VII.An interval of six weeks introduced my first work to the world, which turned out, as I promised myself it should, a poem in forty-eight cantos. It was slightly marred by a few negligences, the result of prodigious fertility of brain and the inability of my pen to keep pace with my inspiration. Nevertheless, I wisely concluded that the public,accustomed as they are in modern times to all that is swift in thought and action, would shield me from reproach. The success of this, my pristine effort, was simply as unparalleled as it was thoroughly deserved. The subject of the poem was my noble self; in this respect adhering to the prevailing custom, I related my sufferings and adventures, and put the reader in possession of a thousand domestic details of the most piquant interest. The description of my mother’s nest filled no less than fourteen cantos. With the most graphic minuteness were noted the number of straws, grasses, and leaves of which it was composed, the whole being idealised by the tints and reflections of poetic genius. I displayed the inside and the outside, the bottom and the brim, the graceful curves and inclined planes and angles, gradually leading the reader up to the grand theme of the contents—the remains of flies, may-bugs, and grubs which supplied the dainty fare of our home. Thus ascending, I reserved, with true poetic art, the dramatic incidents of my life for the granddénoûement.Europe was moved by the apparition of my book, and eagerly devoured its thrilling revelations. How could it be otherwise? I had not only laid bare the facts of my existence, but pictured the dreams which disturbed my repose for many years, even introducing an ode composed in the yet unbroken egg. Of course I did not neglect the subject which interests every one—that is, the future of humanity. This problem, which for a moment had arrested my attention, was dealt with, and dashed off in outline, giving universal satisfaction.Every day brought its tribute of congratulatory letters and anonymous love declarations, while my door was besieged by newspaper correspondents and Western tourists seeking an interview. All personal intercourse I positively declined, until forced to make an exception to a Blackbird from Senegal and another from China, who announced themselves as relatives of my own.“Ah, sir,” they said, nearly choking me with their embraces, “you are indeed a noble bird. How admirably you have painted in your immortal lines the profound sufferings of an unknown genius! If we are not already thoroughly misunderstood, we should become so after reading you. How deeply we sympathise with your griefs and your sublime scorn of vulgar opinion. Our own experience, sire, has made us familiar with all the troubles of which you sing. Here are two sonnets we humbly pray you to accept as a token of our worship.”“Here is besides,” added the Chinese, “a song composed by my wife on a passage in your preface. She seems to have caught wonderfully the inspiration which it breathes.”“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you seem to be gifted persons endowed with sentiments that are a credit to your nations, but permit me to inquire the reason of your manifest melancholy?”“Ah, sir, see how I am formed. My plumage, it is true, is pleasant to behold; it is not without the tinge of emerald green, the glory of Ducks and dupes. For all that, my beak is too short and my claws too long, and whoever saw such a frightful tail as mine? I am nearly all tail. Is it not enough to give one the blues?”“As for me, sir,” said John Chinaman, “my misfortune is a still more painful one. My comrade’s tail sweeps the streets, while the vulgar point the finger of scorn at me because I have only a stump.”“Gentlemen,” I replied, “I pity you with all my heart. It is always painful to have too much or too little of anything, no matter what it is. But allow me to tell you that in our museums there are many examples of your class who have been stuffed and preserved in peace for years. My own case is infinitely worse than yours put together. I have the misfortune to be a lettered bird, a genius, and the only bird of my kind. In spite of my resolution to remain single, the return of spring-time caused me much uneasiness, and an event as unexpected as it was welcome decided my future. I received a letter from a young white Merle in London. It ranthus:—“ ‘I have read your poem, and the devotion it inspired has constrained me to offer you my hand and fortune. God created us for each other. I am like you, for I am a white Merle.’“My surprise and joy may be imagined. A white Merle! Is it possible? I hastened to reply to the charming note—equal in terseness and fathomless sentiment to a love message in the second column of theTimes. I besought the fair unknown to come at once to Paris, the refuge of romance-stricken young ladies. My reply had the desired effect; she came at once, or rather soon after her second letter, which informed me that she would not bother her parents with details. It was better to tell them nothing, as they might deem it necessary to send an old carrion Crow to look into my character.“She came at last. Oh, joy! she was the loveliest Merle in the world. Was it possible that a creature so charming had lived and been reared for me? All my father’s curses, and, above all, mysufferings were welcome, since Heaven had reserved such an unexpected consolation for me. Till to-day I thought myself doomed to an eternal solitariness, but now I feel, while gazing on my lovely bride, all the nobler qualities of a father fully developed within me. Accept my claw, fair one, let us wed in the Anglo-Saxon fashion, and start for Switzerland.