was so exceedingly painful and mortifying, that he had no wish to encounter any thing more of a like nature. Earnestly he searched about in his mind for suggestions. Many things presented themselves. As a teacher of drawing he might do something to increase his income; but his professional pride came quickly to oppose this idea—moreover, in advertising or sending around cards, Clara must necessarily become aware of the fact, and she would doubtless think it strange, after the increase in his income, that he should be compelled to resort to such a course. To propose to a number of his friends to paint them at a temptingly low price, was next pondered over. But they would naturally ask, “Why this necessity? Had he not married a little fortune?”
While in this state of doubt and anxiety, the friend who had furnished him with a couple of hundred dollars came in. Ellison, the moment he saw him, had an instinctive impression that he had come to ask a return of the money, as the loan had been only a temporary one. And he was not wrong. After sitting and chatting for some five minutes, during all of which time the young artist felt his presence exceedingly embarrassing, he said —
“Well, Alfred. How are you off for money?”
The color rose in the face of Ellison at this question, and he answered with evident distress and confusion.
“Not very well, I’m sorry to say. I have been thinking of you for the last hour.”
“I thought you would have been flush enough by this time,” said the friend.
“So did I. But it is otherwise.”
“Then you have not bettered your condition so much as you anticipated,” was remarked, with a familiarity and coarseness that stung the young artist like an insult.
“How do you mean?” asked Ellison, his brow falling as he spoke.
The other looked surprised at the change his words had produced.
“What should I mean, except in a money point of view?”
Ellison was under obligation to the young man for money loaned. Moreover, at the time of borrowing the money, he had given out the idea that, after his marriage, he would no longer be troubled with the disease of empty pockets. All this was remembered at the moment, and, while it occasioned a feeling of extreme mortification, was in the way of his resenting the rude familiarity.
“You shall have your money to-morrow,” said the artist, lifting his eyes from the floor where they had fallen, and looking steadily at his young friend.
“If it’s any inconvenience,” remarked the latter, who felt the rebuke of Ellison’s manner, “it’s of no consequence just now. I am not pressed for money.”
“It will be none at all. I will bring it round to you in the morning.”
“I hope you’re not offended. I didn’t mean to wound your feelings,” said the friend, looking concerned. He felt that he had been indelicate in his allusions, and saw that Ellison was hurt.
“Oh no. Not in the least,” replied the latter.
“I hope you won’t put yourself to any inconvenience about the matter.”
“No; it will be perfectly convenient.”
Then followed a silence that was oppressive to both. A forced and distantly polite conversation followed, after which the visiter went away. As he closed the door of Ellison’s studio, the young artist clasped his hands together, while a distressed expression came into his face.
“Oh! what an error I have committed!” came almost hissing through his teeth, at the same time that his arms were flung about his head with a gesture of impatience and despair. “I have sold myself—I have parted with my manliness—my independence—my right to breathe the air as a freeman. And what have I gained?”
“A true-hearted, loving woman.” A gentle voice seemed to whisper these words in his ears as his mind grew calmer.
“I have paid too high a price,” fell almost audibly from his lips. “And even she, when she knows the whole truth, will despise and turn from me. What madness!”
For half an hour the young man remained in a state of great excitement. After that he grew calmer, and sitting down before his easel, took up his pallet and brushes and tried to work on a picture that he was painting. But his thoughts were too much disturbed.
“I have promised to return the two hundred dollars to-morrow morning, and I must keep my word tohimif I steal the amount! When that obligation is removed we are no longer friends.”
As Ellison said this he threw down his pallet and brushes, and springing from his chair, resumed his hurried walk about the door of his room.
While thus occupied, a gentleman, accompanied by a lady, entered and asked to see some of his pictures.
“What is your price for a portrait of this size?” was asked after a number of paintings had been examined.
For a moment Ellison hesitated, and then replied —
“Fifty dollars.”
The gentleman and lady talked together, in a low tone, for a little while. Then the former said —
“We have two children, and think about having them taken. Including our own portraits we would want four. If we give you the order, what would you charge for the whole?”
