"Hot midsummer's petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy tone,Tells of countless sunny hours,Long days and solid banks of flowers,Of gulfs of sweetness without boundIn Indian wilderness found,Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure."
"Hot midsummer's petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy tone,Tells of countless sunny hours,Long days and solid banks of flowers,Of gulfs of sweetness without boundIn Indian wilderness found,Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure."
It was a dreary day in Padua.The Countess Laura, for a single yearFernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,Like an uprooted lily on the snow,The withered outcast of a festival,Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,That struck her almost on her wedding-day,And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,Till, in her chance, it seemed that with a yearFull half a century was overpast.In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art,And feigned a knowledge of her malady;In vain had all the doctors, far and near,Gathered around the mystery of her bed,Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,And physic's jargon, in a fruitless questFor causes equal to the dread result.The Countess only smiled, when they were gone,Hugged her fair body with her little hands,And turned upon her pillows wearily,As if she fain would sleep, no common sleep,But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was,The rack could not have wrung her secret outThe Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth,Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,"O blessed soul! with nothing to confess,Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes—So humble is she—for our human sins!"Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed,Day after day,—as might a shipwrecked barkThat rocks upon one billow, and can makeNo onward motion towards her port of hope.At length, one morn, when those around her said,"Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a lightBeams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"—One morn in spring, when every flower of earthWas opening to the sun, and breathing upIts votive incense, her impatient soulOpened itself, and so exhaled to heaven.When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace;Then turned with anger on the messenger;Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heartBefore the menial: tears, ah, me! such tearsAs Love sheds only, and Love only once.Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder dieAnd leave behind no shadow? not a traceOf all the glory that environed her,That mellow nimbus circling round my star?"So, with his sorrow glooming in his face,He paced along his gallery of Art,And strode amongst the painters, where they stood,With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,Studying the Masters by the dawning lightOf his transcendent genius. Through the groupsOf gayly vestured artists moved the Count,—As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue,Packed with the secret of a coming storm,Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,Deadening their splendor. In a moment, stillWas Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd;And a great shadow overran them all,As their white faces and their anxious eyesPursued Fernando in his moody walk.He paused, as one who balances a doubt,Weighing two courses, then burst out with this:"Ye all have seen the tidings in my face;Or has the dial ceased to registerThe workings of my heart? Then hear the bell,That almost cracks the frame in utterance:The Countess—she is dead!"—"Dead!" Carlo groaned.And if a bolt from middle heaven had struckHis splendid features full upon the brow,He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched."Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame,And clung around it, buffeting the airWith one wild arm, as though a drowning manHung to a spar and fought against the waves.—The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve,Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes.Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-nightIn state within the chapel? Shall it beThat earth must lose her wholly? that no hintOf her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lipsThat talked in silence, and the eager soulThat ever seemed outbreaking through her clay,And scattering glory round it,—shall all theseBe dull corruption's heritage, and we,Poor beggars, have no legacy to showThe love she bore us? That were shame to love,And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalkedForth from his easel, stiffly as a thingMoved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips,And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks,And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes,Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back,As if they let a spectre through. Then he,Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voiceSounding remote and hollow, made reply:"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'Tis my fate,—Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count,Astray in woe, but understood assent,Not the strange words that bore it; and he flungHis arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank:Perhaps 'twas at the honor. Then the Count,A little reddening at his public state,—Unseemly to his near and recent loss,—Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyesThat did him reverence as he rustled by.Night fell on Padua. In the chapel layThe Countess Laura at the altar's foot.Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows;A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work,Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers,Draped her still body almost to the chin;And over all a thousand candles flamedAgainst the winking jewels, or streamed downThe marble aisle, and flashed along the guardOf men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns,Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.When Carlo entered, his unsteady feetScarce bore him to the altar, and his headDrooped down so low that all his shining curlsPoured on his breast, and veiled his countenance.Upon his easel a half-finished work,The secret labor of his studio,Said from the canvas, so that none might err,"I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled,And gazed upon the picture,—as if thus,Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven.Then he arose; and as a swimmer comesForth from the waves, he shook his locks aside,Emerging from his dream, and standing firmUpon a purpose with his sovereign will.He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"Confidingly and softly to the corpse;And as the veriest drudge who plies his artAgainst his fancy, he addressed himselfWith stolid resolution to his task.Turning his vision on his memory,And shutting out the present, till the dead,The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard,And all the meaning of that solemn sceneBecame as nothing, and creative ArtResolved the whole to chaos, and reformedThe elements according to her law,—So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and handWere Heaven's unconscious instruments, and workedThe settled purpose of