Chapter 122

IO trip and skip, Elvire! Link arm in arm with me!Like husband and like wife, together let us seeThe tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage,Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.IINow, who supposed the night would play us such a prank?—That what was raw and brown, rough pole and shaven plank,Mere bit of hoarding, half by trestle propped, half tub,Would flaunt it forth as brisk as butterfly from grub?This comes of sun and air, of Autumn afternoon,And Pornic and Saint Gille, whose feast affords the boon—This scaffold turned parterre, this flower-bed in full blow,Bateleurs, baladines! We shall not miss the show!They pace and promenade; they presently will dance:What good were else i' the drum and fife? O pleasant land of France!IIIWho saw them make their entry? At wink of eve, be sure!They love to steal a march, nor lightly risk the lure.They keep their treasure hid, nor stale (improvident)Before the time is ripe, each wonder of their tent—Yon six-legged sheep, to wit, and he who beats a gong,Lifts cap and waves salute, exhilarates the throng—Their ape of many years and much adventure, grimAnd gray with pitying fools who find a joke in him.Or, best, the human beauty, Mimi, Toinette, Fifine,Tricot fines down if fat, padding plumps up if lean,Ere, shedding petticoat, modesty, and such toys,They bounce forth, squalid girls transformed to gamesome boys.IVNo, no, thrice, Pornic, no! Perpend the authentic tale!'T was not for every Gawain to gaze upon the Grail!But whoso went his rounds, when flew bat, flitted midge,Might hear across the dusk,—where both roads join the bridge,Hard by the little port,—creak a slow caravan,A chimneyed house on wheels; so shyly-sheathed, beganTo broaden out the bud which, bursting unaware,Now takes away our breath, queen-tulip of the Fair!VYet morning promised much: for, pitched and slung and rearedOn terrace 'neath the tower, 'twixt tree and tree appearedAn airy structure; how the pennon from its dome,Frenetic to be free, makes one red stretch for home!The home far and away, the distance where lives joy,The cure, at once and ever, of world and world's annoy;Since, what lolls full in front, a furlong from the booth,But ocean-idleness, sky-blue and millpond-smooth?VIFrenetic to be free! And, do you know, there beatsSomething within my breast, as sensitive?—repeatsThe fever of the flag? My heart makes just the samePassionate stretch, fires up for lawlessness, lays claimTo share the life they lead: losels, who have and useThe hour what way they will,—applaud them or abuseSociety, whereof myself am at the beck,Whose call obey, and stoop to burden stiffest neck!VIIWhy is it that whene'er a faithful few combineTo cast allegiance off, play truant, nor repine,Agree to bear the worst, forego the best in storeFor us who, left behind, do duty as of yore,—Why is it that, disgraced, they seem to relish life the more?—Seem as they said, "We know a secret passing praiseOr blame of such as you! Remain! we go our waysWith something you o'erlooked, forgot or chose to sweepClean out of door: our pearl picked from your rubbish-heap.You care not for your loss, we calculate our gain.All 's right. Are you content? Why, so let things remain!To the wood then, to the wild: free life, full liberty!"And when they rendezvous beneath the inclement sky,House by the hedge, reduced to brute-companionship,—Misguided ones who gave society the slip,And find too late how boon a parent they despised,What ministration spurned, how sweet and civilized—-Then, left alone at last with self-sought wretchedness,No interloper else!—why is it, can we guess?—At somebody's expense, goes up so frank a laugh?As though they held the corn, and left us only chaffFrom garners crammed and closed. And we indeed are cleverIf we get grain as good, by threshing straw forever!VIIIStill, truants as they are and purpose yet to be,That nowise needs forbid they venture—as you see—To cross confine, approach the once familiar roofO' the kindly race their flight estranged: stand half aloof,Sidle half up, press near, and proffer wares for sale—In their phrase,—make in ours, white levy of black mail.They, of the wild, require some touch of us the tame,Since clothing, meat and drink, mean money all the same.IXIf hunger, proverbs say, allures the wolf from wood,Much more the bird must dare a dash at something good:Must snatch up, bear away in beak, the trifle-treasureTo wood and wild, and then—oh, how enjoy at leisure!Was never tree-built nest, you climbed and took, of