“How old are the children?”
“Young. The eldest is but five.”
“You would want the children full length, I presume.”
“Why, yes. We would prefer that, if it didn’t cost too much. What is your price for a full length of a child?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
“That would make the four pictures cost two hundred and fifty dollars.”
The lady shook her head.
“Could you not take the four for two hundred dollars?”
“Perhaps so. Four pictures would be a liberal order, and I might feel inclined to make a discount if it would be any object. My prices, however, are moderate.”
“Money is always an object, you know.”
“Very true.”
“You say two hundred dollars, then.”
“Oh yes. I will take the four portraits for that sum.”
“Very well. To-morrow we will decide about having them taken. How many sittings will you require?”
“About half-a-dozen for each picture.”
The lady and gentleman retired, saying that they would call in the morning.
Here was a promise of good fortune for which the heart of Ellison was profoundly thankful. But while he looked at it, he trembled for the uncertainty that still hung over him. The lady and gentleman might never return. Still, his heart was lighter and more hopeful.
Soon after these visiters had retired, the young man went out and called upon a gentleman with whom he had some acquaintance. His object was to borrow a sum of money sufficiently large to enable him to cancel the obligation. This person did not, so he thought, receive him very cordially. The coldness of his manner would scarcely have been apparent, however, but for the fact that Ellison had a favor to ask. It seemed to him as if he had a perception of what was in his mind, and denied his request as intelligibly as possible, even before it was made. So strong was this impression, that the young artist acted upon it, and was about retiring without having made known his wishes, when the man said —
“Can I do any thing for you to-day, Alfred?”
So plain an invitation to make known his wishes could hardly be disregarded. The young man hesitated a little, and then replied as if half jesting —
“Yes—give me an order for two hundred dollars worth of pictures, and pay me in advance for them.”
“Are you in earnest?” inquired the man, looking curious.
“Certainly. Painting is my profession.”
“I know. But do you really want a couple of hundred dollars?”
“Yes; I really want that sum. A young artist, you know, is never overstocked with cash.”
“I will lend you the amount with pleasure, Alfred. But I am in no want of pictures. For how long a time do you wish to have it?”
“For a couple of months, if you wont give me an order.”
The man drew a check and gave it to Ellison.
“You can return it at your convenience,” said he, “and in the meantime, if I can throw any thing in your way, I will do it with pleasure.”
Ellison received the check with a feeling of relief. He now had it in his power to wipe out the obligation he was under to a man who had approached him with what he felt to be little less than an insult. But, as he went back to his studio, the pressure on his feelings was not removed. There had only been a shifting of the obligation; a painful sense of its existence yet remained. Moreover, as an artist, he had done violence to his professional self-respect by asking an order for painting—and this added to his disquietude of mind.
[To be continued.
LINES.
I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream —As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.ANNIE GREY.
I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream —As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.ANNIE GREY.
I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream —As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.ANNIE GREY.
I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream —As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.ANNIE GREY.
I’ve loved thee, as the breeze to kiss the sweetest flowers;
I’ve loved thee as the thirsty earth eve’s refreshing showers;
I’ve loved thee, as the bird to sing its softly thrilling lay;
I’ve loved thee, as the heated rock the ocean’s dashing spray;
I’ve loved thee, as the fevered cheek to feel the cooling air;
I’ve loved thee, as a mother loves her child of tender care;
I’ve loved thee, as the murky morn to hail the sunny beam;
I’ve loved thee, as the moonlit loves to dance upon the stream —
As all these, did I love thee, and with yet a wilder spell;
’Till thy coldness caused my spirit to sound love’s parting knell;
And though in fearful stillness my life glides gently on,
There is one note of harmony I feel forever gone.
Other hands might sweep the strings, and even thine may try,
But never shall an echoing sound to the sweet tune reply.
ANNIE GREY.
ARIADNE.
