VII.
But the permanent cause why his life fail'd and miss'dThe full value of life was,—where man should resistThe world, which man's genius is call'd to command,He gave way, less from lack of the power to withstand,Than from lack of the resolute will to retainThose strongholds of life which the world strives to gain.Let this character go in the old-fashion'd way,With the moral thereof tightly tack'd to it. Say—"Let any man once show the world that he feelsAfraid of its bark, and 'twill fly at his heels:Let him fearlessly face it, 'twill leave him alone:But 'twill fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone."
VIII.
The moon of September, now half at the full,Was unfolding from darkness and dreamland the lullOf the quiet blue air, where the many-faced hillsWatch'd, well-pleased, their fair slaves, the light, foam-footed rills,Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs of their courts,And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports,Lord Alfred (by this on his journeying far)Was pensively puffing his Lopez cigar,And brokenly humming an old opera strain,And thinking, perchance, of those castles in SpainWhich that long rocky barrier hid from his sight;When suddenly, out of the neighboring night,A horseman emerged from a fold of the hill,And so startled his steed that was winding at willUp the thin dizzy strip of a pathway which ledO'er the mountain—the reins on its neck, and its headHanging lazily forward—that, but for a handLight and ready, yet firm, in familiar command,Both rider and horse might have been in a triceHurl'd horribly over the grim precipice.
IX.
As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided,And the oath with which nothing can find unprovidedA thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded,Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow didNow and then) his erectness; and looking, not ruderThan such inroad would warrant, survey'd the intruder,Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his gloryMy hero, and finished abruptly this story.
X.
The stranger, a man of his own age or less,Well mounted, and simple though rich in his dress,Wore his beard and mustache in the fashion of France.His face, which was pale, gather'd force from the glanceOf a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes.With a gest of apology, touch'd with surprise,He lifted his hat, bow'd and courteously madeSome excuse in such well-cadenced French as betray'd,At the first word he spoke, the Parisian.
XI.
I swearI have wander'd about in the world everywhere;From many strange mouths have heard many strange tongues;Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and my lungs;Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own;In many a language groaned many a groan;And have often had reason to curse those wild fellowsWho built the high house at which Heaven turn'd jealous,Making human audacity stumble and stammerWhen seized by the throat in the hard gripe of Grammar.But the language of languages dearest to meIs that in which once, O ma toute cherie,When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for hours,You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers,And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flameThrough my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'dJe t'aime.
XII.
The Italians have voices like peacocks; the SpanishSmell, I fancy, of garlic; the Swedish and DanishHave something too Runic, too rough and unshod, inTheir accents for mouths not descended from Odin;German gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheezingAnd coughing; and Russian is nothing but sneezing;But, by Belus and Babel! I never have heard,And I never shall hear (I well know it), one wordOf that delicate idiom of Paris withoutFeeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt,By the wild way in which my heart inwardly flutter'dThat my heart's native tongue to my heart had been utter'dAnd whene'er I hear French spoken as I approveI feel myself quietly falling in love.
XIII.
Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeasedBy a something, an accent, a cadence, which pleasedHis ear with that pledge of good breeding which tellsAt once of the world in whose fellowship dwellsThe speaker that owns it, was glad to remarkIn the horseman a man one might meet after darkWithout fear.And thus, not disagreeably impress'd,As it seem'd, with each other, the two men abreastRode on slowly a moment.
XIV.