bird,(Rare city-visitant, talked of, scarce seen or heard,)But, when you would dissect the structure, piece by piece,You found, enwreathed amid the country-product —fleeceAnd feather, thistle-fluffs and bearded windle-strawsSome shred of foreign silk, unravelling of gauze,Bit, maybe, of brocade, mid fur and blow-bell-down:Filched plainly from mankind, dear tribute paid by town,Which proved how oft the bird had plucked up heart of grace,Swooped down at waif and stray, made furtively our placePay tax and toll, then borne the booty to enrichHer paradise i' the waste; the how and why of which,That is the secret, there the mystery that stings!XFor, what they traffic in, consists of just the thingsWe,—proud ones who so scorn dwellers without the pale,Bateleurs, baladines, white leviers of black mail,I say, they sell what we most pique us that we keep!How comes it, all we hold so dear they count so cheap?XIWhat price should you impose, for instance, on repute,Good fame, your own good fame and family's to boot?Stay start of quick moustache, arrest the angry riseOf eyebrow! All I asked is answered by surprise.Now tell me: are you worth the cost of a cigar?Go boldly, enter booth, disburse the coin at barOf doorway where presides the master of the troop,And forthwith you survey his Graces in a group,Live Picture, picturesque no doubt and close to life:His sisters, right and left; the Grace in front, his wife.Next, who is this performs the feat of the Trapeze?Lo, she is launched, look—fie, the fairy!—how she fleesO'er all those heads thrust back,—mouths, eyes, one gape and stare,—No scrap of skirt impedes free passage through the air,Till, plumb on the other side, she lights and laughs again,That fairy-form, whereof each muscle, nay, each veinThe curious may inspect,—his daughter that he sellsEach rustic for five sous. Desiderate aught elseO' the vendor? As you leave his show, why, joke the man!"You cheat: your six-legged sheep, I recollect, beganBoth life and trade, last year, trimmed properly and clipt,As the Twin-headed Babe, and Human Nondescript!"What does he care? You paid his price, may pass your jest.So values he repute, good fame, and all the rest!XIIBut try another tack; say: "I indulge caprice,Who am Don and Duke, and Knight, beside, o' the Golden Fleece,And, never mind how rich. Abandon this career!Have hearth and home, nor let your womankind appearWithout as multiplied a coating as protectsAn onion from the eye! Become, in all respects,God-fearing householder, subsistent by brain-skill,Hand-labor; win your bread whatever way you will,So it be honestly,—and, while I have a purse,Means shall not lack!"—his thanks will be the roundest curseThat ever rolled from lip.XIIINow, what is it?—returnsThe question—heartens so this losel that he spurnsAll we so prize? I want, put down in black and white,What compensating joy, unknown and infinite,Turns lawlessness to law, makes destitution—wealth,Vice—virtue, and disease of soul and body—health?XIVAh, the slow shake of head, the melancholy smile,The sigh almost a sob! What's wrong, was right erewhile?Why are we two at once such ocean-width apart?Pale fingers press my arm, and sad eyes probe my heart.Why is the wife in trouble?XVThis way, this way, Fifine!Here 's she, shall make my thoughts be surer what they mean!First let me read the signs, portray you past mistakeThe gypsy's foreign self, no swarth our sun could bake.Yet where 's a woolly trace degrades the wiry hair?And note the Greek-nymph nose, and—oh, my Hebrew pairOf eye and eye—o'erarched by velvet of the mole—That swim as in a sea, that dip and rise and roll,Spilling the light around! While either ear is cutThin as a dusk-leaved rose carved from a cocoanut.And then, her neck! now, grant you had the power to deck,Just as your fancy pleased, the bistre-length of neck,Could lay, to shine against its shade, a moonlike rowOf pearls, each round and white as bubble Cupids blowBig out of mother's milk,—what pearl-moon would surpassThat string of mock-turquoise, those almandines of glass,Where girlhood terminates? for with breasts'-birth commenceThe boy, and page-costume, till pink and impudenceEnd admirably all: complete the creature tripsOur way now, brings sunshine upon her spangled hips,As here she fronts us full, with pose half-frank, half-fierce!XVIWords urged in vain, Elvire! You waste your quart and tierce,Lunge at a phantom here, try fence in fairy-land.For me, I own defeat, ask but to understandThe acknowledged victory of whom I call my queen,Sexless and bloodless sprite: though mischievous and mean,Yet free and flower-like too, with loveliness for law,And self-sustainment made morality.XVIIA flawDo you account i' the lily, of lands which travellers know,That, just as golden gloom supersedes Northern snowI' the chalice, so, about each pistil, spice is packed,—Deliriously-drugged scent, in lieu of odor lacked,With us, by bee and moth, their banquet to enhanceAt morn and eve, when dew, the chilly sustenance,Needs mixture of some chaste and temperate perfume?I ask, is she in fault who guards such golden gloom,Such dear and damning scent, by who cares what devices,And takes the idle life of insects she enticesWhen, drowned to heart's desire, they satiate the insideO' the lily, mark her wealth and manifest her pride?XVIIIBut, wiser, we keep off, nor tempt the acrid juice;Discreet we peer and praise, put rich things to right use.No flavorous venomed bell,—the rose it is, I wot,Only the rose, we pluck and place, unwronged a jot,No worse for homage done by every devotee,I' the proper loyal throne, on breast where rose should be.Or if the simpler sweets we have to choose among,Would taste between our teeth, and give its toy the tongue,—O gorgeous poison-plague, on thee no hearts are set!We gather daisy meek, or maiden violet:I think it is Elvire we love, and not Fifine.XIX"How does she make my thoughts be sure of what they mean?"Judge and be just! Suppose, an age and time long pastnenew for our behoof one pageant more, the lastO' the kind, sick Louis liked to see defile betweenHim and the yawning grave, its passage served to screen.With eye as gray as lead, with cheek as brown as bronze,Here where we stand, shall sit and suffer Louis Onze:The while from yonder tent parade forth, not—oh, no—Bateleurs, baladines! but range themselves a-rowThose well-sung women-worthies whereof loud fame still findsSome echo linger faint, less in our hearts than minds.XXSee, Helen! pushed in front o' the world's worst night and storm,By Lady Venus' hand on shoulder: the sweet formShrinkingly prominent, though mighty, like a moonOutbreaking from a cloud, to put harsh things in tune,And magically bring mankind to acquiesceIn its own ravage,—call no curse upon, but bless(Beldame, a moment since) the outbreaking beauty, now,That casts o'er all the blood a candor from her brow.See, Cleopatra! bared, the entire and sinuous wealthO' the shining shape; each orb of indolent ripe health,Captured, just where it finds a fellow-orb as fineI' the body: traced about by jewels which outline,Fire-frame, and keep distinct, perfections—lest they meltTo soft smooth unity ere half their hold be felt:Yet, o'er that white and wonder, a soul's predominanceI' the head so high and haught—except one thievish glance,From back of oblong eye, intent to count the slain.Hush,—oh, I know, Elvire! Be patient, more remain!What say you to Saint? ... Pish! Whatever Saint you please,Cold-pinnacled aloft o' the spire, prays calm the seasFrom Pornic Church, and oft at midnight (peasants say)Goes walking out to save from shipwreck: well she may!For think how many a year has she been conversantWith naught but winds and rains, sharp courtesy and scantO' the wintry snow that coats the pent-house of her shrine,Covers each knee, climbs near, but spares the smile benignWhich seems to say, "I looked for scarce so much from earth!"She follows, one long thin pure finger in the girthO' the girdle—whence the folds of garment, eye and eye,Besprent with fleurs-de-lys, flow down and multiplyAround her feet,—and one, pressed hushingly to lip:As if, while thus we made her march, some foundering shipMight miss her from her post, nearer to God halfwayIn heaven, and she inquired, "Who that treads earth can pray?I doubt if even she, the unashamed! though, sure,She must have stripped herself only to clothe the poor."XXIThis time, enough 's a feast, not one more form, Elvire!Provided you allow that, bringing up the rearO' the bevy I am loth to—by one bird—curtail,First note may lead to last, an octave crown the scale,And this feminity be followed—do not flout!