———
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
———
O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gullOn snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, KingOf Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s sting?Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,My hopes depart; cadaverous DespairSits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle —Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat barkLet fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all was dark.Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breastI laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.My sleep was restless: from the Realm of DreamsCame changing shadows: I beheld my home —Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy foam.I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy skies.And then a woman, still most happy, thoughA shadow rested on my sunny brow,Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.My step, too, had less lightness, and my breastThrobbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brainRan round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like pain.I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates —An endless yearning filled my craving soul,Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious goal.One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fallAmong the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.Contemplating the beauty of the scene,Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.Just then, a being, much more god than man,Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his eloquent eye.He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,Drowning my heart; like surf along a strandTheir melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the helpless land.Even then he vanished; but his image filledThe void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.And all things passed; a dull and opiate blankFell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions boreThe treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,Moving in melancholy march, to strainsOf heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,A long procession, like a funeral,Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of day.The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hideTheir streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passedOn board the galley, when my Cretan eyesSaw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.The raven bark unfurled its ebon wingsAnd like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like land.Away, away, across the billowy sea,The galley flew: night came and went again,When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the crimson main.—I sat beside my sire: around us stoodThe wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled, —Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant faceFlushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of space.My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:I saw the grim and ghastly MinotaurMove through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.I saw my brother fall by felon hands;I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow mornBeheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence slept.I pitied him; I could not see him die;I loved—was woman; though my brother’s bloodCried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.My soul sat in his shadow: like a babeBeneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,O, night of light and life: the magic clewThat Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous dew,For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heartIn that mad moment felt its shackles riven,And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the heights of heaven.Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the godsWere merciful: that night—O, night of nights,For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,I dreaming always on his manly breast,At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy nest.I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were stone.But still I dreamed, and once more Athens roseBefore my eyes. Upon a beetling rockThat overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s shock —Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing shore,Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping sight,Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.I also gazed—when, where the sea and skyBlended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail —Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.Closer and closer, where the shadow layAcross the distance, like a misty cloud,The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,So distant still it seemed to float in air,The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.It passed the gloom, and glided into light,When, like a raven drifting down the skies,The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turnedAnd saw the aged king spring toward the steep —And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throngOf Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of song.Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a browAlready snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks aglow.Silenus, with two Nymphs on either handSupporting him, uncertainly pursued —To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.And after came a laughing, dancing rout,Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling eyes.The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,And stooping, he embraced, then lifted meBeside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.I was again a wife: my days were spentIn waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,Sat on the mountain top; the nightingaleBreathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooksThe blushing Dryad came; the amorous FaunStole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening skies!There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stoodWith streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on the flood.Are dreams the messengers of gods to menForetelling facts? If so, then I await,Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove —The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tearsHe made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.And if the links of love’s decaying chainRemain united in his hollow heart,That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and die.
O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gullOn snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, KingOf Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s sting?Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,My hopes depart; cadaverous DespairSits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle —Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat barkLet fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all was dark.Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breastI laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.My sleep was restless: from the Realm of DreamsCame changing shadows: I beheld my home —Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy foam.I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy skies.And then a woman, still most happy, thoughA shadow rested on my sunny brow,Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.My step, too, had less lightness, and my breastThrobbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brainRan round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like pain.I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates —An endless yearning filled my craving soul,Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious goal.One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fallAmong the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.Contemplating the beauty of the scene,Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.Just then, a being, much more god than man,Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his eloquent eye.He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,Drowning my heart; like surf along a strandTheir melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the helpless land.Even then he vanished; but his image filledThe void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.And all things passed; a dull and opiate blankFell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions boreThe treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,Moving in melancholy march, to strainsOf heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,A long procession, like a funeral,Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of day.The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hideTheir streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passedOn board the galley, when my Cretan eyesSaw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.The raven bark unfurled its ebon wingsAnd like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like land.Away, away, across the billowy sea,The galley flew: night came and went again,When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the crimson main.