“Nay,” replied my love, “our wedding must be on a truly magnificent scale, all the Blackbirds of good birth must be invited. Birds in our position ought to observe the nicest ceremony, and not wed like water-spout cats. I have brought a provision of bank-notes with me. Arrange your invitations, and spare no cost in ordering the feast. I am of French origin and love display.”Blindly yielding to the wishes of my charmer, our wedding was of extraordinary brilliancy. Ten thousand flies were slaughtered for the feast, and we received the nuptial benediction from an old father Cormorant, archbishopin partibus, and the happy day’s festivities concluded with a splendid ball.The more I studied the character of my wife, the greater became my love. She combined in her dainty person every imaginable grace of body and mind. Only she was given to gossip, which I attributed to the influence of the English fog, and never had a moment’s doubt that our genial climate would dissipate this little cloud.There was some mystery hedging her round, which troubled me with grave forebodings. She used to shut herself up with her maids, under lock and key, for hours together, engaged, so she said, at her toilet. Husbands as a rule have no patience with such proceedings. More than a score of times have I knocked at my wife’s door without receiving the slightest response. One day I insisted with such violence that she was compelled to open the door, but not without favouring me with a sample of her temper. On entering, the first thing that met my gaze was a huge bottle of a sort of paste made up of flour and whitewash. I inquired of my wife what she used that stuff for, to which she replied, it was a mixture for chilblains. This seemed rather strange, yet how could so charming a creature inspire me with anything but confidence.Up to the present time I had remained ignorant of the fact that my wife had cultivated letters. Imagine my joy on discovering that she was the author of a romance modelled after the style of the illustrious Sir Walter Scott. I was then not only the husband of an incomparablebeauty, but of a truly gifted companion. From that instant we worked together; while I composed my poems, she covered reams of paper anddisplayed the rare gift of listening to my recitations without pausing in her task of composition. She composed her romances with a facility almost equal to my own, always choosing subjects of rare dramatic value; homicides, murders, and highway robberies, taking care in passing, to shoot poisoned shafts at the Government by advocating the cause of the Merula vulgaris. In a word, no efforts were too great for her mind, or tricks for her modesty. Never had she need to cross through a line, or lay her plans before beginning to work.One day while my wife was toiling with unusual ardour, she perspired freely, and to my horror I beheld a black patch on her back. “Bless my soul, dear!” I said “what is that? Are you plague-stricken? Are you ill?” She at first seemed frightened and speechless, but her knowledge of the world soon restored her habitual self-composure, and she replied that it was a spot of ink, a stain to which she was subject in moments of inspiration. Inwardly I was greatly troubled. Does my wife lose her whiteness? was a question which cost me many wakeful nights. The paste bottle rose like a phantom before me. Oh heavens! what doubts. Can this celestial creature, after all, only be a painting, a work of art? Is she varnished to deceive me? Had I been wooed and won by a mixture of flour and whitewash? Haunted by doubt, I took measures to lay the apparition by investing in a barometer, and watching for signs of coming rain. I planned to decoy my wife some doubtful Sunday into the country, and try the effect of an impromptu wash, but we were in the middle of July, and the weather provokingly fine. Real happiness, and long habit of writing, had much increased my sensitiveness. While at work it sometimes happened that my affections were stronger than my inspiration, and I gave way to tears, while waiting for my rhyme. My wife loved these rare occasions, and strove to soothe my masculine weakness.One evening while dashing through my writing according to Boileu’s precept, my heart opened. “Oh thou, my queen!” I said, “thou my only truly loved one, thou without whom my life is a dream, thou whose look, whose smile, fills my world with light. Life of my heart! dost thou know the height, the breadth, the depth of my love? Before thou camest to me my lot was that of an exiled orphan, now it is that of a king. In my poor breast thine image shall be enshrined till death. All! All my hopes and aspirations are centred in thee.”While thus raving, I wept over my wife, and as each tear-drop fell upon her back, she visibly changed colour. Feathers, one by one, noteven black, but red appeared—she must have coloured red to fill some otherrôle. Soon I found myselfvis-à-viswith a creature unpasted, unfloured, and nothing more than a vulgar Blackbird. How dare I publish my shame! I plucked up courage and resolved to quit the gay world, to give up my career, to flee to a desert, if that were possible, to shun the sight of every living creature.
