Who has not seen the falls of Tivoli,The rocks, the foam-white water, and the threeFair ruined temples which adorn the hill?Who has not sat and listened to the shrillSweet melody of blackbirds, and the roarOf Anio's voice rebounding from the shore,Nor would have given his very soul to greetSome passing vision of a white nymph's feet,And weaving arms, as the wild chasm's sprayBeat on his face, for ever answering "Nay?"Who has not turned away with sadder face,Abashed before the genius of the place,A wiser man, and owned upon his knees,The dull transmontane Goth and boor he is?Who that was born to feel?What sons of clayAre these that stand among your shrines to-day,Gods of the ancient rivers! and who setThe heavy impress of barbarian feetUpon your classic shores, and dare to loveYour ruined homes in temple, rock, and grove!What new rude sons of Japhet! What mad crew,Whose only creed is what it dares to doThrough lack of knowledge, whose undoubting heart,Here in the very temples of old art,Brings out its little tribute, builds its shrines,Wreathes its sad garlands of untutored lines,Writes, paints, professes, sculptures its new gods,And dares to have its home in your abodes!Oh, if I had a soul oppressed with song,A tongue on fire to prophesy amongMy brother prophets, if I had a handWhich needs must write its legend on life's sandWith brush or chisel, I at least would chooseSome soil less fair, less sacred to the Muse,Some younger, wilder land, where no sad voiceHad ever stammered forth its tale of joys,And loves and sorrows, or in tones less rudeThan the brute pulsing of its human blood;If I would build a temple, it should beAt least not here, not here in Italy,Where all these temples stand. My thought should shapeIts fancies in rough granite on some capeO'erlooking the Atlantic, from whose foamNo goddess ever leaped, and not in Rome,Beneath the mockery of immortal eyes,Gazing in marble down, so coldly wise!Such was Griselda's thought, which, half aloud,She uttered one May morning 'mid a crowdOf pleasure-seekers, come from Rome to seeThe wonder of these falls of Tivoli,And Belgirate's villa, where the PrinceWas offering entertainment (for his sins),And dancing to all such as called him friendThat Spring in Rome, now nearly at anend;—A thought suggested by the place and byA German painter, who undauntedlyWas plying a huge canvas just begun,With brush and palette seated in the sun.She had hardly meant to speak, and when Lord L.Objected (for he knew his classics well)That landscape-painting was an unknown tradeIn the days of Horace, blushed for her tirade,And turned to Belgirate, who stood near,Playing the host to all the world and her.The Prince appealed to, though his care was lessWith what was spoken than the speaker's face,Took up the parable, confessed the truthOf all each ventured, and agreed with both.Nature, he said, and art, though now allied,Had not in all times thus walked side by side.Indeed the love of Nature, now so real,Was alien to the love of the ideal,The classic love which claimed as though of needSome living presence for each fountain-head,Each grove, each cavern, satyr, nymph, or god,A human shape unseen yet understood.This was the thought which lived in ancient art,Eschewing the waste places of the heart,And only on compulsion brought to faceBrute Nature's aspect in its nakedness.Nature as Nature was a thought too rudeFor these, untempered in its solitude.It had no counterpart in our new loveOf mountain, sea and forest. Then, each groveAsked for its statue, each perennial springIts fountain. Solitude itself must bringIts echo. Every mountain top of GreeceBeheld fair temples rise. A law of peaceReigned over art in protest at the moodOf social life which drenched the world in blood.All now had been reversed. Our modern creedScouted the law that men were born to bleed.It turned from human nature, if untaught,And wrought mankind, perhaps and overwroughtInto trim shapes, and then for its reliefRushed to the wilderness to vent its griefIn lonely passion. Here it neither soughtNor found a presence which it needed not.It chose wild hills and barren seas. It sawBeauty in tumult, in revolt a law.Here it gave reins to its brute instincts. HereIt owned no god, no guide, no arbiter.Its soul it must avenge of discipline,And Nature had gone naked from the shrine.This was its consolation.Of the scoreWho stood around him and who praised his lore,Perhaps no single listener understoodThe thought which underlay the Prince's mood,Or guessed its bitterness—not even sheWho lent the moral to his mockery.Yet she was moved. In her too was a needOf consolation for too fair a creed,An impulse of rebellion. In her bloodThere lived a germ of Nature unsubdued,Which would not be appeased. She too had soughtA refuge from the tyranny of thoughtIn the brute impulses of sea and plainAnd cloud and forest far from haunts of men.A vain mad search. The fetters of her prideGalled her like sores. Griselda turned and sighed.That evening on the terrace, vaguely litWith paper lanterns and the infiniteDisplay of those fair natural lamps, the stars,And 'neath the influence of the planet MarsOr Venus or another—which it wasWe best may judge by that which came topass—The Prince essayed his fortune.From the hourOf their first flash of eloquence, some power,Some most persistent and ingenious fateOf idle tongues had held them separate,Griselda and the Prince—him in his partOf host, with cares not wholly of the heartDemanding his attention, while on herFriends fastened more than dull and less than dear.In vain they stopped, and loitered, and went on,Leaving no trick untried, unturned no stone;In vain they waited. Still their hope deferredFailed of its object, one consoling word,One little sigh as of relief thus given:"Well, they are gone at last, and thanked be Heaven."But hour on hour went by, and accidentSeemed still at pains to frustrate their intent,Piling up grief for them and poor Lord L.,On whom, in fault of foes, their vengeance fell.'Twas worst for her. She knew not whom to strike,Lord L., her friends, the Prince—'twas now alike.She had lost in fact her temper, if I dareThus speak of one so wise and one so fair,And to the point that now there was no roomFor other thought, but L. should take her home,Away and speedily.The Prince, who knewNo word of what a storm Fate held in brew,And who had sought, in innocence of all,Griselda's hand to lead the opening ball,And sought in vain, now found, to his despair,My lady cloaked and standing on the stair.She was alone. "Lord L. had gone," she said,"To bid the Prince good night. Her foolish headHad played her false, and ached with the new heatOf the May sun (even L. complained of it).They must be home betimes. Next day was Sunday,And they had much to do 'twixt that and Monday,In view of their departure." "Whither? whence?In Heaven's name," exclaimed the astounded Prince."Why, home to England, she had thought he knew:She must have told him. L. was more than dueIn London, where his place in ParliamentRequired his presence. He had missed the Lent,And dared not miss the Easter session. SheThought he was right, altho',"—and suddenlyShe burst in tears. The Prince, in dire distress,Besought her to be calm. But she, with faceHid in both hands, and turning from the light,Broke from his arms, and rushed into the night.Across the hall, beneath the portico,And down the steps she fled, to where belowThe garden lay all dim with starlit shade,And the white glimmer of the main façade.Here Belgirate found her on a seat,Crouched in an angle of the parapet,And sobbing as in terror. His surpriseWas changed to resolution. To his eyesThe world became transfigured. "Lady L.,"He whispered, "what is this? You love me? Well,Why do you weep?"He took her hands in hisAnd pressed them to his lips; and at the kissGriselda started from the heap she wasAnd sat upright, with pale pathetic faceTurned to the night. By the dim starlight heBeheld, half-awed and half in ecstasy,The strange emotion of her countenance.She made no gesture to withdraw her hands,No sign of disagreement with his words.Her eyes looked scared and troubled like a bird'sCaught in a net, and seemed to ask of FateWhere the next blow should fall. 