—I sat beside my sire: around us stoodThe wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled, —Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant faceFlushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of space.My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:I saw the grim and ghastly MinotaurMove through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.I saw my brother fall by felon hands;I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow mornBeheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence slept.I pitied him; I could not see him die;I loved—was woman; though my brother’s bloodCried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.My soul sat in his shadow: like a babeBeneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,O, night of light and life: the magic clewThat Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous dew,For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heartIn that mad moment felt its shackles riven,And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the heights of heaven.Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the godsWere merciful: that night—O, night of nights,For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,I dreaming always on his manly breast,At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy nest.I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were stone.But still I dreamed, and once more Athens roseBefore my eyes. Upon a beetling rockThat overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s shock —Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing shore,Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping sight,Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.I also gazed—when, where the sea and skyBlended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail —Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.Closer and closer, where the shadow layAcross the distance, like a misty cloud,The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,So distant still it seemed to float in air,The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.It passed the gloom, and glided into light,When, like a raven drifting down the skies,The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turnedAnd saw the aged king spring toward the steep —And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throngOf Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of song.Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a browAlready snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks aglow.Silenus, with two Nymphs on either handSupporting him, uncertainly pursued —To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.And after came a laughing, dancing rout,Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling eyes.The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,And stooping, he embraced, then lifted meBeside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.I was again a wife: my days were spentIn waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,Sat on the mountain top; the nightingaleBreathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooksThe blushing Dryad came; the amorous FaunStole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening skies!There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stoodWith streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on the flood.Are dreams the messengers of gods to menForetelling facts? If so, then I await,Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove —The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tearsHe made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.And if the links of love’s decaying chainRemain united in his hollow heart,That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and die.
O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gullOn snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.
O, thrice as swiftly as yon argent gull
On snowy pinions cleaves the azure sky,
Thy galley cuts the purple wave, and flies my eager, straining eye.
O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?
O, Thésëus, beloved and beautiful,
My lovely warrior, white-limbed, like a god,
Why hast thou left me on this desert isle, save by ourselves, untrod?
Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, KingOf Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s sting?
Immortal Jove, divine Progenitor,
Exert thy power; reverse his sails:—O, King
Of Gods and Men, why does the cup of love conceal the scorpion’s sting?
Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,My hopes depart; cadaverous DespairSits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!
Like ghastly ghosts, with veiled and weeping orbs,
My hopes depart; cadaverous Despair
Sits glaring at me with his wolfy eyes: bid the foul thing forbear!
On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle —Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat barkLet fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all was dark.
On yester-eve, at this forgotten isle —
Forgotten almost of gods—our storm-beat bark
Let fall its ponderous flakes; night, like a falcon, swooped, and all was dark.
Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breastI laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.
Here, where this lonely palm expands its leaves,
Our couch was spread; yes, here, on Theseus’ breast
I laid my head, and, like a love-sick dove, sunk meaningly to rest.
My sleep was restless: from the Realm of DreamsCame changing shadows: I beheld my home —Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy foam.
My sleep was restless: from the Realm of Dreams
Came changing shadows: I beheld my home —
Our hills, like wrinkle-faced, white-headed men—our cataract’s snowy foam.
I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy skies.
I saw myself a merry, mad-cap girl,
Dancing along our glades, with laughing eyes;
Light-footed as our deer—free as the birds that filled our happy skies.
And then a woman, still most happy, thoughA shadow rested on my sunny brow,Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.
And then a woman, still most happy, though
A shadow rested on my sunny brow,
Such as a wintry cloud, when all is light, throws faintly over snow.
My step, too, had less lightness, and my breastThrobbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brainRan round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like pain.
My step, too, had less lightness, and my breast
Throbbed quickly, while my heart beat, and my brain
Ran round and round, delirious with delight, so deep, it seemed like pain.
I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates —An endless yearning filled my craving soul,Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious goal.
I left the song, the dance, my maiden mates —
An endless yearning filled my craving soul,
Which sadly walked apart from them toward some unknown and glorious goal.
One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fallAmong the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.