Omnipotence.And it was wondrous how the red, the white,The ochre, and the umber, and the blue,From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque,Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines;How just beneath the lucid skin the bloodGlimmered with warmth, the scarlet lips apartBloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;How the light glittered through and underneathThe golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyesBecame intelligent with conscious thought,And somewhat troubled underneath the archOf eyebrows but a little too intenseFor perfect beauty; how the pose and poiseOf the lithe figure on its tiny footSuggested life just ceased from motion; soThat any one might cry, in marvelling joy,"That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soulTo win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!"The artist paused. The ratifying "Good"Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touchTo give or soften. "It is done," he cried,—"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earthCan taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"The lofty flame which bore him up so longDied in the ashes of humanity;And the mere man rocked to and fro againUpon the centre of his wavering heart.He put aside his palette, as if thusHe stepped from sacred vestments, and assumedA mortal function in the common world."Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approachedThe noble body. "O lily of the world!So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thouTo those who came thus near thee—for I stoodWithout the pale of thy half-royal rank—When thou wast budding, and the streams of lifeMade eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dewsOn its transplanted darling? Hear me now!I say this but in justice, not in pride,Not to insult thy high nobility,But that the poise of things in God's own sightMay be adjusted, and hereafter IMay urge a claim that all the powers of heavenShall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.Laura, you loved me! Look not so severe,With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips!You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,—Let it consume you in the wearing strifeIt fought with duty in your ravaged heart.I knew it ever since that summer-dayI painted Lila, the pale beggar's child,At rest beside the fountain; when I felt—Oh, heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breathBlow through my hair, as with your eager soul—Forgetting soul and body go as one—You leaned across my easel till our cheeks—Ah, me! 'twas not your purpose—touched, and clung!Well, grant 'twas genius; and is genius nought?I ween it wears as proud a diadem—Here, in this very world—as that you wear.A king has held my palette, a grand-dukeHas picked my brush up, and a pope has beggedThe favor of my presence in his Rome.I did not go; I put my fortune by.I need not ask you why: you knew too well.It was but natural, it was no way strange,That I should love you. Everything that saw,Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet!And I amongst them. Martyr, holy saint,—I see the halo curving round your head,—I loved you once; but now I worship you,For the great deed that held my love aloof,And killed you in the action! I absolveYour soul from any taint. For from the dayOf that encounter by the fountain-sideUntil this moment, never turned on meThose tender eyes, unless they did a wrongTo Nature by the cold, defiant glareWith which they chilled me. Never heard I wordOf softness spoken by those gentle lips;Never received a bounty from that handWhich gave to all the world. I know the cause.You did your duty,—not for honor's sake,Nor to save sin or suffering or remorse,Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,But for the sake of that pure, loyal loveYour husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God,I bow before the lustre of your throne!I kiss the edges of your garment-hem,And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,—If I had wronged you, you would answer meOut of the dusty porches of the tomb,—Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have ISpoken the very truth?"—"The very truth!"A voice replied; and at his side he sawA form, half shadow and half substance, stand,Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earthIt had no footing, more than some dense mistThat wavers o'er the surface of the groundIt scarcely touches. With a reverent look,The shadow's waste and wretched face was bentAbove the picture,—as if greater aweSubdued its awful being, and appalled,With memories of terrible delightAnd fearful wonder, its devouring gaze."You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape."And might not this, this second Eve, consoleThe emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlastThe fairest creature fashioned in the flesh?Before that figure Time, and Death himself,Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you askMore than God's power, from nothing to create?"The artist gazed upon the boding form,And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,That were an idle question. What to meIs my creative power, bereft of love?Or what to God would be that selfsame power,If so bereaved?"—"And yet the love thus mournedYou calmly forfeited. For had you saidTo living Laura—in her burning ears—One half that you professed to Laura dead,She would have been your own. These contrariesSort not with my intelligence. But say,Were Laura living, would the same stale playOf raging passion, tearing out its heartUpon the rock of duty, be performed?""The same, O phantom, while the heart I bearTrembled, but turned not its magnetic faithFrom God's fixed centre." "If I wake for youThis Laura,—give her all the bloom and glowOf that midsummer day you hold so dear,—The smile, the motion, the impulsive heart,The love of genius,—yea, the very love,The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love,She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receiveThat gift, in all its glory, at my hands?"A cruel smile arched the tempter's scornful lips,And glittered in the caverns of his eyes,Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair faceWith nameless torture. But he cried aloud,Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smokeOf very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand,And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the headHe bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see"——"Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjureThese vile abominations! Shall she bearLife's burden twice, and life's temptations twice,While God is justice?" "Who has made you judgeOf what you call God's good, and what you thinkGod's evil? One to Him, the Source of both,The God of good and of permitted ill.Have you no dream of days that might have been,Had you and Laura filled another fate?Some cottage on the sloping Apennines,Roses and lilies, and the rest all love?I tell you that this tranquil dream may beFilled to repletion. Speak, and in the shadeOf my dark pinions I shall bear you hence,And land you where the mountain goat himselfStruggles for footing." He outspread his wings,And all the chapel darkened, as if hellHad swallowed up the tapers; and the airGrew thick, and, like a current sensible,Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash,As of the waters of a nether sea.Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure,Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice:"I dare not bring her spirit to that shame!Know my full meaning,—I that neither fearYour mystic person nor your dreadful power.Nor shall I now invoke God's potent nameFor my deliverance from your toils. I standUpon the founded structure of His law,Established from the first, and thence defyYour arts, reposing all my trust in that!"The darkness eddied off; and Carlo sawThe figure gathering, as from outer space,Brightness on brightness; and his former shapeFell from him, like the ashes that fall off,And show a core of mellow fire within.Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood,That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fellUpon the floor, enringing him with flame;And o'er the tresses of his beaming headArose a stream of many-colored light,Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stoodSteadfast, for all the splendor, reaching upThe outstretched palms of his untainted soulTowards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked,With reverential wonder quivering throughHis sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what art thou?""I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death.""Then take my hand, if so God orders it;For Laura waits me." "But bethink thee, man,What the world loses in the loss of thee!What wondrous Art will suffer with eclipse!What unwon glories are in store for thee!What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks,Would shine upon the letters of thy nameGraven in marble, or the brazen heightOf columns wise with memories of thee!""Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs,I could but paint those features o'er and o'er;Lo! that is done." A pitying smile o'erranThe seraph's features, as he looked to heaven,With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.The mandate came. He touched with downy wingThe sufferer lightly on his aching heart;And gently, as the sky-lark settles downUpon the clustered treasures of her nest,So Carlo softly slid along the propOf his tall easel, nestling at the footAs if he slumbered; and the morning brokeIn silver whiteness over Padua.
It was a dreary day in Padua.The Countess Laura, for a single yearFernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,Like an uprooted lily on the snow,The withered outcast of a festival,Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,That struck her almost on her wedding-day,And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,Till, in her chance, it seemed that with a yearFull half a century was overpast.In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art,And feigned a knowledge of her malady;In vain had all the doctors, far and near,Gathered around the mystery of her bed,Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,And physic's jargon, in a fruitless questFor causes equal to the dread result.The Countess only smiled, when they were gone,Hugged her fair body with her little hands,And turned upon her pillows wearily,As if she fain would sleep, no common sleep,But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was,The rack could not have wrung her secret outThe Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth,Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,"O blessed soul! with nothing to confess,Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes—So humble is she—for our human sins!"Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed,Day after day,—as might a shipwrecked barkThat rocks upon one billow, and can makeNo onward motion towards her port of hope.At length, one morn, when those around her said,"Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a lightBeams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"—One morn in spring, when every flower of earthWas opening to the sun, and breathing upIts votive incense, her impatient soulOpened itself, and so exhaled to heaven.When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace;Then turned with anger on the messenger;Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heartBefore the menial: tears, ah, me! such tearsAs Love sheds only, and Love only once.Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder dieAnd leave behind no shadow? not a traceOf all the glory that environed her,That mellow nimbus circling round my star?"So, with his sorrow glooming in his face,He paced along his gallery of Art,And strode amongst the painters, where they stood,With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,Studying the Masters by the dawning lightOf his transcendent genius. Through the groupsOf gayly vestured artists moved the Count,—As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue,Packed with the secret of a coming storm,Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,Deadening their splendor. In a moment, stillWas Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd;And a great shadow overran them all,As their white faces and their anxious eyesPursued Fernando in his moody walk.He paused, as one who balances a doubt,Weighing two courses, then burst out with this:"Ye all have seen the tidings in my face;Or has the dial ceased to registerThe workings of my heart? Then hear the bell,That almost cracks the frame in utterance:The Countess—she is dead!"—"Dead!" Carlo groaned.And if a bolt from middle heaven had struckHis splendid features full upon the brow,He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched."Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame,And clung around it, buffeting the airWith one wild arm, as though a drowning manHung to a spar and fought against the waves.—The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve,Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes.Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-nightIn state within the chapel? Shall it beThat earth must lose her wholly? that no hintOf her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lipsThat talked in silence, and the eager soulThat ever seemed outbreaking through her clay,And scattering glory round it,—shall all theseBe dull corruption's heritage, and we,Poor beggars, have no legacy to showThe love she bore us? That were shame to love,And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalkedForth from his easel, stiffly as a thingMoved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips,And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks,And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes,Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back,As if they let a spectre through. Then he,Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voiceSounding remote and hollow, made reply:"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'Tis my fate,—Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count,Astray in woe, but understood assent,Not the strange words that bore it; and he flungHis arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank:Perhaps 'twas at the honor. Then the Count,A little reddening at his public state,—Unseemly to his near and recent loss,—Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyesThat did him reverence as he rustled by.