'Twas thus she satSpeechless, inanimate, nor seemed to breathe.The Prince could hear the chattering of her teeth,And feel her shiver in the warm nightwind,—And yet its touch was hardly thus unkind.He too, poor soul, in hope and tenderness,Still kissed her hands, and kissed her gloves and dress,And kneeling at her feet embraced her kneesWith soothing arms and soft cajoleries.She dared not turn nor speak. The balustradeServed as a pretext for her with its shadeHiding his face. She would not seem to guessAll that his fondness asked of her distress:A word might break the spell. She only knewShe was a poor sad woman, doomed to doSorrow to all who loved her, that the PrinceHad spoken truly, and her long pretenceOf innocence was o'er. She scorned to makeAn idle protest now for honour's sake.He had a right to ask for what he wouldNow that she loved him, and her womanhoodReserved one tearful right, and only one,To hide her face an instant and be gone.How long they sat thus silent who shall say?Griselda knew not. Time was far away;She wanted courage to prepare her heartFor that last bitterest word of all, "We part;"And he cared naught for time: his heaven was there,Nor needed thought, nor speech, nor even prayer.A sound of music roused them. From the houseVoices broke in and strains tumultuous,Proving the dance begun. Then with a sighGriselda turned her head, and piteouslyLooked in his face. She moved as if to go,And when he held her still, "For pity, no,Let me be gone," she cried. "I ask it thus,"Clasping her hands. "You will not? No! alas!You must not doubt me when I speak the truth;This is a great misfortune for us both.""Griselda," he began. "Oh, stop," she said,"You know not what you ask." She bent her headClose to his own. "I am not what I seem,A woman to be loved, not even by himWhom I might choose to worship. Mine must beAn unfinished life, not quite a tragedy,Even to my friends, an idle aimless life,Not worth an argument, still less a strife.You must forget, forgive me. We were friends,Friends still perhaps; but, oh! this first day endsOur love for ever. What you said was true,Only I never guessed it."The Prince knewThat she was weeping, and a single sobBroke from her lips. She seemed her wounds to probe."Yes, I have loved you, loved you from the first,The day we met at Terni, when you burstLike sunshine on the storm of my darklife—You, wise and free—I, only the sad wifeOf one you called a friend. The fault was mineAnd mine alone. In you there was no sin:You stood too far from me, too high aboveMy woman's follies even to dream of love.There, do not answer. You were kind to me,Good, patient, wise—you could no otherbe—But, oh! you never loved me."Here againThe Prince broke in protesting (but in vain):Her words were madness and his heart was hers.She would not listen nor control hertears—"You never loved me. This one thought I holdIn consolation of my manifoldDeceits and errors. You at least are freeFrom all deceptions and remorse andme:—I cannot cause you sorrow, else it wereIndeed too pitiful, too hard to bear."She stooped and kissed his forehead reverently,As one would kiss a relic; and when heStill would have spoken, stopped him with a handLaid on his lips, half-prayer and half-command.She would not let him speak. The prince, tho' mute,Now pleaded with his hands and pressed his suitWith better eloquence, for this to herSeemed less a crime than speech. Her ignorant fearHad hardly fathomed yet the troubled seaOn which her lot was cast thus dangerously.She only feared his words to prove him right;And these caresses in the dim still nightSoothed and consoled her. They were too unreal,Too strange to her experience, quite to feelOr quite to question. She, with half-shut eyes,And face averted, ceased to feel surprise,And ceased to think. She was a child again,Caressed and fondled. She forgot her pain,And almost even his presence in the place.He was too near and could not see her face.Besides, Griselda loved him. Only onceShe made a silent protest with her hands,As one might make asleep, and in her dreamOpened her eyes, and seemed to question himWith the pathetic instinct as of doom.The Prince in rapture judged his hour was come.Alas! poor Prince. If thou hadst had thy bliss,I would not then have grudged thy happiness,Thine nor Griselda's. Happiness is notA merchandise men buy or leave unboughtAnd find again. It is a wild bird wingingIts way through heaven, in joyous circles ringing,Aloft, at its own will. Then, e'er we wist,It stooped and sat a moment on our wrist,And fondled with our fingers, and made playWith jess and hood as if it meant to stay.And we, if we were wise and fortunate,And if the hour had been decreed of fate,Seized the glad bird and held it in our hand,And forced it to obey our least command,Knowing that never more, if not made sure,It would come again to voice, or sign, or lure.Oh, such is happiness. That night for themFate stood, a genius, suppliant and tame,Demanding to do service. Had they willed,The treasure-house of heaven had been unfilledAnd emptied in their lap. They too, even they,Mere mortals born, inheritors of clay,Had known eternal life, and been as gods,Only the will between them was at odds,Only the word was wanting.What one thingIt was that frightened Fate to taking wing,And scared for ever the celestial bird,And left them desolate, if I have heardI do not now remember, nor would sayEven if I knew. 'Twas told me not to-dayNor yesterday, but in a time long since,By one of the two who knew, in confidence,And then not quite perhaps the uttertruth—Whoever tells it? But there came to bothA moment when, as Belgirate knew,There was no further power to plead or sue:They had played with Fate too long. Their hour was over;She was no more his love nor he her lover.His courage was exhausted. One by oneHis fingers, which still held Griselda's gown,Relaxed their hold. His hands dropped by his side,His head upon his bosom, and the pride,Which was the reason of his being, quailed.Grief in that hour and tenderness prevailed,And tears rushed to his eyes, long strangers there,And to his lips, Italian-like, a prayer,While he lay prostrate, his face turned from heaven,Under the stars.The tower clock struck elevenAnd roused him. He had neither heard nor knownGriselda's going, but he was alone.*****And she? Griselda? In a whirl of grief,Tortured, distracted, hopeless of relief,And careless now what eye should see her tears,Whom none could mock with bitterer jibes than hers,And speechless to all question of her lord,Who sought to learn what portent had occurred,And still reverted to the theme begunOf Roman fever and the Roman sun;She was driven back to Rome. Two days her doorWas shut to all the world, both rich and poor,And on the third she went to Ostia,Pleading a wild desire to see the sea.The sea! What virtue is there in the seaThat it consoles us thus in misery?In joy we do not love it, and our blissScoffs at its tears and scorns its barrenness.Our pride of life is in the fruitful Earth,The mother of all joy, which gave us birth,The Earth so touching in its hopes to be,So green, so tender in its sympathy.But when life turns to bitterness—ah! then,Where is Earth's message to the sons of men?How does she speak? What sound of grief is hersTo match our grief? What tale of pity stirsHer jubilant heart? The laughing woods give backNaught of their happiness to those who lack.The beauty of the uplands bars relief,The prosperous fields are insolent to grief;There is no comfort in the lowing herds,The hum of bees, the songs, the shouts of birds;There is no sob in all the living earth,Naught but the flutter of discordant mirth,On which, as on a pageant, morn and evenThe careless sun shines mockingly from heaven.There is no grief in all the world save one,The ocean's voice, as tearful as our own.Then from the Earth we turn—too potent mother,Too joyous in her offspring—to that other,The childless, joyless, unproductive Sea,And mourn with her her dread virginity.We clasp her naked rocks with our two hands,Barefoot we tread her barren waste of sands,Her breadths of shingle and her treeless shore,Knowing her griefs are as our griefs, and more,An eternal lack of love.'Twas in this guiseGriselda cradled her soul's miseries,And nursed it in its anguish like a child,And soothed it to oblivion. The sea smiledWith its eternal smile upon her sorrow,The selfsame yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,And kept its tears in its own bosom sealed,A mystery of passion unrevealed,Save in the tremor of its voice at noon,When the wind rose and played wild chords thereon.So she.The memory of that place long stoodIn her remembrance as a dream of good,Dividing life as sleep divides the day,A place of utter weakness. Let those sayWho will, that deeds of strength life's milestones are.The dearest days are not the days of war,And victory is forgotten in the peaceOf certain hours gone by in helplessness,When the soul ceased to battle, and lay stillAs on a deathbed dumb to good and ill.These are its treasures.Nor was silence allGriselda's ointment. Hard by the sea-wall,Where daily her steps turned fresh peace to find,A convent stood, inviting to the mind.Here she found entrance at the chapel gate,And knelt in prayer half-inarticulate,Bowed to the earth. For patron saints it hadThe Marys three—"two virtuous, and one bad,"Griselda thought, "like her own self"—who cameIn flight together from Jerusalem,And landed there; and these in her great need,She suppliant asked for her soul's daily bread,Using all fondest words her lips could frame,To speak her secret wishes without blame.Six candlesticks she vowed, to each a pair,So they would listen to and grant her prayer.The superstition pleased her. In her prideShe bowed and begged like any peasant's bride,For what? for whom? she hardly could explainEven to her, the dear St. Magdalen."And yet," she argued, "she at least will knowAnd understand me if no other do."All this was folly, but it comfortedAnd gave her strength. Then with a calmer head,If not a calmer heart, she turned once moreFrom love to life. Her first strong grief was o'er.