An interval of six weeks introduced my first work to the world, which turned out, as I promised myself it should, a poem in forty-eight cantos. It was slightly marred by a few negligences, the result of prodigious fertility of brain and the inability of my pen to keep pace with my inspiration. Nevertheless, I wisely concluded that the public,accustomed as they are in modern times to all that is swift in thought and action, would shield me from reproach. The success of this, my pristine effort, was simply as unparalleled as it was thoroughly deserved. The subject of the poem was my noble self; in this respect adhering to the prevailing custom, I related my sufferings and adventures, and put the reader in possession of a thousand domestic details of the most piquant interest. The description of my mother’s nest filled no less than fourteen cantos. With the most graphic minuteness were noted the number of straws, grasses, and leaves of which it was composed, the whole being idealised by the tints and reflections of poetic genius. I displayed the inside and the outside, the bottom and the brim, the graceful curves and inclined planes and angles, gradually leading the reader up to the grand theme of the contents—the remains of flies, may-bugs, and grubs which supplied the dainty fare of our home. Thus ascending, I reserved, with true poetic art, the dramatic incidents of my life for the granddénoûement.
Europe was moved by the apparition of my book, and eagerly devoured its thrilling revelations. How could it be otherwise? I had not only laid bare the facts of my existence, but pictured the dreams which disturbed my repose for many years, even introducing an ode composed in the yet unbroken egg. Of course I did not neglect the subject which interests every one—that is, the future of humanity. This problem, which for a moment had arrested my attention, was dealt with, and dashed off in outline, giving universal satisfaction.
Every day brought its tribute of congratulatory letters and anonymous love declarations, while my door was besieged by newspaper correspondents and Western tourists seeking an interview. All personal intercourse I positively declined, until forced to make an exception to a Blackbird from Senegal and another from China, who announced themselves as relatives of my own.
“Ah, sir,” they said, nearly choking me with their embraces, “you are indeed a noble bird. How admirably you have painted in your immortal lines the profound sufferings of an unknown genius! If we are not already thoroughly misunderstood, we should become so after reading you. How deeply we sympathise with your griefs and your sublime scorn of vulgar opinion. Our own experience, sire, has made us familiar with all the troubles of which you sing. Here are two sonnets we humbly pray you to accept as a token of our worship.”
“Here is besides,” added the Chinese, “a song composed by my wife on a passage in your preface. She seems to have caught wonderfully the inspiration which it breathes.”
“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you seem to be gifted persons endowed with sentiments that are a credit to your nations, but permit me to inquire the reason of your manifest melancholy?”
“Ah, sir, see how I am formed. My plumage, it is true, is pleasant to behold; it is not without the tinge of emerald green, the glory of Ducks and dupes. For all that, my beak is too short and my claws too long, and whoever saw such a frightful tail as mine? I am nearly all tail. Is it not enough to give one the blues?”
“As for me, sir,” said John Chinaman, “my misfortune is a still more painful one. My comrade’s tail sweeps the streets, while the vulgar point the finger of scorn at me because I have only a stump.”
“Gentlemen,” I replied, “I pity you with all my heart. It is always painful to have too much or too little of anything, no matter what it is. But allow me to tell you that in our museums there are many examples of your class who have been stuffed and preserved in peace for years. My own case is infinitely worse than yours put together. I have the misfortune to be a lettered bird, a genius, and the only bird of my kind. In spite of my resolution to remain single, the return of spring-time caused me much uneasiness, and an event as unexpected as it was welcome decided my future. I received a letter from a young white Merle in London. It ranthus:—
“ ‘I have read your poem, and the devotion it inspired has constrained me to offer you my hand and fortune. God created us for each other. I am like you, for I am a white Merle.’
“My surprise and joy may be imagined. A white Merle! Is it possible? I hastened to reply to the charming note—equal in terseness and fathomless sentiment to a love message in the second column of theTimes. I besought the fair unknown to come at once to Paris, the refuge of romance-stricken young ladies. My reply had the desired effect; she came at once, or rather soon after her second letter, which informed me that she would not bother her parents with details. It was better to tell them nothing, as they might deem it necessary to send an old carrion Crow to look into my character.
“She came at last. Oh, joy! she was the loveliest Merle in the world. Was it possible that a creature so charming had lived and been reared for me? All my father’s curses, and, above all, mysufferings were welcome, since Heaven had reserved such an unexpected consolation for me. Till to-day I thought myself doomed to an eternal solitariness, but now I feel, while gazing on my lovely bride, all the nobler qualities of a father fully developed within me. Accept my claw, fair one, let us wed in the Anglo-Saxon fashion, and start for Switzerland.