STRANGER.I see, Sir, you areA smoker. Allow me!ALFRED.Pray take a cigar.STRANGER.Many thanks!... Such cigars are a luxury here.Do you go to Luchon?ALFRED.Yes; and you?STRANGER.Yes. I fear,Since our road is the same, that our journey must beSomewhat closer than is our acquaintance. You seeHow narrow the path is. I'm tempted to askYour permission to finish (no difficult task!)The cigar you have given me (really a prize!)In your company.ALFRED.Charm'd, Sir, to find your road liesIn the way of my own inclinations! IndeedThe dream of your nation I find in this weed.In the distant Savannahs a talisman growsThat makes all men brothers that use it... who knows?That blaze which erewhile from the Boulevart out-broke,It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir,—in smoke.Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write)Have done more in their way human kind to unite,Perchance, than ten Prudhons.STRANGER.Yes. Ah, what a scene!ALFRED.Humph! Nature is here too pretentious. Her mienIs too haughty. One likes to be coax'd, not compell'd,To the notice such beauty resents if withheld.She seems to be saying too plainly, "Admire me!"And I answer, "Yes, madam, I do: but you tire me."STRANGER.That sunset, just now though...ALFRED.A very old trick!One would think that the sun by this time must be sickOf blushing at what, by this time, he must knowToo well to be shocked by—this world.STRANGER.Ah, 'tis soWith us all. 'Tis the sinner that best knew the worldAt Twenty, whose lip is, at sixty, most curl'dWith disdain of its follies. You stay at Luchon?ALFRED.A day or two only.STRANGER.The season is done.
ALFRED.Already?STRANGER.'Twas shorter this year than the last.Folly soon wears her shoes out. She dances so fastWe are all of us tired.ALFRED.You know the place well?STRANGER.I have been there two seasons.ALFRED.Pray who is the BelleOf the Baths at this moment?STRANGER.The same who has beenThe belle of all places in which she is seen;The belle of all Paris last winter; last springThe belle of all Baden.ALFRED.An uncommon thing!STRANGER.Sir, an uncommon beauty!... I rather should sayAn uncommon character. Truly, each dayOne meets women whose beauty is equal to hers,But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers.ALFRED.Madame de Nevers!STRANGER.Do you know her?ALFRED.I knowOr, rather, I knew her—a long time ago.I almost forget...STRANGER.What a wit! what a graceIn her language! her movements! what play in her face!And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal!ALFRED.You speak like a lover.STRANGER.I speak as I feel,But not like a lover. What interests me soIn Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know,To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation,The name we men give to an hour's admiration,A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes,A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs.ALFRED.Yes, I quite comprehend. But this sadness—this shadeWhich you speak of?... it almost would make me afraidYour gay countrymen, Sir, less adroit must have grown,Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I ownI found in them terrible rivals,—if yetThey have all lack'd the skill to console this regret(If regret be the word I should use), or fulfilThis desire (if desire be the word), which seems stillTo endure unappeased. For I take it for granted,From all that you say, that the will was not wanted.
XV.
The stranger replied, not without irritation:"I have heard that an Englishman—one of your nationI presume—and if so, I must beg you, indeed,To excuse the contempt which I..."ALFRED.Pray, Sir, proceedWith your tale. My compatriot, what was his crime?STRANGER.Oh, nothing! His folly was not so sublimeAs to merit that term. If I blamed him just now,It was not for the sin, but the silliness.ALFRED.How?STRANGER.I own I hate Botany. Still,... admit,Although I myself have no passion for it,And do not understand, yet I cannot despiseThe cold man of science, who walks with his eyesAll alert through a garden of flowers, and stripsThe lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red lips,With a ruthless dissection; since he, I suppose,Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief he does.But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uprootsThe exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots,For a boy's brutal pastime, and only becauseHe knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and haws,—One would wish, for the sake of each nursling so nipp'd,To catch the young rascal and have him well whipp'd!ALFRED.Some compatriot of mine, do I then understand,With a cold Northern heart, and a rude English hand,Has injured your Rosebud of France?STRANGER.Sir, I knowBut little, or nothing. Yet some faces showThe last act of a tragedy in their regard:Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not hardTo divine, more or less, what the plot may have been,And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene.And whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile,With its pensive and passionless languor, I feelThat some feeling hath burnt there... burnt out, and burnt upHealth and hope. So you feel when you gaze down the cupOf extinguish'd volcanoes: you judge of the fireOnce there, by the ravage you see;—the desire,By the apathy left in its wake, and that senseOf a moral, immovable, mute impotence.ALFRED.Humph!... I see you have finished, at last, your cigar;Can I offer another?STRANGER.No, thank you. We areNot two miles from Luchon.ALFRED.You know the road well?STRANGER.I have often been over it.