Who has not seen the falls of Tivoli,The rocks, the foam-white water, and the threeFair ruined temples which adorn the hill?Who has not sat and listened to the shrillSweet melody of blackbirds, and the roarOf Anio's voice rebounding from the shore,Nor would have given his very soul to greetSome passing vision of a white nymph's feet,And weaving arms, as the wild chasm's sprayBeat on his face, for ever answering "Nay?"Who has not turned away with sadder face,Abashed before the genius of the place,A wiser man, and owned upon his knees,The dull transmontane Goth and boor he is?Who that was born to feel?
What sons of clayAre these that stand among your shrines to-day,Gods of the ancient rivers! and who setThe heavy impress of barbarian feetUpon your classic shores, and dare to loveYour ruined homes in temple, rock, and grove!What new rude sons of Japhet! What mad crew,Whose only creed is what it dares to doThrough lack of knowledge, whose undoubting heart,Here in the very temples of old art,Brings out its little tribute, builds its shrines,Wreathes its sad garlands of untutored lines,Writes, paints, professes, sculptures its new gods,And dares to have its home in your abodes!
Oh, if I had a soul oppressed with song,A tongue on fire to prophesy amongMy brother prophets, if I had a handWhich needs must write its legend on life's sandWith brush or chisel, I at least would chooseSome soil less fair, less sacred to the Muse,Some younger, wilder land, where no sad voiceHad ever stammered forth its tale of joys,And loves and sorrows, or in tones less rudeThan the brute pulsing of its human blood;If I would build a temple, it should beAt least not here, not here in Italy,Where all these temples stand. My thought should shapeIts fancies in rough granite on some capeO'erlooking the Atlantic, from whose foamNo goddess ever leaped, and not in Rome,Beneath the mockery of immortal eyes,Gazing in marble down, so coldly wise!
Such was Griselda's thought, which, half aloud,She uttered one May morning 'mid a crowdOf pleasure-seekers, come from Rome to seeThe wonder of these falls of Tivoli,And Belgirate's villa, where the PrinceWas offering entertainment (for his sins),And dancing to all such as called him friendThat Spring in Rome, now nearly at anend;—A thought suggested by the place and byA German painter, who undauntedlyWas plying a huge canvas just begun,With brush and palette seated in the sun.She had hardly meant to speak, and when Lord L.Objected (for he knew his classics well)That landscape-painting was an unknown tradeIn the days of Horace, blushed for her tirade,And turned to Belgirate, who stood near,Playing the host to all the world and her.
The Prince appealed to, though his care was lessWith what was spoken than the speaker's face,Took up the parable, confessed the truthOf all each ventured, and agreed with both.Nature, he said, and art, though now allied,Had not in all times thus walked side by side.Indeed the love of Nature, now so real,Was alien to the love of the ideal,The classic love which claimed as though of needSome living presence for each fountain-head,Each grove, each cavern, satyr, nymph, or god,A human shape unseen yet understood.This was the thought which lived in ancient art,Eschewing the waste places of the heart,And only on compulsion brought to faceBrute Nature's aspect in its nakedness.Nature as Nature was a thought too rudeFor these, untempered in its solitude.It had no counterpart in our new loveOf mountain, sea and forest. Then, each groveAsked for its statue, each perennial springIts fountain. Solitude itself must bringIts echo. Every mountain top of GreeceBeheld fair temples rise. A law of peaceReigned over art in protest at the moodOf social life which drenched the world in blood.All now had been reversed. Our modern creedScouted the law that men were born to bleed.It turned from human nature, if untaught,And wrought mankind, perhaps and overwroughtInto trim shapes, and then for its reliefRushed to the wilderness to vent its griefIn lonely passion. Here it neither soughtNor found a presence which it needed not.It chose wild hills and barren seas. It sawBeauty in tumult, in revolt a law.Here it gave reins to its brute instincts. HereIt owned no god, no guide, no arbiter.Its soul it must avenge of discipline,And Nature had gone naked from the shrine.This was its consolation.
Of the scoreWho stood around him and who praised his lore,Perhaps no single listener understoodThe thought which underlay the Prince's mood,Or guessed its bitterness—not even sheWho lent the moral to his mockery.Yet she was moved. In her too was a needOf consolation for too fair a creed,An impulse of rebellion. In her bloodThere lived a germ of Nature unsubdued,Which would not be appeased. She too had soughtA refuge from the tyranny of thoughtIn the brute impulses of sea and plainAnd cloud and forest far from haunts of men.A vain mad search. The fetters of her prideGalled her like sores. Griselda turned and sighed.
That evening on the terrace, vaguely litWith paper lanterns and the infiniteDisplay of those fair natural lamps, the stars,And 'neath the influence of the planet MarsOr Venus or another—which it wasWe best may judge by that which came topass—The Prince essayed his fortune.
From the hourOf their first flash of eloquence, some power,Some most persistent and ingenious fateOf idle tongues had held them separate,Griselda and the Prince—him in his partOf host, with cares not wholly of the heartDemanding his attention, while on herFriends fastened more than dull and less than dear.In vain they stopped, and loitered, and went on,Leaving no trick untried, unturned no stone;In vain they waited. Still their hope deferredFailed of its object, one consoling word,One little sigh as of relief thus given:"Well, they are gone at last, and thanked be Heaven."But hour on hour went by, and accidentSeemed still at pains to frustrate their intent,Piling up grief for them and poor Lord L.,On whom, in fault of foes, their vengeance fell.'Twas worst for her. She knew not whom to strike,Lord L., her friends, the Prince—'twas now alike.She had lost in fact her temper, if I dareThus speak of one so wise and one so fair,And to the point that now there was no roomFor other thought, but L. should take her home,Away and speedily.
The Prince, who knewNo word of what a storm Fate held in brew,And who had sought, in innocence of all,Griselda's hand to lead the opening ball,And sought in vain, now found, to his despair,My lady cloaked and standing on the stair.She was alone. "Lord L. had gone," she said,"To bid the Prince good night. Her foolish headHad played her false, and ached with the new heatOf the May sun (even L. complained of it).They must be home betimes. Next day was Sunday,And they had much to do 'twixt that and Monday,In view of their departure." "Whither? whence?In Heaven's name," exclaimed the astounded Prince."Why, home to England, she had thought he knew:She must have told him. L. was more than dueIn London, where his place in ParliamentRequired his presence. He had missed the Lent,And dared not miss the Easter session. SheThought he was right, altho',"—and suddenlyShe burst in tears. The Prince, in dire distress,Besought her to be calm. But she, with faceHid in both hands, and turning from the light,Broke from his arms, and rushed into the night.Across the hall, beneath the portico,And down the steps she fled, to where belowThe garden lay all dim with starlit shade,And the white glimmer of the main façade.Here Belgirate found her on a seat,Crouched in an angle of the parapet,And sobbing as in terror. His surpriseWas changed to resolution. To his eyesThe world became transfigured. "Lady L.,"He whispered, "what is this? You love me? Well,Why do you weep?"