One day, when thus depressed, I stood, in thought,
Beside a babbling brook, whose tinkling fall
Among the mossy rocks, from stone to stone, made silence musical.
Contemplating the beauty of the scene,Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.
Contemplating the beauty of the scene,
Imagining me the Naiad of the stream,
I grew the spirit of the place, and stood the deity of a sylvan dream.
Just then, a being, much more god than man,Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his eloquent eye.
Just then, a being, much more god than man,
Fell at my feet: I had no power to fly,
No wish, no thought; the serpent’s fabulous spell spoke in his eloquent eye.
He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,Drowning my heart; like surf along a strandTheir melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the helpless land.
He prayed; I listened, for his words were song,
Drowning my heart; like surf along a strand
Their melody rose and rolled, wave following wave, covering the helpless land.
Even then he vanished; but his image filledThe void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.
Even then he vanished; but his image filled
The void that, hitherto, my spirit felt;
I stood erect—a loving woman, Jove—there, where, before, I knelt.
And all things passed; a dull and opiate blankFell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.
And all things passed; a dull and opiate blank
Fell, like Nepenthé, blackly on my brain:
I was a living corpse, insensible to pleasure, dead to pain.
I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.
I dreamed again: a glorious city rose,
Like Aphrodite, on a summer strand;
Palaces, pyramids and temples stretched away on either hand.
Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions boreThe treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.
Its harbor, guarded by two massy towers,
Was filled with ships, whose plethoric pinions bore
The treasures of an hundred sister lands to her heroic shore.
Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,Moving in melancholy march, to strainsOf heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,
Even while I gazed, slowly along the quay,
Moving in melancholy march, to strains
Of heavy harmony, whose solemn sounds made pity in my veins,
A long procession, like a funeral,Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of day.
A long procession, like a funeral,
Approached the shore. There, moored, a galley lay,
Black as the wings of night, like an eclipse blighting the light of day.
The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hideTheir streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.
The crowd closed round: some stood, with lifted hands,
Adjuring heaven; some turned aside to hide
Their streaming tears, while others dumbly gazed on the receding tide.
With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passedOn board the galley, when my Cretan eyesSaw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.
With downcast eyes, seven youths, seven maidens passed
On board the galley, when my Cretan eyes
Saw Niobe-like Athens mourn her sons, passing to sacrifice.
The raven bark unfurled its ebon wingsAnd like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like land.
The raven bark unfurled its ebon wings
And like a bird, flew lightly from the strand;
While, far behind, in distance growing dim, declined the cloud-like land.
Away, away, across the billowy sea,The galley flew: night came and went again,When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the crimson main.
Away, away, across the billowy sea,
The galley flew: night came and went again,
When, with the rising sun, Crete’s porphyry walls rose from the crimson main.
—I sat beside my sire: around us stoodThe wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.
—I sat beside my sire: around us stood
The wise, the brave, the lovely of our land,
When, led by Thésëus, Athens’ offspring came, a self-devoted band.
I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.
I sat entranced: the lover of my dreams.
He, to whom nightly I had poured my sighs,
The ideal of my soul, stood visibly before my waking eyes.
Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled, —Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant faceFlushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of space.
Calmly the Self-Devoted stood and smiled, —
Thésëus, king-born, with his radiant face
Flushed with the glory of a fame which pierced the ultimate star of space.
My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:I saw the grim and ghastly MinotaurMove through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.
My heart waxed sick, for I was woman, Jove:
I saw the grim and ghastly Minotaur
Move through the Cretan labyrinth—his deadly, ponderous jaws ajar.
I saw my brother fall by felon hands;I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.
I saw my brother fall by felon hands;
I saw my father’s galleys sweep the seas,
And humbled Athens, cowering like a slave, ask mercy from her knees.
Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow mornBeheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence slept.
Minos pronounced his doom: the morrow morn
Beheld the sacrifice. I would have wept,
But could not: in their heated cells the sought for tears in silence slept.
I pitied him; I could not see him die;I loved—was woman; though my brother’s bloodCried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.