XVI.
Here a pause fellOn their converse. Still musingly on, side by side,In the moonlight, the two men continued to rideDown the dim mountain pathway. But each for the restOf their journey, although they still rode on abreast,Continued to follow in silence the trainOf the different feelings that haunted his brain;And each, as though roused from a deep revery,Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to seeBurst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths,The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths,With the lamps twinkling through them—the quaint wooden roofs—The little white houses.The clatter of hoofs,And the music of wandering bands, up the wallsOf the steep hanging hill, at remote intervalsReached them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking of whips,And here and there, faintly, through serpentine slipsOf verdant rose-gardens deep-sheltered with screensOf airy acacias and dark evergreens,They could mark the white dresses and catch the light songsOf the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs,Led by Laughter and Love through the old eventideDown the dream-haunted valley, or up the hillside.
XVII.
At length, at the door of the inn l'HERISSON,Pray go there, if ever you go to Luchon!The two horsemen, well pleased to have reached it, alightedAnd exchanged their last greetings.The Frenchman invitedLord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined.He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dinedIn his own rooms that night.With an unquiet eyeHe watched his companion depart; nor knew why,Beyond all accountable reason or measure,He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure."The fellow's good looking," he murmur'd at last,"And yet not a coxcomb." Some ghost of the pastVex'd him still."If he love her," he thought, "let him win her."Then he turn'd to the future—and order'd his dinner.
XVIII.
O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth,Blessed hour of our dinners!The land of his birth;The face of his first love; the bills that he owes;The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes;The sermon he heard when to church he last went;The money he borrow'd, the money he spent;—All of these things, a man, I believe, may forget,And not be the worse for forgetting; but yetNever, never, oh never! earth's luckiest sinnerHath unpunish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner!Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach,Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some acheOr some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease,As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes.
XIX.
We may live without poetry, music, and art:We may live without conscience, and live without heart;We may live without friends; we may live without books;But civilized man cannot live without cooks.He may live without books,—what is knowledge but grieving?He may live without hope,—what is hope but deceiving?He may live without love,—what is passion but pining?But where is the man that can live without dining?
XX.
Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a noteFrom Lucile."Your last letter has reach'd me," she wrote."This evening, alas! I must go to the ball,And shall not be at home till too late for your call;But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at OneYou will find me at home, and will find me alone.Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord,For the honor with which you adhere to your word.Yes, I thank you, Lord Alfred! To-morrow then."L."XXI.
I find myself terribly puzzled to tellThe feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung downThis note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must ownThat I think he, himself, could have hardly explain'dThose feelings exactly."Yes, yes," as he drain'dThe glass down, he mutter'd, "Jack's right, after all.The coquette!""Does milord mean to go to the ball?"Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd."Perhaps. I don't know.You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go."
XXII.
Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs,When season'd by love, which no rancor disturbs,And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life,Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife!But if, out of humor, and hungry, alone,A man should sit down to a dinner, each oneOf the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoilWith a horrible mixture of garlic and oil,The chances are ten against one, I must own,He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down.And if any reader this fact to dispute isDisposed, I say... "Allium edat cicutisNocentius!"Over the fruit and the wineUndisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine.Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set,And languidly lighted his small cigarette.The window was open. The warm air withoutWaved the flame of the candles. The moths were about.In the gloom he sat gloomy.
XXIII.
Gay sounds from belowFloated up like faint echoes of joys long ago,And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenuesThe lamps twinkled bright; and by threes and by twos,The idlers of Luchon were strolling at will,As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill,Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'erHis late travelling companion, now passing beforeThe inn, at the window of which he still sat,In full toilet,—boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat,Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove,As he turned down the avenue.Watching above,From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'dTo mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd,To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd,By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd,That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the hall,Was a person of rank or of fashion; for allWhom he bow'd to in passing, or stopped with and chatter'd,Walk'd on with a look which implied... "I feel flatter'd!"