He took her hands in hisAnd pressed them to his lips; and at the kissGriselda started from the heap she wasAnd sat upright, with pale pathetic faceTurned to the night. By the dim starlight heBeheld, half-awed and half in ecstasy,The strange emotion of her countenance.She made no gesture to withdraw her hands,No sign of disagreement with his words.Her eyes looked scared and troubled like a bird'sCaught in a net, and seemed to ask of FateWhere the next blow should fall. 'Twas thus she satSpeechless, inanimate, nor seemed to breathe.The Prince could hear the chattering of her teeth,And feel her shiver in the warm nightwind,—And yet its touch was hardly thus unkind.
He too, poor soul, in hope and tenderness,Still kissed her hands, and kissed her gloves and dress,And kneeling at her feet embraced her kneesWith soothing arms and soft cajoleries.She dared not turn nor speak. The balustradeServed as a pretext for her with its shadeHiding his face. She would not seem to guessAll that his fondness asked of her distress:A word might break the spell. She only knewShe was a poor sad woman, doomed to doSorrow to all who loved her, that the PrinceHad spoken truly, and her long pretenceOf innocence was o'er. She scorned to makeAn idle protest now for honour's sake.He had a right to ask for what he wouldNow that she loved him, and her womanhoodReserved one tearful right, and only one,To hide her face an instant and be gone.
How long they sat thus silent who shall say?Griselda knew not. Time was far away;She wanted courage to prepare her heartFor that last bitterest word of all, "We part;"And he cared naught for time: his heaven was there,Nor needed thought, nor speech, nor even prayer.
A sound of music roused them. From the houseVoices broke in and strains tumultuous,Proving the dance begun. Then with a sighGriselda turned her head, and piteouslyLooked in his face. She moved as if to go,And when he held her still, "For pity, no,Let me be gone," she cried. "I ask it thus,"Clasping her hands. "You will not? No! alas!You must not doubt me when I speak the truth;This is a great misfortune for us both.""Griselda," he began. "Oh, stop," she said,"You know not what you ask." She bent her headClose to his own. "I am not what I seem,A woman to be loved, not even by himWhom I might choose to worship. Mine must beAn unfinished life, not quite a tragedy,Even to my friends, an idle aimless life,Not worth an argument, still less a strife.You must forget, forgive me. We were friends,Friends still perhaps; but, oh! this first day endsOur love for ever. What you said was true,Only I never guessed it."
The Prince knewThat she was weeping, and a single sobBroke from her lips. She seemed her wounds to probe."Yes, I have loved you, loved you from the first,The day we met at Terni, when you burstLike sunshine on the storm of my darklife—You, wise and free—I, only the sad wifeOf one you called a friend. The fault was mineAnd mine alone. In you there was no sin:You stood too far from me, too high aboveMy woman's follies even to dream of love.There, do not answer. You were kind to me,Good, patient, wise—you could no otherbe—But, oh! you never loved me."
Here againThe Prince broke in protesting (but in vain):Her words were madness and his heart was hers.She would not listen nor control hertears—"You never loved me. This one thought I holdIn consolation of my manifoldDeceits and errors. You at least are freeFrom all deceptions and remorse andme:—I cannot cause you sorrow, else it wereIndeed too pitiful, too hard to bear."
She stooped and kissed his forehead reverently,As one would kiss a relic; and when heStill would have spoken, stopped him with a handLaid on his lips, half-prayer and half-command.She would not let him speak. The prince, tho' mute,Now pleaded with his hands and pressed his suitWith better eloquence, for this to herSeemed less a crime than speech. Her ignorant fearHad hardly fathomed yet the troubled seaOn which her lot was cast thus dangerously.She only feared his words to prove him right;And these caresses in the dim still nightSoothed and consoled her. They were too unreal,Too strange to her experience, quite to feelOr quite to question. She, with half-shut eyes,And face averted, ceased to feel surprise,And ceased to think. She was a child again,Caressed and fondled. She forgot her pain,And almost even his presence in the place.He was too near and could not see her face.Besides, Griselda loved him. Only onceShe made a silent protest with her hands,As one might make asleep, and in her dreamOpened her eyes, and seemed to question himWith the pathetic instinct as of doom.The Prince in rapture judged his hour was come.
Alas! poor Prince. If thou hadst had thy bliss,I would not then have grudged thy happiness,Thine nor Griselda's. Happiness is notA merchandise men buy or leave unboughtAnd find again. It is a wild bird wingingIts way through heaven, in joyous circles ringing,Aloft, at its own will. Then, e'er we wist,It stooped and sat a moment on our wrist,And fondled with our fingers, and made playWith jess and hood as if it meant to stay.And we, if we were wise and fortunate,And if the hour had been decreed of fate,Seized the glad bird and held it in our hand,And forced it to obey our least command,Knowing that never more, if not made sure,It would come again to voice, or sign, or lure.
Oh, such is happiness. That night for themFate stood, a genius, suppliant and tame,Demanding to do service. Had they willed,The treasure-house of heaven had been unfilledAnd emptied in their lap. They too, even they,Mere mortals born, inheritors of clay,Had known eternal life, and been as gods,Only the will between them was at odds,Only the word was wanting.
What one thingIt was that frightened Fate to taking wing,And scared for ever the celestial bird,And left them desolate, if I have heardI do not now remember, nor would sayEven if I knew. 'Twas told me not to-dayNor yesterday, but in a time long since,By one of the two who knew, in confidence,And then not quite perhaps the uttertruth—Whoever tells it? But there came to bothA moment when, as Belgirate knew,There was no further power to plead or sue:They had played with Fate too long. Their hour was over;She was no more his love nor he her lover.His courage was exhausted. One by oneHis fingers, which still held Griselda's gown,Relaxed their hold. His hands dropped by his side,His head upon his bosom, and the pride,Which was the reason of his being, quailed.Grief in that hour and tenderness prevailed,And tears rushed to his eyes, long strangers there,And to his lips, Italian-like, a prayer,While he lay prostrate, his face turned from heaven,Under the stars.
The tower clock struck elevenAnd roused him. He had neither heard nor knownGriselda's going, but he was alone.
*****
And she? Griselda? In a whirl of grief,Tortured, distracted, hopeless of relief,And careless now what eye should see her tears,Whom none could mock with bitterer jibes than hers,And speechless to all question of her lord,Who sought to learn what portent had occurred,And still reverted to the theme begunOf Roman fever and the Roman sun;She was driven back to Rome. Two days her doorWas shut to all the world, both rich and poor,And on the third she went to Ostia,Pleading a wild desire to see the sea.
The sea! What virtue is there in the seaThat it consoles us thus in misery?In joy we do not love it, and our blissScoffs at its tears and scorns its barrenness.Our pride of life is in the fruitful Earth,The mother of all joy, which gave us birth,The Earth so touching in its hopes to be,So green, so tender in its sympathy.But when life turns to bitterness—ah! then,Where is Earth's message to the sons of men?How does she speak? What sound of grief is hersTo match our grief? What tale of pity stirsHer jubilant heart? The laughing woods give backNaught of their happiness to those who lack.The beauty of the uplands bars relief,The prosperous fields are insolent to grief;There is no comfort in the lowing herds,The hum of bees, the songs, the shouts of birds;There is no sob in all the living earth,Naught but the flutter of discordant mirth,On which, as on a pageant, morn and evenThe careless sun shines mockingly from heaven.There is no grief in all the world save one,The ocean's voice, as tearful as our own.Then from the Earth we turn—too potent mother,Too joyous in her offspring—to that other,The childless, joyless, unproductive Sea,And mourn with her her dread virginity.We clasp her naked rocks with our two hands,Barefoot we tread her barren waste of sands,Her breadths of shingle and her treeless shore,Knowing her griefs are as our griefs, and more,An eternal lack of love.