I pitied him; I could not see him die;
I loved—was woman; though my brother’s blood
Cried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.
My soul sat in his shadow: like a babeBeneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.
My soul sat in his shadow: like a babe
Beneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,
And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.
That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,O, night of light and life: the magic clewThat Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous dew,
That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,
O, night of light and life: the magic clew
That Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous dew,
For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heartIn that mad moment felt its shackles riven,And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the heights of heaven.
For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heart
In that mad moment felt its shackles riven,
And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the heights of heaven.
Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the godsWere merciful: that night—O, night of nights,For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,
Next day I prayed—O, how I prayed: the gods
Were merciful: that night—O, night of nights,
For in its hours the Past became entombed—O, realm of dead delights,
We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,I dreaming always on his manly breast,At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy nest.
We fled from Crete, and, steering out to sea,
I dreaming always on his manly breast,
At last made land—a desolate wave-worn strand, the sea-gull’s sandy nest.
I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were stone.
I seemed to wake, and found the traitor gone:
I stood in anguish, desolate and lone,
Wasting my wailings on the flinty rocks whose hearts (like his) were stone.
But still I dreamed, and once more Athens roseBefore my eyes. Upon a beetling rockThat overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s shock —
But still I dreamed, and once more Athens rose
Before my eyes. Upon a beetling rock
That overhung the sea—a cliff, whose crags throbbed in the ocean’s shock —
Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing shore,
Ægéus stood and gazed athwart the wave.
Then I remembered me how Thésëus swore
(Such was his tale to me,) that, ere he sailed from Athens’ sorrowing shore,
Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping sight,
Hopefully trusting in the awful gods,
If he returned, his canvas, changed to white,
Should mark his triumph, but did raven sails meet Athens’ weeping sight,
Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.
Then he had fallen. How the old man gazed,
With moistened eyes, toward the horizon’s verge,
While, far beneath, the chanting surf sent up its melancholy dirge.
I also gazed—when, where the sea and skyBlended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail —Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.
I also gazed—when, where the sea and sky
Blended in mist, a speck—a spot—a nail —
Came with the wind: Ægéus stood erect, convulsed and deathly pale.
Closer and closer, where the shadow layAcross the distance, like a misty cloud,The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.
Closer and closer, where the shadow lay
Across the distance, like a misty cloud,
The galley came: the mute, expecting king tottered and sobbed aloud.
Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,So distant still it seemed to float in air,The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.
Stretching his thin hands toward the shadowy bark,
So distant still it seemed to float in air,
The aged monarch, with his marble eyes, personified despair.
It passed the gloom, and glided into light,When, like a raven drifting down the skies,The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!
It passed the gloom, and glided into light,
When, like a raven drifting down the skies,
The black, unaltered galley, ebon-sailed, met my astonished eyes!
A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turnedAnd saw the aged king spring toward the steep —And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.
A piercing shriek appalled my ears: I turned
And saw the aged king spring toward the steep —
And leap—and fall: no human sound arose from the tumultuous deep.
Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throngOf Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of song.
Anon came other dreams—Arcadian vales,
With Pan, oblivious Satyrs, and a throng
Of Fauns and Nymphs who made the burthened air reel with its weight of song.
Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a browAlready snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks aglow.
Bacchus rode next: how like a god he looked,
The vine-leaves adding whiteness to a brow
Already snow; his large eyes small with mirth; his dimpled cheeks aglow.
Silenus, with two Nymphs on either handSupporting him, uncertainly pursued —To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.
Silenus, with two Nymphs on either hand
Supporting him, uncertainly pursued —
To amorous passion for the purple grape yielding, though not subdued.
And after came a laughing, dancing rout,Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling eyes.
And after came a laughing, dancing rout,
Making the air insane with bacchanal cries;
Some bearing grapes which others stole and ate, with ruddy, twinkling eyes.
The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,And stooping, he embraced, then lifted meBeside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.