XXIV.
His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom.
XXV.
Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room.He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozenOr more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin;He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile:He had thought about many things; thought a great dealOf himself, of his past life, his future, his present:He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor crescent;Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so sour!He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and power:Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, andA poet's asylum in some distant land:Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no doubt,In particular; also he had thought much aboutHis digestion, his debts, and his dinner: and last,He thought that the night would be stupidly pass'dIf he thought any more of such matters at all:So he rose and resolved to set out for the ball.
XXVI.
I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet,That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet,Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the nonceTwenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once.I believe that he split up, in drawing them on,Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one.And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last,When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'd fast,He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door,The church clock strike Twelve.
XXVII.
The last waltz was just o'er.The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter.A crowd block'd the door: and a buzz and a mutterWent about in the room as a young man, whose faceLord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place,But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and warmFlowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his armLike a queen in a fable of old fairy days,Left the ballroom.
XXVIII.
The hubbub of comment and praiseReach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd."Ma foi!"Said a Frenchman beside him,... "That lucky LuvoisHas obtained all the gifts of the gods... rank and wealth,And good looks, and then such inexhaustible health!He that hath shall have more; and this truth, I surmise,Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyesOf la charmante Lucile more distinguish'd than all,He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball.""Is it true," asked a lady aggressively fat,Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, satBy another that look'd like a needle, all steelAnd tenuity—"Luvois will marry Lucile?"The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch,As though it were bent upon driving a stitchThrough somebody's character."Madam," replied,Interposing, a young man who sat by their side,And was languidly fanning his face with his hat,"I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that,If Luvois has proposed, the Comtesse has refused."The fat and thin ladies were highly amused."Refused!... what! a young Duke, not thirty, my dear,With at least half a million (what is it?) a year!""That may be," said a third; "yet I know some time sinceCastelmar was refused, though as rich, and a Prince.But Luvois, who was never before in his lifeIn love with a woman who was not a wife,Is now certainly serious."
XXIX.
The music once moreRecommenced.
XXX.
Said Lord Alfred, "This ball is a bore!"And return'd to the inn, somewhat worse than before.
XXXI.
There, whilst musing he lean'd the dark valley above,Through the warm land were wand'ring the spirits of love.A soft breeze in the white window drapery stirr'd;In the blossom'd acacia the lone cricket chirr'd;The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night,And the moon on the mountain was dreaming in light.Repose, and yet rapture! that pensive wild natureImpregnate with passion in each breathing feature!A stone's throw from thence, through the large lime-trees peep'dIn a garden of roses, a white chalet, steep'dIn the moonbeams. The windows oped down to the lawn;The casements were open; the curtains were drawn;Lights stream'd from the inside; and with them the soundOf music and song. In the garden, aroundA table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set,Half a dozen young men and young women were met.Light, laughter, and voices, and music all stream'dThrough the quiet-leaved limes. At the window there seem'dFor one moment the outline, familiar and fair,Of a white dress, white neck, and soft dusky hair,Which Lord Alfred remember'd... a moment or soIt hover'd, then pass'd into shadow; and slowThe soft notes, from a tender piano upflung,Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus sung:—
"Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth!The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free,And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the sea."And this ship is a world. She is freighted with souls,She is freighted with merchandise: proudly she sailsWith the Labor that stores, and the Will that controlsThe gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales."From the gardens of Pleasure where reddens the rose,And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air,Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes,Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear!"Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard,Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight,O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird;'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight."And that bird, bright and bold as a poet's desire,Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her birth.There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire,And her plumage hath never been sullied by earth."And the mariners greet her; there's song on each lip,For that bird of good omen, and joy in each eye.And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the ship,Together go forth over ocean and sky."Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardens flee,And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknownThe ship is alone on a desert of sea,And the bird in a desert of sky is alone."In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air,Down that desert of waters—tremendous in wrath—The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair,And cleaves, thro' the waves of the ocean, his path."And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the wave,Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales;And the mariners all rush their cargo to save,Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales."Lo! a wonder, which never before hath been heard,For it never before hath been given to sight;On the ship bath descended the Paradise Bird,The Paradise Bird, never known to alight!"The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lipHad a song for the omen that gladden'd each eye;The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the shipFrom the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky."But the mariners heed not the bird any more.They are felling the masts—they are cutting the sails;Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'erTheir gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales."Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold;And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey;And who heeds the bird? 'Save the silk and the gold!'And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away!"Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once moreBack again in the wake of the wind she is driven—To be 'whelmed in the storm, or above it to soar,And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven!"And the ship rides the waters and weathers the gales:From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard.All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales,Save a child sitting lonely, who misses—the bird!"