'Twas in this guiseGriselda cradled her soul's miseries,And nursed it in its anguish like a child,And soothed it to oblivion. The sea smiledWith its eternal smile upon her sorrow,The selfsame yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,And kept its tears in its own bosom sealed,A mystery of passion unrevealed,Save in the tremor of its voice at noon,When the wind rose and played wild chords thereon.So she.
The memory of that place long stoodIn her remembrance as a dream of good,Dividing life as sleep divides the day,A place of utter weakness. Let those sayWho will, that deeds of strength life's milestones are.The dearest days are not the days of war,And victory is forgotten in the peaceOf certain hours gone by in helplessness,When the soul ceased to battle, and lay stillAs on a deathbed dumb to good and ill.These are its treasures.
Nor was silence allGriselda's ointment. Hard by the sea-wall,Where daily her steps turned fresh peace to find,A convent stood, inviting to the mind.Here she found entrance at the chapel gate,And knelt in prayer half-inarticulate,Bowed to the earth. For patron saints it hadThe Marys three—"two virtuous, and one bad,"Griselda thought, "like her own self"—who cameIn flight together from Jerusalem,And landed there; and these in her great need,She suppliant asked for her soul's daily bread,Using all fondest words her lips could frame,To speak her secret wishes without blame.Six candlesticks she vowed, to each a pair,So they would listen to and grant her prayer.The superstition pleased her. In her prideShe bowed and begged like any peasant's bride,For what? for whom? she hardly could explainEven to her, the dear St. Magdalen."And yet," she argued, "she at least will knowAnd understand me if no other do."
All this was folly, but it comfortedAnd gave her strength. Then with a calmer head,If not a calmer heart, she turned once moreFrom love to life. Her first strong grief was o'er.
How shall I take up this vain parableAnd ravel out its issue? Heaven and hell,The principles of good and evil thought,Embodied in our lives, have blindly foughtToo long for empire in my soul to leaveMuch for its utterance, much that it can grieve.A soldier on the battlefield of life,I have grown callous to the signs of strife,And feel the wounds of others and my ownWith scarce a tremor and without a groan.I have seen many perish in their sins,Known much of frailty and inconsequence,And if I laughed once, now I dare not beOther than sad at man's insanity.Therefore, in all humility of years,Colder and wiser for hopes drowned in tears,And seeking no more quarries for my mirth,Who most need pity of the sons of earth,I dip in kindlier ink my chastened pen,And fill of my lost tale what leaves remain.Years passed. Griselda from my wandering sightHad waned and vanished, like a meteor bright,Leaving no pathway in my manhood's heaven,Save only memories vaguely unforgivenOf something fair and sad, which for a dayHad lit its zenith and had gone its way.Rome and the Prince, the tale that I had heard,Griselda's beauty—all that once had stirredMy curious thought to wonder and regret,In the vexed problem of her woman's fate,Had yielded place to the world's work-day cares,The wealth it covets and the toil it dares.I was no more a boy, when idle chanceAnd that light favour which attends romanceBrought me once more within the transient spellOf other days, and dreams of Lady L.'Twas in September (I have always foundThat month in my life's record dangerous ground,Whether it be due to some unreasoned stressOf the mad stars which dog our happiness,Or whether—since in truth most things are dueTo natural causes, if our blindnessknew—To the strong law of Nature's first decay,Warning betimes of time that cannot stay,And summer perishing, and hours to come,Lit by less hope in the year's martyrdom;And so we needs must seize at any costFleet pleasure's hem lest all our day be lost)'Twas in September, at a country houseIn the Midland shires, where I had come, God knows,Without a thought but of such joyous sortAs manhood ventures in the realms of sportWith that dear god of slaughter England's sonsAdore with incense-smoke and roar of guns,That this new chapter opens. Who had guessedSo rare a phœnix housed in such a nest?For we, in truth, were no wise company,Men strong and joyous, keen of hand and eye,And shrewd for pleasure, but whose subtlest witWas still to jest at life while using it,And jest at love, as at a fruit low hungTo all men's lips, no matter whence it sprung.A fool's philosophy, yet dear to youthBred without knowledge of the nobler truth,And seeming wisdom, till the bitter tasteOf grief has come to cure its overhaste.Naught was there, in the scene nor in the partsPlayed by the actors, worthy serious hearts,Or worthy her whose passion trod a stageHigh o'er the frailties of our prurient age,Griselda and her unattained fair dreamOf noble deeds and griefs unknown to them.How came she there?Our hostess was a womanLess famed for wisdom than a heart all human,Rich in life's gifts, a wealthy generous soul,But still too fair and still too bountiful.The rest, mad hoydens of the world, whose worthLay mired with folly, earthiest of the earth.How came she there?When I, unconscious allOf such high presence at our festival,Heard her name bandied in the general humOf hungry tongues, which told the guests had come,And saw in converse with our host the form,Familiar once in sunshine and in storm,Of her who was to me the type and signOf all things noble, not to say Divine,Breathing the atmosphere of that vain house,My heart stopped beating. Half incredulous,I looked and questioned in my neighbours' eyes,Seeking the sense of this supreme surprise.My thought took words, as at the table setMen's lips were loosed, discoursing while they ate,And each to each.Beside me, of the crewOf gilded youths who swelled the retinueOf our fair hostess in her daily lotOf hunting laughter when field sports were not,Sat one, a joyous boy, whom fashion's freak,A mad-cap courage and a beardless cheek,Had set pre-eminent in pleasure's schoolTo play the hero and to play the foolFor those few years which are the summer's dayOf fashion's foils ere they are cast away.Young Jerry Manton! Happy fortune's son,What heights of vanity your creed had won,Creed of adventure, and untiring wordsAnd songs and loves as brainless as a bird's.Who would not envy you your lack of sense,Your lawless jibes, your wealth of insolence,The glory of your triumphs unconcealedIn pleasure's inmost and most sacred field!Who would not share the sunshine of your mirth,Your god-like smile, your consciousness of worth,The keenness of your wit in the world's ways,Your heart so callous to its blame or praise!Him I addressed, in pursuance of my doubtHow such a prodigy had come about.Young Manton eyed me. "Every road," he said,"Leads—well—to Rome." He laughed and shook his head,As if in censure of a thought less sage."My lady's thirty is a dangerous age,And of the three where most misfortunes comeIs the worst strewn with wrecks in Christendom.""You see," he added, "we are not all wiseIn all dilemmas and all companies,And there are times and seasons when the bestHas need of an hour's frolic with the rest,If only to set free the importunate loadOf trouble pressing on an uphill road.Women's first snare is vanity. At twentyPraises are pleasant, be they ne'er so plenty;And some, the foolish ones, are thus soon caughtSeeking to justify the flattery taught.These are the spendthrifts, dear ingenuous souls,Whose names emblazoned stand on pleasure's rolls,Manning the hosts of mirth. Apart from them,More serious or less eager in their aim,The wise ones wait like birds that hold aloof,Conscious of danger and the cloven hoof.Yet there are times."He paused awhile and sighed."The second snare," said he, "is set less wide;It stands midway between the dawn of youthAnd beauty's sunset, with its naked truth,A danger hidden cunningly in flowers,And the wild drowsing of the noontide hours.Here fall the elect, the chosen virtuous few,Who have outlived the worst the storm could do,But faint when it is over, through mere stressOf their mortality's first weariness.'Tis hard to see youth perish, even whenOurselves to the mad warrant have set pen;And for the wisest there are days of griefAnd secret doubts and hours of unbeliefIn all things but the one forbidden blissChurchmen forbid, and poets call a kiss.Why should we wonder? 