Night fell on Padua. In the chapel layThe Countess Laura at the altar's foot.Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows;A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work,Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers,Draped her still body almost to the chin;And over all a thousand candles flamedAgainst the winking jewels, or streamed downThe marble aisle, and flashed along the guardOf men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns,Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.When Carlo entered, his unsteady feetScarce bore him to the altar, and his headDrooped down so low that all his shining curlsPoured on his breast, and veiled his countenance.Upon his easel a half-finished work,The secret labor of his studio,Said from the canvas, so that none might err,"I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled,And gazed upon the picture,—as if thus,Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven.Then he arose; and as a swimmer comesForth from the waves, he shook his locks aside,Emerging from his dream, and standing firmUpon a purpose with his sovereign will.He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"Confidingly and softly to the corpse;And as the veriest drudge who plies his artAgainst his fancy, he addressed himselfWith stolid resolution to his task.Turning his vision on his memory,And shutting out the present, till the dead,The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard,And all the meaning of that solemn sceneBecame as nothing, and creative ArtResolved the whole to chaos, and reformedThe elements according to her law,—So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and handWere Heaven's unconscious instruments, and workedThe settled purpose of Omnipotence.And it was wondrous how the red, the white,The ochre, and the umber, and the blue,From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque,Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines;How just beneath the lucid skin the bloodGlimmered with warmth, the scarlet lips apartBloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;How the light glittered through and underneathThe golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyesBecame intelligent with conscious thought,And somewhat troubled underneath the archOf eyebrows but a little too intenseFor perfect beauty; how the pose and poiseOf the lithe figure on its tiny footSuggested life just ceased from motion; soThat any one might cry, in marvelling joy,"That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soulTo win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!"The artist paused. The ratifying "Good"Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touchTo give or soften. "It is done," he cried,—"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earthCan taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"The lofty flame which bore him up so longDied in the ashes of humanity;And the mere man rocked to and fro againUpon the centre of his wavering heart.He put aside his palette, as if thusHe stepped from sacred vestments, and assumedA mortal function in the common world."Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approachedThe noble body. "O lily of the world!So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thouTo those who came thus near thee—for I stoodWithout the pale of thy half-royal rank—When thou wast budding, and the streams of lifeMade eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dewsOn its transplanted darling? Hear me now!I say this but in justice, not in pride,Not to insult thy high nobility,But that the poise of things in God's own sightMay be adjusted, and hereafter IMay urge a claim that all the powers of heavenShall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.Laura, you loved me! Look not so severe,With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips!You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,—Let it consume you in the wearing strifeIt fought with duty in your ravaged heart.I knew it ever since that summer-dayI painted Lila, the pale beggar's child,At rest beside the fountain; when I felt—Oh, heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breathBlow through my hair, as with your eager soul—Forgetting soul and body go as one—You leaned across my easel till our cheeks—Ah, me! 'twas not your purpose—touched, and clung!Well, grant 'twas genius; and is genius nought?I ween it wears as proud a diadem—Here, in this very world—as that you wear.A king has held my palette, a grand-dukeHas picked my brush up, and a pope has beggedThe favor of my presence in his Rome.I did not go; I put my fortune by.I need not ask you why: you knew too well.It was but natural, it was no way strange,That I should love you. Everything that saw,Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet!And I amongst them. Martyr, holy saint,—I see the halo curving round your head,—I loved you once; but now I worship you,For the great deed that held my love aloof,And killed you in the action! I absolveYour soul from any taint. For from the dayOf that encounter by the fountain-sideUntil this moment, never turned on meThose tender eyes, unless they did a wrongTo Nature by the cold, defiant glareWith which they chilled me. Never heard I wordOf softness spoken by those gentle lips;Never received a bounty from that handWhich gave to all the world. I know the cause.You did your duty,—not for honor's sake,Nor to save sin or suffering or remorse,Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,But for the sake of that pure, loyal loveYour husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God,I bow before the lustre of your throne!I kiss the edges of your garment-hem,And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,—If I had wronged you, you would answer meOut of the dusty porches of the tomb,—Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have ISpoken the very truth?"—"The very truth!"A voice replied; and at his side he sawA form, half shadow and half substance, stand,Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earthIt had no footing, more than some dense mistThat wavers o'er the surface of the groundIt scarcely touches. With a reverent look,The shadow's waste and wretched face was bentAbove the picture,—as if greater aweSubdued its awful being, and appalled,With memories of terrible delightAnd fearful wonder, its devouring gaze."You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape."And might not this, this second Eve, consoleThe emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlastThe fairest creature fashioned in the flesh?Before that figure Time, and Death himself,Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you askMore than God's power, from nothing to create?"The artist gazed upon the boding form,And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,That were an idle question. What to meIs my creative power, bereft of love?Or what to God would be that selfsame power,If so bereaved?"