“Nay,” replied my love, “our wedding must be on a truly magnificent scale, all the Blackbirds of good birth must be invited. Birds in our position ought to observe the nicest ceremony, and not wed like water-spout cats. I have brought a provision of bank-notes with me. Arrange your invitations, and spare no cost in ordering the feast. I am of French origin and love display.”
Blindly yielding to the wishes of my charmer, our wedding was of extraordinary brilliancy. Ten thousand flies were slaughtered for the feast, and we received the nuptial benediction from an old father Cormorant, archbishopin partibus, and the happy day’s festivities concluded with a splendid ball.
The more I studied the character of my wife, the greater became my love. She combined in her dainty person every imaginable grace of body and mind. Only she was given to gossip, which I attributed to the influence of the English fog, and never had a moment’s doubt that our genial climate would dissipate this little cloud.
There was some mystery hedging her round, which troubled me with grave forebodings. She used to shut herself up with her maids, under lock and key, for hours together, engaged, so she said, at her toilet. Husbands as a rule have no patience with such proceedings. More than a score of times have I knocked at my wife’s door without receiving the slightest response. One day I insisted with such violence that she was compelled to open the door, but not without favouring me with a sample of her temper. On entering, the first thing that met my gaze was a huge bottle of a sort of paste made up of flour and whitewash. I inquired of my wife what she used that stuff for, to which she replied, it was a mixture for chilblains. This seemed rather strange, yet how could so charming a creature inspire me with anything but confidence.
Up to the present time I had remained ignorant of the fact that my wife had cultivated letters. Imagine my joy on discovering that she was the author of a romance modelled after the style of the illustrious Sir Walter Scott. I was then not only the husband of an incomparablebeauty, but of a truly gifted companion. From that instant we worked together; while I composed my poems, she covered reams of paper anddisplayed the rare gift of listening to my recitations without pausing in her task of composition. She composed her romances with a facility almost equal to my own, always choosing subjects of rare dramatic value; homicides, murders, and highway robberies, taking care in passing, to shoot poisoned shafts at the Government by advocating the cause of the Merula vulgaris. In a word, no efforts were too great for her mind, or tricks for her modesty. Never had she need to cross through a line, or lay her plans before beginning to work.
One day while my wife was toiling with unusual ardour, she perspired freely, and to my horror I beheld a black patch on her back. “Bless my soul, dear!” I said “what is that? Are you plague-stricken? Are you ill?” She at first seemed frightened and speechless, but her knowledge of the world soon restored her habitual self-composure, and she replied that it was a spot of ink, a stain to which she was subject in moments of inspiration. Inwardly I was greatly troubled. Does my wife lose her whiteness? was a question which cost me many wakeful nights. The paste bottle rose like a phantom before me. Oh heavens! what doubts. Can this celestial creature, after all, only be a painting, a work of art? Is she varnished to deceive me? Had I been wooed and won by a mixture of flour and whitewash? Haunted by doubt, I took measures to lay the apparition by investing in a barometer, and watching for signs of coming rain. I planned to decoy my wife some doubtful Sunday into the country, and try the effect of an impromptu wash, but we were in the middle of July, and the weather provokingly fine. Real happiness, and long habit of writing, had much increased my sensitiveness. While at work it sometimes happened that my affections were stronger than my inspiration, and I gave way to tears, while waiting for my rhyme. My wife loved these rare occasions, and strove to soothe my masculine weakness.
One evening while dashing through my writing according to Boileu’s precept, my heart opened. “Oh thou, my queen!” I said, “thou my only truly loved one, thou without whom my life is a dream, thou whose look, whose smile, fills my world with light. Life of my heart! dost thou know the height, the breadth, the depth of my love? Before thou camest to me my lot was that of an exiled orphan, now it is that of a king. In my poor breast thine image shall be enshrined till death. All! All my hopes and aspirations are centred in thee.”
While thus raving, I wept over my wife, and as each tear-drop fell upon her back, she visibly changed colour. Feathers, one by one, noteven black, but red appeared—she must have coloured red to fill some otherrôle. Soon I found myselfvis-à-viswith a creature unpasted, unfloured, and nothing more than a vulgar Blackbird. How dare I publish my shame! I plucked up courage and resolved to quit the gay world, to give up my career, to flee to a desert, if that were possible, to shun the sight of every living creature.