'Tis a kindlier fateAt least than that, the last, which comes too late,The old fool's folly nursed at forty-five.Griselda is an angel, but alive,Believe me, to her wings." A fatuous flushMantled his face, not quite perhaps a blush,But something conscious, as of one who knows."Virtue and pleasure are not always foes,"He sighed. "And much depends upon the man."I turned impatient. There, behind her fan,At the far table's end, Griselda's eyesWere watching us, half hid by its disguise,But conscious too, as if a secret stringHad vibrated 'twixt her and that vain thing,The cynic boy, whose word was in my ear,Dishonouring to me and him and her.Our eyes met, and hers fell; a sudden painTouched me of memory, and in every veinRan jealous anger at young Manton's wit,While, half aloud, I flung my curse on it.Later, I found Griselda gravely gay,And glad to see me in the accustomed wayOf half affection my long zeal had won,Her face no older, though the years had spunSome threads unnoticed in her fair brown hairOf lighter hue than I remembered there,Less silver streaked than gold. All else had grownFairer with time, and tenderer in its tone,As when in August woods a second burstOf leaves is seen more golden than the first.A woman truly to be loved—but loving?There was the riddle wit despaired of proving,For who can read the stars? I sat with herThe evening through, and rose up happier:In all that crowd there was no single faceWorthy her notice, not to say her grace,And once again her charm was on my soul."If she love any"—this was still the goalOf my night thoughts in argument withfear—"Say what they will, the lover is not here."Not here! And yet, at parting, she had pressedManton's sole hand, and nodded to the rest.Four days I lived in my fool's paradise,Importuning Griselda's changing eyesWith idle flattery. I found her moodSofter than once in her young womanhood,Yet restless and uncertain. There were hoursOf a wild gaiety, when all the powersOf her keen mind were in revolt with folly,Others bedimmed with wordless melancholy.Once too or twice she shocked me with a phraseOf doubtful sense, revealing thoughts and waysNew to her past, an echo of the noiseOf that mad world we lived in and its joys:Such things were sacrilege. I could not seeUnmoved my angel smirched with vanity,Even though, it seemed at moments, for my sake.Her laughter, when she laughed, made my heart ache,And I had spared some pain to see her sadRather than thus unseasonably glad.Who would have dreamed it? Each new idle day,When, tired with sport, we rested from the fray,Five jovial shooters, jaded by the sun,Seeking refreshment at the stroke ofnoon,—There, with the luncheon carts all trimly dight,Stood Lady L., to the fool crowd's delight.You would have thought her life had always beenPassed in the stubbles, as, with questions keen,She eyed the bags and parleyed with the "guns;"Rome's matron she with us the Goths and Huns.Young Manton proudly spread for her his coatUnder a hedge, and she resented not.Resented! Why resent? Nay, smiles were there.And a swift look of pleasure, still more rare,Pleasure and gratitude, as though the actHad been of chivalry in form and factTranscending Raleigh's. Ay, indeed! Resent!That eye were blind which doubted what it meant.And still I doubted. Vanity dies hard.And love, however starving of reward,And youth's creed of belief. It seemed a thingMonstrous, impossible, bewildering,As tales of dwarfs and giants gravely toldBy men of science, and transmuted gold,And magic potions turning men to beasts,And lewd witch Sabbaths danced by unfrocked priests.Griselda! Manton! In what mood or tenseCould folly conjugate such dreams to sense,Or draw the contract not in terms absurdOf such a friendship or of act or word?Where was the common thought between thetwo—Even of partridges—the other knew?Manton—Griselda! Nay 'twere fabulous,A mere profanity, to argue thus;Only I watched them closer when they strayedTo gather blackberries, as boy and maidIn a first courting, and her eager eyesTurned as he spoke, and laughter came unwiseBefore she answered, and an hour was flown,Before he joined the rest and she was gone.O Love! what an absurdity thou art,How heedless of proportion, whole or part!Time, place, occasion, what are they to thee?Thou playest the wanton with Solemnity,The prince with Poverty, the rogue with Worth,The fool with all the Wisdoms of the Earth.Thou art a leveller, more renowned than Death,For he, when in his rage he stops our breath,Leaves us at least the harvest of our years,The right to be heroic in our tears.But thou dost only mock. Thou art a kingDealing with slaves, who waits no questioning,But gives—to this a province and a crown,To that a beggar's staff and spangled gown;And when some weep their undeserved disgrace,Plucks at their cheeks and smites them in the face.Thou hast no reverence, no respect for right.Virtue to thee is a lewd appetite,Remorse a pastime, modesty a lure,And love, the malady, love's only cure.Griselda, in her love at thirty-three,Was the supreme fool of felicity.Reason and she had taken separate roads,A spectacle of mirth for men and gods.And the world laughed—discreetly in itssleeves—At her poor artless shifts and make-believes.For it was true, true to the very text,This whispered thing that had my soul perplexed,Manton was her beloved—by what art,What mute equation of the human heart,What blind jibe of dame Fortune, who shall say?The road of passion is no king's highway,Mapped out with finger-posts for all to see,But each soul journeys on it separately,And only those who have walked its mazes throughRemember on what paths the wild flowers grew.Ay, who shall say? Nor had the truth been sung,Save for the incontinence of Manton's tongue,Wagging in argument on certain themes,With boast of craft in pleasure's stratagems."For Love" ('twas thus he made his parableIn cynic phrase, as hero of his tale,One evening when the others were abed,And we two sat on smoking, head to head,Discoursing in that tone of men scarce friends,Who prate philosophy to candle ends),"Love, though its laws have not as yet been writtenBy any Balzac for our modern Britain,And though perhaps there is no strategyYouth can quite count upon or argue by,Is none the less an art, with some few rulesWise men observe, who would outrun the fools.Now, for myself" (here Manton spread his handsWith professorial wave in white wrist-bands)"I hold it as a maxim always wiseIn making love to deal with contraries.Colours, books tell us, to be strongly blent,Need opposite colours for their complement,And so too women whose ill-reasoning mindRequires some contradiction to be kind.""It is not enough in this late year of graceTo answer fools with their ownfoolishness—Rather with your best wisdom. You will needYour folly to perplex some wiser head.And so my maxim is, whatever leastWomen expect, that thing will serve you best.Thus, with young souls in their first unfledged years,Ask their opinion as philosophers:Consult their knowledge in the ways of life.The repute of sin will please a too chaste wife.Your deference keep for harlots: these you touchBest by your modesty, which makes them blush.With a proud beauty deal out insolence,And bear her fence down with a stronger fence.She will be angry, but a softer cheekTurn to the smiter who has proved her weak.And so with wisdom: meet it with surprise,Laugh at it idly gazing in its eyes,Leave it no solid ground for its fair feet,And lead it lightly where love's waters meet.Even virtue—virtue of the noblest type,The fair sad woman, whose romance is ripe,Needs but a little knowledge to be led,Perhaps less than the rest if truth be said.You must not parley with her. Words are vain,And you might wake some half forgotten pain.Avoid her soul. It is a place too strongFor your assaulting, and a siege were long.Others have failed before it. Touch it not,But march beyond, nor fire a single shot.The fields of pleasure less defended lie:These are your vantage-ground for victory.Strike boldly for possession and command;An hour may win it, if you hold her hand.I knew one once:"...I would have stopped him hereBut for the shame which held me prisoner;And his undaunted reassuring smile,Commanding confidence. "I knew once on a while,"He said, "a woman whom the world called proud,A saintly soul, untouched by the vain crowd,Who had survived all battle, siege, and sack,Love ever led with armies at his back,Yet fell at last to the mere accidentOf a chance meeting, for another meant:Her lover had not dared it, had he known,But faces in the dark are all as one.You know the rhyme."But at this point I rose,Fearing what worse his folly might disclose,And having learned my lesson of romance,A sadder man and wiser for the chance,Bade him good night: (it was in truth good-bye,For pretexting next morning some small lieOf business calling me in haste to town,I fled the house). He looked me up and down,Yawned, rose to light his candle at the lamp,Pressed with warm hand my own hand which was damp,And as he sauntered cheerily to bed,I heard him sing—they linger in myhead—The first staves of a ballad, then the fashionWith the young bloods who shape their love and passionAt the music-halls of the Metropolis;What I remember of the song was this:But, no, I cannot write it. There are thingsToo bitter in their taste, and this one stingsMy soul to a mad anger even yet.I seem to hear the voices of the pitLewdly discoursing of incestuous scenes,Bottom the weaver's and the enamoured queen's.Alas, Titania! thou poor soul, alas!How art thou fallen, and to what an ass!