—By—who concludes the masque with curtsey, smile and pout,Submissive-mutinous? No other than FifinePoints toe, imposes haunch, and pleads with tambourine!XXII"Well, what 's the meaning here, what does the masque intend,Which, unabridged, we saw file past us, with no endOf fair ones, till Fifine came, closed the catalogue?"XXIIITask fancy yet again! Suppose you cast this clogOf flesh away (that weeps, upbraids, withstands my arm)And pass to join your peers, paragon charm with charm,As I shall show you may,—prove best of beauty there!Yourself confront yourself! This, help me to declareThat yonder-you, who stand beside these, braving eachAnd blinking none, beat her who lured to Troy-town beachThe purple prows of Greece,—nay, beat Fifine; whose face,Mark how I will inflame, when seigneur-like I placeI' the tambourine, to spot the strained and piteous blankOf pleading parchment, see, no less than a whole franc!XXIVAh, do you mark the brown o' the cloud, made bright with fireThrough and through? as, old wiles succeeding to desire,Quality (you and I) once more compassionateA hapless infant, doomed (fie on such partial fate!)To sink the inborn shame, waive privilege of sex,And posture as you see, support the nods and becksOf clowns that have their stare, nor always pay its price;An infant born perchance as sensitive and niceAs any soul of you, proud dames, whom destinyKeeps uncontaminate from stigma of the styShe wallows in! You draw back skirts from filth like herWho, possibly, braves scorn, if, scorned, she ministerTo age, want, and disease of parents one or both;Nay, peradventure, stoops to degradation, lothThat some just-budding sister, the dew yet on the rose,Should have to share in turn the ignoble trade,—who knows?XXVAy, who indeed! Myself know nothing, but dare guessThat oft she trips in haste to hand the booty ... yes,'Twixt fold and fold of tent, there looms he, dim-discerned,The ogre, lord of all those lavish limbs have earned!—Brute-beast-face,—ravage, sear, scowl and malignancy,—O' the Strong Man, whom (no doubt, her husband) by and byYou shall behold do feats: lift up nor quail beneathA quintal in each hand, a cart-wheel 'twixt his teeth.Oh, she prefers sheer strength to ineffective grace,Breeding and culture! seeks the essential in the case!To him has flown my franc; and welcome, if that squintO' the diabolic eye so soften through absinthe,That for once, tambourine, tunic and tricot 'scapeTheir customary curse "Not half the gain o' the ape!"Ay, they go in together!XXVIYet still her phantom staysOpposite, where you stand: as steady 'neath our gaze,—The live Elvire's and mine,—though fancy stuff and mereIllusion; to be judged—dream-figures—without fearOr favor, those the false, by you and me the true.XXVII"What puts it in my head to make yourself judge you?"Well, it may be, the name of Helen brought to mindA certain myth I mused in years long left behind:How she that fled from Greece with Paris whom she loved,And came to Troy, and there found shelter, and so provedSuch cause of the world's woe,—how she, old stories callThis creature, Helen's self, never saw Troy at all.Jove had his fancy-fit, must needs take empty air,Fashion her likeness forth, and set the phantom thereI' the midst for sport, to try conclusions with the blindAnd blundering race, the game create for Gods, mankind:Experiment on these,—establish who would yearnTo give up life for her, who, other-minded, spurnThe best her eyes could smile,—make half the world sublime,And half absurd, for just a phantom all the time!Meanwhile true Helen's self sat, safe and far away,By a great river-side, beneath a purer day,With solitude around, tranquillity within;Was able to lean forth, look, listen, through the dinAnd stir; could estimate the worthlessness or worthOf Helen who inspired such passion to the earth,A phantom all the time! That put it in my headTo make yourself judge you—the phantom-wife insteadO' the tearful true Elvire!XXVIIII thank the smile at lastWhich thins away the tear! Our sky was overcast,And something fell; but day clears up: if there chanced rain,The landscape glistens more. I have not vexed in vainElvire: because she knows, now she has stood the test,How, this and this being good, herself may still be bestO' the beauty in review; because the flesh that claimedUnduly my regard, she thought, the taste, she blamedIn me, for things externe, was all mistake, she finds,—Or will find, when I prove that bodies show me minds,That, through the outward sign, the inward grace allures,And sparks from heaven transpierce earth's coarsest covertures,All by demonstrating-the value of Fifine!XXIXPartake my confidence! No creature 's made so meanBut that, some way, it boasts, could we investigate,Its supreme worth: fulfils, by ordinance of fate,Its momentary task, gets glory all its own,Tastes triumph in the world, pre-eminent, alone.Where is the single grain of sand, 'mid millions heaped.Confusedly on the beach, but, did we know, has leapedOr will leap, would we wait, i' the century, some once,To the very throne of things?