—"And yet the love thus mournedYou calmly forfeited. For had you saidTo living Laura—in her burning ears—One half that you professed to Laura dead,She would have been your own. These contrariesSort not with my intelligence. But say,Were Laura living, would the same stale playOf raging passion, tearing out its heartUpon the rock of duty, be performed?""The same, O phantom, while the heart I bearTrembled, but turned not its magnetic faithFrom God's fixed centre." "If I wake for youThis Laura,—give her all the bloom and glowOf that midsummer day you hold so dear,—The smile, the motion, the impulsive heart,The love of genius,—yea, the very love,The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love,She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receiveThat gift, in all its glory, at my hands?"A cruel smile arched the tempter's scornful lips,And glittered in the caverns of his eyes,Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair faceWith nameless torture. But he cried aloud,Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smokeOf very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand,And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the headHe bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see"——"Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjureThese vile abominations! Shall she bearLife's burden twice, and life's temptations twice,While God is justice?" "Who has made you judgeOf what you call God's good, and what you thinkGod's evil? One to Him, the Source of both,The God of good and of permitted ill.Have you no dream of days that might have been,Had you and Laura filled another fate?Some cottage on the sloping Apennines,Roses and lilies, and the rest all love?I tell you that this tranquil dream may beFilled to repletion. Speak, and in the shadeOf my dark pinions I shall bear you hence,And land you where the mountain goat himselfStruggles for footing." He outspread his wings,And all the chapel darkened, as if hellHad swallowed up the tapers; and the airGrew thick, and, like a current sensible,Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash,As of the waters of a nether sea.Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure,Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice:"I dare not bring her spirit to that shame!Know my full meaning,—I that neither fearYour mystic person nor your dreadful power.Nor shall I now invoke God's potent nameFor my deliverance from your toils. I standUpon the founded structure of His law,Established from the first, and thence defyYour arts, reposing all my trust in that!"The darkness eddied off; and Carlo sawThe figure gathering, as from outer space,Brightness on brightness; and his former shapeFell from him, like the ashes that fall off,And show a core of mellow fire within.Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood,That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fellUpon the floor, enringing him with flame;And o'er the tresses of his beaming headArose a stream of many-colored light,Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stoodSteadfast, for all the splendor, reaching upThe outstretched palms of his untainted soulTowards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked,With reverential wonder quivering throughHis sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what art thou?""I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death.""Then take my hand, if so God orders it;For Laura waits me." "But bethink thee, man,What the world loses in the loss of thee!What wondrous Art will suffer with eclipse!What unwon glories are in store for thee!What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks,Would shine upon the letters of thy nameGraven in marble, or the brazen heightOf columns wise with memories of thee!""Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs,I could but paint those features o'er and o'er;Lo! that is done." A pitying smile o'erranThe seraph's features, as he looked to heaven,With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.The mandate came. He touched with downy wingThe sufferer lightly on his aching heart;And gently, as the sky-lark settles downUpon the clustered treasures of her nest,So Carlo softly slid along the propOf his tall easel, nestling at the footAs if he slumbered; and the morning brokeIn silver whiteness over Padua.
Was it the fault of poor Barbara Dinwiddie, that, when Sumter fell, and the gallant Anderson saw with anguish the old flag pulled down, she was the most desperate little Rebel in all Dixie? By no means! At school, at home, at church, she had been taught that Slavery was the divinest of all divine institutions; that all those outside barbarians, known as Yankees, who questioned its justice, its policy, its eternal fitness, were worse than infidels; that those favored individuals whose felicity it had been to be born and bred under the patriarchal benignity were the master race of this continent; and that one Southern man could, with perfect ease to himself, and without any risk whatever of any unpleasant consequences, whip and puthors de combatany five of the "homeless and traditionless race" that could be brought against him.
Had not Mr. Jefferson Davis so styled them? and had he not said that he would rather herd with hyenas than with Yankees? Had not Mr. Yancey declared that all the Yankees were cowards? Had not Mr. Walker, Secretary of State of the new Confederacy, predicted that the "stars and bars" would wave over Faneuil Hall in a twelvemonth? Had not the Richmond papers assured the high-born sons of the South, who of course included the whole white population, that it was an utter impossibility for the chivalry to exist under the same government with the mean, intolerable mudsills of the North? The wonder was, that the aforesaid chivalry could live under the same sun, breathe the same atmosphere, with such miscreants.
Was it, then, surprising that poor little Barbara, receiving in her narrow sphere no other political influences than these, should find herself at the age of seventeen the most eager of feminine sympathizers with Secession? She burned to emulate Mrs. Greenhow, Belle Boyd, and other enterprising Amazons who early in the war distinguished themselves as spies or carriers for the Rebels. She almost blamed herself as recreant, because she read with a shudder the account of that Southern damsel who bade her lover bring back, as the most precious gift he could lay at her feet, a Yankee scalp. She tried to persuade herself that those little mementos, carved from Yankee bones, which were so fashionable at one time among theéliteof the "Secesh" aristocracy, would not shock her own sensitive heart.