I.
With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod!For my road is a rough one: flint, stubble, and clod,Blue clay, and black quagmire, brambles no few,And I gallop up-hill, now.There's terror that's trueIn that tale of a youth who, one night at a revel,Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by some devil,Follow'd ever one mask through the mad masquerade,Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('tis said),He unmasked, with a kiss, the strange lady, and stoodFace to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood.In this Mask of the Passions, call'd Life, there's no humanEmotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman,But, when faced and unmask'd, it will leave us at lastStruck by some supernatural aspect aghast.For truth is appalling and eldrich, as seenBy this world's artificial lamplights and we screenFrom our sight the strange vision that troubles our life.Alas! why is Genius forever at strifeWith the world, which, despite the world's self, it ennobles?Why is it that Genius perplexes and troublesAnd offends the effete life it comes to renew?'Tis the terror of truth! 'tis that Genius is true!
II.
Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read)Was a woman of genius: whose genius, indeed,With her life was at war. Once, but once, in that lifeThe chance had been hers to escape from this strifeIn herself; finding peace in the life of anotherFrom the passionate wants she, in hers, failed to smother.But the chance fell too soon, when the crude restless powerWhich had been to her nature so fatal a dower,Only wearied the man it yet haunted and thrall'd;And that moment, once lost, had been never recall'd.Yet it left her heart sore: and, to shelter her heartFrom approach, she then sought, in that delicate artOf concealment, those thousand adroit strategiesOf feminine wit, which repel while they please,A weapon, at once, and a shield to concealAnd defend all that women can earnestly feel.Thus, striving her instincts to hide and repress,She felt frighten'd at times by her very success:She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the stars:Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel barsIf they keep us behind prison windows: impassion'dHer heart rose and burst the light cage she had fashion'dOut of glittering trifles around it.UnknownTo herself, all her instincts, without hesitation,Embraced the idea of self-immolation.The strong spirit in her, had her life been but blendedWith some man's whose heart had her own comprehended,All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly thrown.For him she had struggled and striven alone;For him had aspired; in him had transfusedAll the gladness and grace of her nature; and usedFor him only the spells of its delicate power:Like the ministering fairy that brings from her bowerTo some maze all the treasures, whose use the fond elf,More enrich'd by her love, disregards for herself.But standing apart, as she ever had done,And her genius, which needed a vent, finding noneIn the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's power,She unconsciously made it her bulwark and tower,And built in it her refuge, whence lightly she hurl'dHer contempt at the fashions and forms of the world.And the permanent cause why she now miss'd and fail'dThat firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd,Was, in all those diurnal occasions that placeSay—the world and the woman opposed face to face,Where the woman must yield, she, refusing to stir,Offended the world, which in turn wounded her.As before, in the old-fashion'd manner, I fitTo this character, also, its moral: to wit,Say—the world is a nettle; disturb it, it stings:Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two things,If you would not be stung, it behoves you to settleAvoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle;For she could not; nor would she avoid it: she triedWith the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside,And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thingTo trample the world without feeling its sting.