The eye of Bacchus drew me toward his car,
And stooping, he embraced, then lifted me
Beside him, with a kiss: the route rolled on capricious as the sea.
I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.
I was his bride: his love, always a god’s,
Saw not my state, nor asked from whence I came;
With him the passion was a living thing and not a naked name.
I was again a wife: my days were spentIn waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.
I was again a wife: my days were spent
In waking dreams of uncontrolled delight;
The light expired in feast and song and dance, unheeded in its flight.
And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,Sat on the mountain top; the nightingaleBreathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.
And Night, with Venus sparkling on her brow,
Sat on the mountain top; the nightingale
Breathed an undying hymn to deathless love from every silent vale.
Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooksThe blushing Dryad came; the amorous FaunStole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.
Anon the feast was spread: from leafy nooks
The blushing Dryad came; the amorous Faun
Stole from the laureled hill, returning not until the crimson dawn.
O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening skies!
O, I was happy, very happy, Jove,
When, like thy lightning, day broke on mine eyes!
Beneath me was the sand; before, the sea; above, the threatening skies!
There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stoodWith streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on the flood.
There, like a vulture frightened from his prey,
Flew Thésëus, while, Cassandra-like, I stood
With streaming hair and flashing eyes, and hurled prophetic curses on the flood.
Are dreams the messengers of gods to menForetelling facts? If so, then I await,Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.
Are dreams the messengers of gods to men
Foretelling facts? If so, then I await,
Not trembling, but proudly, the decrees of an unerring fate.
Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove —The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:
Let him depart: I scorn the traitor, Jove —
The parracide: still blacker grow his sails;
Favor his bark, Poseidon; Eölus, bestow him flavoring gales:
So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tearsHe made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.
So swifter comes my vengeance. For the tears
He made me shed, make him rain tears of fire,
As from this desolate isle I point him to the cold corpse of his sire.
And if the links of love’s decaying chainRemain united in his hollow heart,That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;
And if the links of love’s decaying chain
Remain united in his hollow heart,
That chain be as a serpent, dragging flame to its secrétest part;
So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and die.
So, when he sees me lie on Bacchus’ breast,
Lip glued to lip, eye flashing into eye,
He may lift up his hands and curse the Gods, and cursing, waste and die.
——
Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, king of Crete, one of the sons of Jupiter by Europa. Her desertion by Thésëus, whose life she had saved, and with whom she had flown from Crete, has long been a thesis of more than ordinary poetical importance. Thésëus, the son of Ægéus, king of Athens, by Æthra, daughter of Pittheus, monarch of Trœzen, on the discovery of his parentage, visited Athens, and made himself known to his father, who acknowledged him. Sometime before, Androgeos, a brother of Ariadne, set sail for Athens for the purpose of participating in the Athenian games. He was the victor in every conflict. Ægéus, becoming jealous of his popularity, caused him to be assassinated. Minos at once declared war against Athens, conquered the Athenians, and imposed upon them the annual penalty of sending fourteen of their most beautiful male and female children as an offering to the Minotaur, a ghastly monster who inhabited the celebrated Cretan labyrinth, the latest invention of Dædalos, the Athenian sculptor. Thésëus, on the day of the embarcation of the victims, offered himself as one of the number, with the hope of destroying the Minotaur, and thus preserving Athens from any further payment of the terrible tribute. The ship departed, as usual, under black sails, which Thésëus promised to exchange for white, in case he should return victorious. On his arrival in Crete he saw Ariadne, who became enamored of him. She gave him the clew which made him master of the mazes of the subterranean labyrinth. After a desperate conflict he succeeded in destroying the monster, and the same night, fled to Athens, bearing Ariadne with him. On his arrivalen routeat the island of Naxos, compelled by the gods, he deserted his mistress and returned home. By some accident he neglected to exchange his sails, and his father, Ægéus, filled with grief at the supposed death of his son, precipitated himself from a lofty rock, on which he had taken a position to watch the return of the galley, into the sea, and was drowned. Ariadne afterward became the wife of Bacchus.