Barbara's mother had done much to encourage these sentiments in her daughter. A match between Barbara and Colonel Pegram of South Carolina was one of that mother's pet projects. Mrs. Dinwiddie was of "one of the first families of Virginia"; in which she was not singular. She had been brought up to regard the Old Dominion as the lawful dictatress of the legislation of the American continent; as sovereign, not only over her own borders, but over the Congress and especially the Treasury of the United States. The tobacco-lands of her father having given out through that sagacious system of culture which Slavery applies, and negro-raising for the supply of the slave-market farther south being in a temporary condition of paralysis, the lady had so far descended from her pedestal of ancestral pride as to encourage the addresses of Mr. Daniel Dinwiddie, a Baltimore merchant, and himself "of excellent family," though he had tarnished his hereditary honors by condescending to engage in trade. Two children were the fruits of the alliance which ensued,—our Barbara, and Mr. Culpepper Dinwiddie, who became eventually a major in the Rebel army.
What adies iræit was for poor Mrs. Dinwiddie, that day that "Beast Butler" rode at a slow walk through the streets of Baltimore, smoking his cigar, and swaying to and fro carelessly onhis horse! The poor lady was ready to cuff Mr. Dinwiddie's ears, because that worthy citizen sat down to his mutton and claret that day at dinner as coolly as if nothing had happened. Barbara wept, and sang "My Maryland" and the "Bonnie Blue Flag" till she made herself hoarse. She then glanced at a photograph of Colonel Pegram, and thought how well he looked the conquering hero.
Sunday came. It was a blessed satisfaction that at the Church of St. Fortunatus all the communicants were friends of the Rebellion. The Reverend Bogus de Bogus was himself an extremist in his advocacy of Slavery and the Slave Confederacy. But what was the consternation of the whole assembly, at hearing him, on that eventful Sabbath, pray for the President and other authorities of the United States! Had he been tampered with by the Beast? What was the world coming to? How intolerable that the solar system should move on as regularly and indifferently as if nothing had happened!
The fomenters of Rebellion in the Monument City continued hopeful, notwithstanding the defection of the Reverend Bogus de Bogus. Mrs. Dinwiddie almost worried Dinwiddie's life out, teasing him for money with which to buy quinine and percussion-caps to smuggle into Rebeldom. Barbara worked till her taper little forefinger looked like a nutmeg-grater, making shirts and drawers for the "gallant Palmetto Tenth," in which certain sprigs of aristocracy from Baltimore had enlisted. The regiment was commanded by that splendid fellow, Charlie Pegram.
What was Barbara's despair, on learning that all the products of her labors had been intercepted by the "Beast," and were safely stored at "these headquarters"! Mrs. Dinwiddie went into hysterics at the news, but was suddenly restored, on hearing Dinwiddie enter, and inquire in the most cold-blooded manner, "Why isn't dinner ready?" Falling upon that monster in human shape, she crushed him so far into silence by her indignation, that he was glad to make a meal of a few crackers and a glass of ale, and then retire for his afternoon cigar to the repose of his counting-room.
The war (the civil, not the domestic, we mean) went on. Battle succeeded battle, and skirmish skirmish, with alternating successes, when at last came the Emancipation Proclamation, not in the earthquake, nor in the whirlwind, but in the still small voice. "Well, what of it? 'Tis a mere paper bomb!" said Belshazzar at Richmond, looking out on Libby and Belle Isle. Mrs. Dinwiddie read the "Richmond Enquirer," and thought, for the thousandth time, how intolerable life would be, if ever again Yankees were to be suffered to live within a thousand miles of a genuine descendant of the Cavaliers. "Spaniels must be whipped into subservience," said Mr. Jefferson Davis, alluding to the abhorred race north of Mason and Dixon's line.
"Yes, they must be whipped!" echoed Mrs. Dinwiddie; and soon afterwards came news of the capture of New Orleans, of Vicksburg, of Port Hudson, and at last of Atlanta. "These horrid Yankees!" she shrieked. "Why don't we do something, Dinwiddie? If one Southerner can whip five Yankees, why, in the name of common sense, don't we do something? Speak, you stupid, provoking man!"
"Yes, yes, what was it you asked?" meekly interrogated Dinwiddie, who was calculating how much he had made in the recent rise of United States five-twenties.
"What was it? Oh, go to your tobacco-casks, your coupons, and your cotton, you soulless, huckstering old man! You can look on and see Abolitionism getting rampant in this once proud city, and not lift a voice or a finger to save us from ruin! You can see Maryland drifting into the horrible abyss of Yankeeism and Anti-slavery, and keep on doing business and minding the paltry affairs of your counting-room, as if all that gives grace and dignity to this wretched State were not on the verge of destruction! If you'd hadthe spirit of a hare, you'd have been a brigadier-general in the Confederate army by this time."