How shall I take up this vain parableAnd ravel out its issue? Heaven and hell,The principles of good and evil thought,Embodied in our lives, have blindly foughtToo long for empire in my soul to leaveMuch for its utterance, much that it can grieve.A soldier on the battlefield of life,I have grown callous to the signs of strife,And feel the wounds of others and my ownWith scarce a tremor and without a groan.I have seen many perish in their sins,Known much of frailty and inconsequence,And if I laughed once, now I dare not beOther than sad at man's insanity.Therefore, in all humility of years,Colder and wiser for hopes drowned in tears,And seeking no more quarries for my mirth,Who most need pity of the sons of earth,I dip in kindlier ink my chastened pen,And fill of my lost tale what leaves remain.
Years passed. Griselda from my wandering sightHad waned and vanished, like a meteor bright,Leaving no pathway in my manhood's heaven,Save only memories vaguely unforgivenOf something fair and sad, which for a dayHad lit its zenith and had gone its way.Rome and the Prince, the tale that I had heard,Griselda's beauty—all that once had stirredMy curious thought to wonder and regret,In the vexed problem of her woman's fate,Had yielded place to the world's work-day cares,The wealth it covets and the toil it dares.I was no more a boy, when idle chanceAnd that light favour which attends romanceBrought me once more within the transient spellOf other days, and dreams of Lady L.
'Twas in September (I have always foundThat month in my life's record dangerous ground,Whether it be due to some unreasoned stressOf the mad stars which dog our happiness,Or whether—since in truth most things are dueTo natural causes, if our blindnessknew—To the strong law of Nature's first decay,Warning betimes of time that cannot stay,And summer perishing, and hours to come,Lit by less hope in the year's martyrdom;And so we needs must seize at any costFleet pleasure's hem lest all our day be lost)'Twas in September, at a country houseIn the Midland shires, where I had come, God knows,Without a thought but of such joyous sortAs manhood ventures in the realms of sportWith that dear god of slaughter England's sonsAdore with incense-smoke and roar of guns,That this new chapter opens. Who had guessedSo rare a phœnix housed in such a nest?
For we, in truth, were no wise company,Men strong and joyous, keen of hand and eye,And shrewd for pleasure, but whose subtlest witWas still to jest at life while using it,And jest at love, as at a fruit low hungTo all men's lips, no matter whence it sprung.A fool's philosophy, yet dear to youthBred without knowledge of the nobler truth,And seeming wisdom, till the bitter tasteOf grief has come to cure its overhaste.Naught was there, in the scene nor in the partsPlayed by the actors, worthy serious hearts,Or worthy her whose passion trod a stageHigh o'er the frailties of our prurient age,Griselda and her unattained fair dreamOf noble deeds and griefs unknown to them.How came she there?
Our hostess was a womanLess famed for wisdom than a heart all human,Rich in life's gifts, a wealthy generous soul,But still too fair and still too bountiful.The rest, mad hoydens of the world, whose worthLay mired with folly, earthiest of the earth.How came she there?
When I, unconscious allOf such high presence at our festival,Heard her name bandied in the general humOf hungry tongues, which told the guests had come,And saw in converse with our host the form,Familiar once in sunshine and in storm,Of her who was to me the type and signOf all things noble, not to say Divine,Breathing the atmosphere of that vain house,My heart stopped beating. Half incredulous,I looked and questioned in my neighbours' eyes,Seeking the sense of this supreme surprise.My thought took words, as at the table setMen's lips were loosed, discoursing while they ate,And each to each.
Beside me, of the crewOf gilded youths who swelled the retinueOf our fair hostess in her daily lotOf hunting laughter when field sports were not,Sat one, a joyous boy, whom fashion's freak,A mad-cap courage and a beardless cheek,Had set pre-eminent in pleasure's schoolTo play the hero and to play the foolFor those few years which are the summer's dayOf fashion's foils ere they are cast away.Young Jerry Manton! Happy fortune's son,What heights of vanity your creed had won,Creed of adventure, and untiring wordsAnd songs and loves as brainless as a bird's.Who would not envy you your lack of sense,Your lawless jibes, your wealth of insolence,The glory of your triumphs unconcealedIn pleasure's inmost and most sacred field!Who would not share the sunshine of your mirth,Your god-like smile, your consciousness of worth,The keenness of your wit in the world's ways,Your heart so callous to its blame or praise!Him I addressed, in pursuance of my doubtHow such a prodigy had come about.
Young Manton eyed me. "Every road," he said,"Leads—well—to Rome." He laughed and shook his head,As if in censure of a thought less sage."My lady's thirty is a dangerous age,And of the three where most misfortunes comeIs the worst strewn with wrecks in Christendom.""You see," he added, "we are not all wiseIn all dilemmas and all companies,And there are times and seasons when the bestHas need of an hour's frolic with the rest,If only to set free the importunate loadOf trouble pressing on an uphill road.Women's first snare is vanity. At twentyPraises are pleasant, be they ne'er so plenty;And some, the foolish ones, are thus soon caughtSeeking to justify the flattery taught.These are the spendthrifts, dear ingenuous souls,Whose names emblazoned stand on pleasure's rolls,Manning the hosts of mirth. Apart from them,More serious or less eager in their aim,The wise ones wait like birds that hold aloof,Conscious of danger and the cloven hoof.Yet there are times."
He paused awhile and sighed."The second snare," said he, "is set less wide;It stands midway between the dawn of youthAnd beauty's sunset, with its naked truth,A danger hidden cunningly in flowers,And the wild drowsing of the noontide hours.Here fall the elect, the chosen virtuous few,Who have outlived the worst the storm could do,But faint when it is over, through mere stressOf their mortality's first weariness.'Tis hard to see youth perish, even whenOurselves to the mad warrant have set pen;And for the wisest there are days of griefAnd secret doubts and hours of unbeliefIn all things but the one forbidden blissChurchmen forbid, and poets call a kiss.Why should we wonder? 'Tis a kindlier fateAt least than that, the last, which comes too late,The old fool's folly nursed at forty-five.Griselda is an angel, but alive,Believe me, to her wings." A fatuous flushMantled his face, not quite perhaps a blush,But something conscious, as of one who knows."Virtue and pleasure are not always foes,"He sighed. "And much depends upon the man."
I turned impatient. There, behind her fan,At the far table's end, Griselda's eyesWere watching us, half hid by its disguise,But conscious too, as if a secret stringHad vibrated 'twixt her and that vain thing,The cynic boy, whose word was in my ear,Dishonouring to me and him and her.Our eyes met, and hers fell; a sudden painTouched me of memory, and in every veinRan jealous anger at young Manton's wit,While, half aloud, I flung my curse on it.