—earth's brightest for the nonce,When sunshine shall impinge on just that grain's facetteWhich fronts him fullest, first, returns his ray with jetOf promptest praise, thanks God best in creation's name!As firm is my belief, quick sense perceives the sameSelf-vindicating flash illustrate every manAnd woman of our mass, and prove, throughout the plan,No detail but, in place allotted it, was primeAnd perfect.XXXWitness her, kept waiting all this time!What happy angle makes Fifine reverberateSunshine, least sand-grain, she, of shadiest social state?No adamantine shield, polished like Helen there,Fit to absorb the sun, regorge him till the glare,Dazing the universe, draw Troy-ward those blind beaksOf equal-sided ships rowed by the well-greaved Greeks!No Asian mirror, like yon Ptolemaic witchAble to fix sun fast and tame sun down, enrich,Not burn the world with beams thus flatteringly rolledAbout her, head to foot, turned slavish snakes of gold!And oh, no tinted pane of oriel sanctity,Does our Fifine afford, such as permits supplyOf lustrous heaven, revealed, far more than mundane sightCould master, to thy cell, pure Saint! where, else too bright,So suits thy sense the orb, that, what outside was noon,Pales, through thy lozenged blue, to meek benefic moon!What then? does that prevent each dunghill, we may passDaily, from boasting too its bit of looking-glass,Its sherd which, sun-smit, shines, shoots arrowy fire beyondThat satin-muffled mope, your sulky diamond?XXXIAnd now, the mingled ray she shoots, I decompose.Her antecedents, take for execrable! GlozeNo whit on your premiss: let be, there was no worstOf degradation spared Fifine: ordained from firstTo last, in body and soul, for one life-long debauch,The Pariah of the North, the European Nautch!This, far from seek to hide, she puts in evidenceCalmly, displays the brand, bids pry without offenceYour finger on the place. You comment, "Fancy usSo operated on, maltreated, mangled thus!Such torture in our case, had we survived an hour?Some other sort of flesh and blood must be, with powerAppropriate to the vile, unsensitive, tough-thonged,In lieu of our fine nerve! Be sure, she was not wrongedToo much: you must not think she winced at prick as we!"Come, come, that 's what you say, or would, were thoughts but free.XXXIIWell then, thus much confessed, what wonder if there stealUnchallenged to nay heart the force of one appealShe makes, and justice stamp the sole claim she asserts?So absolutely good is truth, truth never hurtsThe teller, whose worst crime gets somehow grace, avowed.To me, that silent pose and prayer proclaimed aloud:"Know all of me outside, the rest be emptinessFor such as you! I call attention to my dress,Coiffure, outlandish features, lithe memorable limbs,Piquant entreaty, all that eye-glance overskims.Does this give pleasure? Then, repay the pleasure, putIts price i' the tambourine! Do you seek further? Tut!I 'm just my instrument,—sound hollow: mere smooth skinStretched o'er gilt framework, I; rub-dub, naught else within—Always, for such as you!—if I have use elsewhere,If certain bells, now mute, can jingle, need you care?Be it enough, there 's truth i' the pleading, which comportsWith no word spoken out in cottages or courts,Since all I plead is, 'Pay for just the sight you see,And give no credit to another charm in me!'Do I say, like your Love? 'To praise my face is well,But, who would know my worth, must search my heart to tell!'Do I say, like your Wife? 'Had I passed in reviewThe produce of the globe, my man of men were —you!'Do I say, like your Helen? 'Yield yourself up, obeyImplicitly, nor pause to question, to surveyEven the worshipful! prostrate you at my shrine!Shall you dare controvert what the world counts divine?Array your private taste, own liking of the sense,Own longing of the soul, against the impudenceOf history, the blare and bullying of verse?As if man ever yet saw reason to disburseThe amount of what sense liked, soul longed for,—given, devisedAs love, forsooth,—until the price was recognizedAs moderate enough by divers fellow-men!Then, with his warrant safe that these would love too, then,Sure that particular gain implies a public loss,And that no smile he buys but proves a slash acrossThe face, a stab into the side of somebody—Sure that, along with love's main-purchase, he will buyUp the whole stock of earth's uncharitableness,Envy and hatred,—then, decides he to professHis estimate of one, by love discerned, though dimTo all the world beside: since what 's the world to him?'Do I say, like your Queen of Egypt? 