Dinwiddie was not a man of words. He had a wholesome horror of strong-minded women; and to that class he discovered, too late for his peace, that his wife belonged. So he simply replied, slightly stuttering, as was his wont, except when excited,—
"If I had joined the army, Madam, I should have—have—ve"——
"I should have what?"
"I should have been deprived of your—ahem—agreeable society; and then you might have been a wid—wid—widow."
"I should have been proud. Sir, to have been your widow under such circumstances."
"Thank you, Mrs. Dinwiddie; but being a mod—mod—modest man myself, I'd rather not make my wife proud."
"There's no danger of your ever doing that, Sir," quoth Madam; "but I thank Heaven we're not wholly disgraced. We have one representative of our family in the Confederate army. My son Culpepper may live to make amends for his sire's degeneracy."
Dinwiddie was beginning to get roused.
"My degeneracy, Madam? Confound it, Madam, where would you and yours have been, if I hadn't saved you all from pau—pau—pauperism, Madam?"
It was rare that Dinwiddie made so long a speech, and the lady was astounded.
"Sir," said she, "do you know it is a Culpepper of whom you speak?"
"Devilish well I know it," said the excited Daniel; "and what you all had but your pride I never could find out; and what were you proud of? Of a dozen or two old family nig—nig—niggers, that were only a bill of expense to that pompous old cove, your father."
Mrs. Dinwiddie began to grow livid with exasperation. Her husband had touched her on a tender point.
"Go on, Sir," said she; "I see your drift. I have suspected for some time that you were going to play the renegade; to desert your order; to prove false to the South; to cooperate with miscreant Yankees in overturning our sacred institutions."
"Confound your sacred institutions, Madam! Slavery is played out."
"Played out, you monstrous blasphemer? An institution for which Scripture vouches; an institution which the Reverend Dr. Palmer says comes right down to us from heaven! Played out? Monster! I thank the Lord my two children have not been corrupted by these detestable Yankee notions that are upsetting all our old landmarks in this once noble city of Baltimore."
"Noble? Ah, yes,—noble, I suppose, when it allowed its ruffians to shoot down a band of Northern soldiers who were marching to the support of Government!"
"You yourself said at the time, Mr. Dinwiddie, that it served them right."
Dinwiddie winced, for this was a blow square on his forehead between his two eyes. He paused, and then, without knowing it, translated the words of a Latin moralist, and replied,—
"Times change, and we change with them."
"You will find, Sir, that a Culpepper doesn't change," said Madam; and, with a gesture of queenly scorn, she swept with expansive crinoline out of the room.
"So the ice is broken at last," muttered Dinwiddie. "I wouldn't have believed I could have faced her so well. After all, I'm not sure that the military is not my true sphere."
His soliloquy was interrupted by the ring of muskets on the sidewalk in front, of his house, and he jumped with a nervous horror. Looking from the window, he saw a file of soldiers, and an officer in the United States uniform, with one arm in a sling, and the hand of the other holding a drawn sword. He was a pale, but handsome youth, and looked up as if to read the name on the door. Then, followed by a sergeant, he ascended the steps and rang the bell.
"What the Deuse is all this for. I wonder?"exclaimed Dinwiddie; and in his curiosity he opened the outside door, anticipating the negro footman, Nero, who exchanged a glance of intelligence with the military man.
"I am Captain Penrose, Sir," said the officer; "this is Sergeant MacFuse; you, I believe, bear the name on the door-plate before us."
Dinwiddie bowed an affirmative.
"I have orders, Sir," resumed the officer, "to search your house; and I will thank you to give me the opportunity with as little delay as possible, and without communicating with any member of your family."
"But, Captain, does anybody doubt my loyalty?"
"No one, Sir, that I am aware of," replied the Captain, with a suavity that reassured and captivated Dinwiddie. "We haven't the slightest doubt, Sir, of your thoroughly loyal and honorable conduct and intentions; but, Sir, there is, nevertheless, a Rebel mail in your house at this moment. I'll thank you to conduct us quietly to the little bathing-room communicating with your wife's apartment on the second story."
Dinwiddie saw through it all. He said not a word, but led the way up stairs.
"We shall have to pass through Madam's room to get at the place," he remarked; "for the door is locked on the inside."
"Yes, but the key is out, and I have a duplicate," replied the officer. "We will enter by the door that opens on this passage-way. I will just give a gentle knock, to learn whether any one is in the bathing-room."
He knocked, and there was no reply.
"I think we may venture in," he said.
He unlocked the door, and they entered,—Captain Penrose, Sergeant MacFuse, Dinwiddie, and Nero. The Captain pointed to a chest of drawers let into the wall, and said,—
"Now, Sir, if you will open that lowest drawer, I think you will find what I am in search of."
Dinwiddie opened the drawer, and a strong smell of tobacco, in which some furs were packed, made him sneeze; but the Captain proved to be correct in his surmise. Nero displayed his ivory in a broad grin, and Dinwiddie lifted a small, but well-stuffed leather mail-bag.