III.
One lodges but simply at Luchon; yet, thanksTo the season that changes forever the banksOf the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light cloudO'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loudWind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring downThe dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering town,And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar,And the blue-bells that purple the dapple-gray scaur,One sees with each month of the many-faced yearA thousand sweet changes of beauty appear.The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de NeversRested half up the base of a mountain of firs,In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road,Yet withdrawn from its noise: 'twas a peaceful abode.And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like hoodsWhich the monks wear, were built of sweet resinous woods.The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascendedThe steep garden paths, every odor had blendedOf the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes,With the balms floated down from the dark wooded slopes:A light breeze at the window was playing about,And the white curtains floated, now in, and now out.The house was all hush'd when he rang at the door,Which was open'd to him in a moment, or more,By an old nodding negress, whose sable head shinedIn the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind,'Neath the snowy foulard which about it was wound.
IV.
Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound.He remembered the nurse of Lucile. The old dame,Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when he came,With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore,To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's door.The old woman had fondled Lucile on her kneeWhen she left, as an infant, far over the sea,In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown,To pine, a pale flow'ret, in great Paris town.She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast, when she readThe letter that told her, her father was dead.An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses,Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abyssesOf statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he.He had wander'd the world through, by land and by sea,And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will,Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skillTo conciliate Fortune, and courage to braveHer displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, and cast by the waveOn his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'dHis command: often baffled, he ever prevail'd,In his combat with fate: to-day flatter'd and fedBy monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere breadThe offspring of times trouble-haunted, he cameOf a family ruin'd, yet noble in name.He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France,And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Freelance,Had wander'd in search of it, over the worldInto India.But scarce had the nomad unfurl'dHis wandering tent at Mysore, in the smileOf a Rajah (whose court he controll'd for a while,And whose council he prompted and govern'd by stealth);Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth,Who died giving birth to this daughter, beforeHe was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore.His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchanceHad secured her a home with his sister in France,A lone woman, the last of the race left. LucileNeither felt, nor affected, the wish to concealThe half-Eastern blood, which appear'd to bequeath(Reveal'd now and then, though but rarely, beneathThat outward repose that concealed it in her)A something half wild to her strange character.The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken-hearted,At the door of a convent in Paris had parted.But later, once more, with her mistress she tarried,When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been marriedTo a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died,With no claim on her tears—she had wept as a bride.Said Lord Alfred, "Your mistress expects me."The croneOped the drawing-room door, and there left him alone.
V.
O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of graceRested silence and perfume. No sound reach'd the place.In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shadeOf the heaving acacias, through which the breeze play'd.O'er the smooth wooden floor, polished dark as a glass,Fragrant white Indian matting allowed you to pass.In light olive baskets, by window and door,Some hung from the ceiling, some crowding the floor,Rich wild flowers pluck'd by Lucile from the hill,Seem'd the room with their passionate presence to fill:Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed;The deep belladonna its vermeil disclosed;And the frail saponaire, and the tender blue-bell,And the purple valerian,—each child of the fellAnd the solitude flourish'd, fed fair from the sourceOf waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his courseWhere the chamois and izard, with delicate hoof,Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence aloof.
VI.
Here you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed,That you stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. Half unclosedIn the light slept the flowers; all was pure and at rest;All peaceful; all modest; all seem'd self-possess'd,And aware of the silence. No vestige nor traceOf a young woman's coquetry troubled the place.He stood by the window. A cloud pass'd the sun.A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one.Just then Lucile enter'd the room, undiscern'dBy Lord Alfred, whose face to the window was turned,In a strange revery.The time was, when Lucile,In beholding that man, could not help but revealThe rapture, the fear, which wrench'd out every nerveIn the heart of the girl from the woman's reserve.And now—she gazed at him, calm, smiling,—perchanceIndifferent.