Later, I found Griselda gravely gay,And glad to see me in the accustomed wayOf half affection my long zeal had won,Her face no older, though the years had spunSome threads unnoticed in her fair brown hairOf lighter hue than I remembered there,Less silver streaked than gold. All else had grownFairer with time, and tenderer in its tone,As when in August woods a second burstOf leaves is seen more golden than the first.A woman truly to be loved—but loving?There was the riddle wit despaired of proving,For who can read the stars? I sat with herThe evening through, and rose up happier:In all that crowd there was no single faceWorthy her notice, not to say her grace,And once again her charm was on my soul."If she love any"—this was still the goalOf my night thoughts in argument withfear—"Say what they will, the lover is not here."Not here! And yet, at parting, she had pressedManton's sole hand, and nodded to the rest.
Four days I lived in my fool's paradise,Importuning Griselda's changing eyesWith idle flattery. I found her moodSofter than once in her young womanhood,Yet restless and uncertain. There were hoursOf a wild gaiety, when all the powersOf her keen mind were in revolt with folly,Others bedimmed with wordless melancholy.Once too or twice she shocked me with a phraseOf doubtful sense, revealing thoughts and waysNew to her past, an echo of the noiseOf that mad world we lived in and its joys:Such things were sacrilege. I could not seeUnmoved my angel smirched with vanity,Even though, it seemed at moments, for my sake.Her laughter, when she laughed, made my heart ache,And I had spared some pain to see her sadRather than thus unseasonably glad.
Who would have dreamed it? Each new idle day,When, tired with sport, we rested from the fray,Five jovial shooters, jaded by the sun,Seeking refreshment at the stroke ofnoon,—There, with the luncheon carts all trimly dight,Stood Lady L., to the fool crowd's delight.You would have thought her life had always beenPassed in the stubbles, as, with questions keen,She eyed the bags and parleyed with the "guns;"Rome's matron she with us the Goths and Huns.Young Manton proudly spread for her his coatUnder a hedge, and she resented not.Resented! Why resent? Nay, smiles were there.And a swift look of pleasure, still more rare,Pleasure and gratitude, as though the actHad been of chivalry in form and factTranscending Raleigh's. Ay, indeed! Resent!That eye were blind which doubted what it meant.
And still I doubted. Vanity dies hard.And love, however starving of reward,And youth's creed of belief. It seemed a thingMonstrous, impossible, bewildering,As tales of dwarfs and giants gravely toldBy men of science, and transmuted gold,And magic potions turning men to beasts,And lewd witch Sabbaths danced by unfrocked priests.Griselda! Manton! In what mood or tenseCould folly conjugate such dreams to sense,Or draw the contract not in terms absurdOf such a friendship or of act or word?Where was the common thought between thetwo—Even of partridges—the other knew?Manton—Griselda! Nay 'twere fabulous,A mere profanity, to argue thus;Only I watched them closer when they strayedTo gather blackberries, as boy and maidIn a first courting, and her eager eyesTurned as he spoke, and laughter came unwiseBefore she answered, and an hour was flown,Before he joined the rest and she was gone.
O Love! what an absurdity thou art,How heedless of proportion, whole or part!Time, place, occasion, what are they to thee?Thou playest the wanton with Solemnity,The prince with Poverty, the rogue with Worth,The fool with all the Wisdoms of the Earth.Thou art a leveller, more renowned than Death,For he, when in his rage he stops our breath,Leaves us at least the harvest of our years,The right to be heroic in our tears.But thou dost only mock. Thou art a kingDealing with slaves, who waits no questioning,But gives—to this a province and a crown,To that a beggar's staff and spangled gown;And when some weep their undeserved disgrace,Plucks at their cheeks and smites them in the face.Thou hast no reverence, no respect for right.Virtue to thee is a lewd appetite,Remorse a pastime, modesty a lure,And love, the malady, love's only cure.
Griselda, in her love at thirty-three,Was the supreme fool of felicity.Reason and she had taken separate roads,A spectacle of mirth for men and gods.And the world laughed—discreetly in itssleeves—At her poor artless shifts and make-believes.For it was true, true to the very text,This whispered thing that had my soul perplexed,Manton was her beloved—by what art,What mute equation of the human heart,What blind jibe of dame Fortune, who shall say?The road of passion is no king's highway,Mapped out with finger-posts for all to see,But each soul journeys on it separately,And only those who have walked its mazes throughRemember on what paths the wild flowers grew.
Ay, who shall say? Nor had the truth been sung,Save for the incontinence of Manton's tongue,Wagging in argument on certain themes,With boast of craft in pleasure's stratagems."For Love" ('twas thus he made his parableIn cynic phrase, as hero of his tale,One evening when the others were abed,And we two sat on smoking, head to head,Discoursing in that tone of men scarce friends,Who prate philosophy to candle ends),"Love, though its laws have not as yet been writtenBy any Balzac for our modern Britain,And though perhaps there is no strategyYouth can quite count upon or argue by,Is none the less an art, with some few rulesWise men observe, who would outrun the fools.Now, for myself" (here Manton spread his handsWith professorial wave in white wrist-bands)"I hold it as a maxim always wiseIn making love to deal with contraries.Colours, books tell us, to be strongly blent,Need opposite colours for their complement,And so too women whose ill-reasoning mindRequires some contradiction to be kind."
"It is not enough in this late year of graceTo answer fools with their ownfoolishness—Rather with your best wisdom. You will needYour folly to perplex some wiser head.And so my maxim is, whatever leastWomen expect, that thing will serve you best.Thus, with young souls in their first unfledged years,Ask their opinion as philosophers:Consult their knowledge in the ways of life.The repute of sin will please a too chaste wife.Your deference keep for harlots: these you touchBest by your modesty, which makes them blush.With a proud beauty deal out insolence,And bear her fence down with a stronger fence.She will be angry, but a softer cheekTurn to the smiter who has proved her weak.And so with wisdom: meet it with surprise,Laugh at it idly gazing in its eyes,Leave it no solid ground for its fair feet,And lead it lightly where love's waters meet.Even virtue—virtue of the noblest type,The fair sad woman, whose romance is ripe,Needs but a little knowledge to be led,Perhaps less than the rest if truth be said.You must not parley with her. Words are vain,And you might wake some half forgotten pain.Avoid her soul. It is a place too strongFor your assaulting, and a siege were long.Others have failed before it. Touch it not,But march beyond, nor fire a single shot.The fields of pleasure less defended lie:These are your vantage-ground for victory.Strike boldly for possession and command;An hour may win it, if you hold her hand.I knew one once:"...
I would have stopped him hereBut for the shame which held me prisoner;And his undaunted reassuring smile,Commanding confidence. "I knew once on a while,"He said, "a woman whom the world called proud,A saintly soul, untouched by the vain crowd,Who had survived all battle, siege, and sack,Love ever led with armies at his back,Yet fell at last to the mere accidentOf a chance meeting, for another meant:Her lover had not dared it, had he known,But faces in the dark are all as one.You know the rhyme."
But at this point I rose,Fearing what worse his folly might disclose,And having learned my lesson of romance,A sadder man and wiser for the chance,Bade him good night: (it was in truth good-bye,For pretexting next morning some small lieOf business calling me in haste to town,I fled the house). He looked me up and down,Yawned, rose to light his candle at the lamp,Pressed with warm hand my own hand which was damp,And as he sauntered cheerily to bed,I heard him sing—they linger in myhead—The first staves of a ballad, then the fashionWith the young bloods who shape their love and passionAt the music-halls of the Metropolis;What I remember of the song was this:
But, no, I cannot write it. There are thingsToo bitter in their taste, and this one stingsMy soul to a mad anger even yet.I seem to hear the voices of the pitLewdly discoursing of incestuous scenes,Bottom the weaver's and the enamoured queen's.Alas, Titania! thou poor soul, alas!How art thou fallen, and to what an ass!