At that moment the door leading into Mrs. Dinwiddie's apartment opened, and that lady, followed by Barbara, made her appearance. Nero's grin was at once transformed into a look of intense solemnity, and the whites of his eyes were lifted in sympathetic amazement.
Madam's first effort was to snatch the mail-bag from her husband; but he handed it to Sergeant MacFuse, who, receiving it, shouldered his musket with military formality.
"But this is an outrage, Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinwiddie, finding words at length for her rage.
"Madam," said Captain Penrose, "a carriage ought to be by this time at the door. Have the goodness, you and your daughter, to make the necessary preparations and accompany me and Sergeant MacFuse to the office of the Provost Marshal."
"I shall do no such thing!" said Madam, with set teeth, trembling with exasperation.
"You will relieve me, I am sure, Madam," said the Captain, "of anything so painful as the exercise of force."
"Force!" cried Madam; "yes, that would be all in the line of you mean and dastardly Yankees, to use force to unprotected women!"
"Oh, mother!" said Barbara, shocked, in spite of her Secession sympathies, at the maternal rudeness, and somewhat touched withal by the pale face and the slung arm of the handsome young officer; "I am sure the gentleman has"—
"Gentleman! Ha, ha, ha! You call him a gentleman, do you?" gasped Mrs. Dinwiddie, as, quite beside herself with passion, she sank into a chair.
"Yes, mother," said Barbara, her heart moved by a thrill as natural as that which stirs the leaves of the embryo bud in May; "yes, mother, I call him a gentleman; and I hope you will do nothing to prevent his calling you a lady."
Captain Penrose looked with a sudden interest on the maiden. Strange that he hadn't noticed it before, but truly she was very, very pretty! Light, not too light, hair; blue eyes; a charming figure; a face radiant with sentiment and with intelligence; verily, in all Baltimore, so justly famed for beautiful women, he had not seen her peer! Barbara dropped her eyes. Decidedly the young officer's admiration was too emphatically expressed in his glance.
Mrs. Dinwiddie began to grow hysterical.
"Madam," said Captain Penrose, "I fear your strength will not be equal to the task it is my painful duty to put you to; and I will venture to break through my instructions so far as to say, that, if you will give me your promise—you and your daughter—to remain at home till you receive permission through me to quit the house, I will waive all further action at present."
"There, mother," quoth Barbara, "what could be more reasonable,—more gentlemanly? Say you consent to his terms."
Mrs. Dinwiddie motioned a negative with her handkerchief, and stamped her feet, as if no power on earth should extort from her the slightest concession.
"There, Sir, she consents, she consents, you see," said Barbara.
"Um—um—um!" shrieked Mrs. Dinwiddie, shaking her head, and stamping her feet with renewed vigor.
"I see," said Captain Penrose; "and I need not ask if you, Miss Dinwiddie, also consent."
"I do, Sir; and I thank you for your consideration," said Barbara.
"I don't—don't—don't!" stormed the elderly lady, quivering in every limb, like a blown ribbon.
It was strange that Captain Penrose did not hear the exclamation, loud and emphatic as it was; but he simply bowed and quitted the room, followed by Dinwiddie, Nero, and Sergeant MacFuse.
No sooner had the military men quitted the house than the dinner-bell rang. Madam refused to make her appearance. Barbara came down and presided. Boys in the street were crying the news of Sherman's capture of Savannah.
"Good for Sherman!" said Dinwiddie. "I'm devilish glad of it."
Little Barbara looked up with consternation. She loved her father, but never before had she heard from his lips a decided expression of sympathy with the loyal cause. True, for the last six months he had said little on either side; but, from the absence of any controversy between him and her mother, Barbara imagined that their political sentiments were harmonious.
She made no reply to her father's remark, but kept up in that little brain of hers an amount of thinking that took away all her appetite for the dessert. Mrs. Dinwiddie entered before the table was cleared. Then there was a ring of the door-bell. It was the postman. Nero brought in a letter. Dinwiddie looked at the address.
"'T is a letter for Anjy," said he. "The handwriting looks like Culpepper's."
Anjy, or Angelina, was an old black cook, one of the few surviving representatives of the vanished glories of the old Culpepper estate. She had taken a lively interest in the course of Maryland towards freedom; and when at length that noble Commonwealth stripped off the last fetter from her limbs, and trampled it under her feet, Anjy was loudest among the colored people with her Hallelujahs. She was no longer a slave, thank the Lord! There was a future of justice, of self-respect, of freedom now dawning upon her abused race.
As Anjy could not read, Barbara had been duly authorized to open all her letters. She did so on this occasion, read, turned pale, and exclaimed,—
"Horrible! Oh, the villain!"
"What's the matter?" asked her father.
The letter was from his son, Culpepper, to the old family servant, and was in these words:—