'Who foregoesMy cup of witchcraft—fault be on the fool! He knowsNothing of how I pack my wine-press, turn its winchThree-times-three, all the time to song and dance, nor flinchFrom charming on and on, till at the last I squeezeOut the exhaustive drop that leaves behind mere leesAnd dregs, vapidity, thought essence heretofore!Sup of my sorcery, old pleasures please no more!Be great, be good, love, learn, have potency of handOr heart or head,—what boots? You die, nor understandWhat bliss might be in life: you ate the grapes, but knewNever the taste of wine, such vintage as I brew!'Do I say, like your Saint? 'An exquisitest touchBides in the birth of things: no after-time can muchEnhance that fine, that faint, fugitive first of all!What color paints the cup o' the May-rose, like the smallSuspicion of a blush which doubtfully begins?What sound outwarbles brook, while, at the source, it winsThat moss and stone dispart, allow its bubblings breathe?What taste excels the fruit, just where sharp flavors sheatheTheir sting, and let encroach the honey that allays?And so with soul and sense; when sanctity betraysFirst fear lest earth below seem real as heaven above,And holy worship, late, change soon to sinful love—Where is the plenitude of passion which enduresComparison with that, I ask of amateurs?'Do I say, like Elvire" ...XXXIII(Your husband holds you fast,Will have you listen, learn your character at last!)"Do I say?—like her mixed unrest and discontent,Reproachfulness and scorn, with that submission blentSo strangely, in the face, by sad smiles and gay tears,—Quiescence which attacks, rebellion which endears,—Say? 'As you loved me once, could you but love me now!Years probably have graved their passage on my brow,Lips turn more rarely red, eyes sparkle less than erst;Such tribute body pays to time; but, unamerced,The soul retains, nay, boasts old treasure multiplied.Though dew-prime flee,—mature at noonday, love defiedChance, the wind, change, the rain: love strenuous all the moreFor storm, struck deeper root and choicer fruitage bore,Despite the rocking world; yet truth struck root in vain:While tenderness bears fruit, you praise, not taste again.Why? They are yours, which once were hardly yours, might goTo grace another's ground: and then—the hopes we know,The fears we keep in mind!—when, ours to arbitrate,Your part was to bow neck, bid fall decree of fate.Then, O the knotty point—white-night's work to revolve—What meant that smile, that sigh? Not Solon's self could solve!Then, O the deep surmise what one word might express,And if what seemed her "No" may not have meant her "Yes!"Then, such annoy, for cause—calm welcome, such acquistOf rapture if, refused her arm, hand touched her wrist!Now, what 's a smile to you? Poor candle that lights upThe decent household gloom which sends you out to sup.A tear? worse! warns that health requires you keep aloofFrom nuptial chamber, since rain penetrates the roof!Soul, body got and gained, inalienably safeYour own, become despised; more worth has any waifOr stray from neighbor's pale: pouch that,—'t is pleasure, pride,Novelty, property, and larceny beside!Preposterous thought! to find no value fixed in things,To covet all you see, hear, dream of, till fate bringsAbout that, what you want, you gain; then follows change.Give you the sun to keep, forthwith must fancy range:A goodly lamp, no doubt,—yet might you catch her hairAnd capture, as she frisks, the fen-fire dancing there!What do I say? at least a meteor 's half in heaven;Provided filth but shine, my husband hankers evenAfter putridity that 's phosphorescent, cribsThe rustic's tallow-rush, makes spoil of urchins' squibs,In short, prefers to me—chaste, temperate, serene—What sputters green and blue, this fizgig called Fifine!'"XXXIVSo all your sex mistake! Strange that so plain a factShould raise such dire debate! Few families were rackedBy torture self-supplied, did Nature grant but this—That women comprehend mental analysis!XXXVElvire, do you recall when, years ago, our homeThe intimation reached, a certain pride of Rome,Authenticated piece, in the third, last and bestManner—whatever, fools and connoisseurs contest,—No particle disturbed by rude restorer's touch,The palaced picture-pearl, so long eluding clutchOf creditor, at last, the Rafael might—could weBut come to terms—change lord, pass from the Prince to me?I think you recollect my fever of a year:How the Prince would, and how he would not; now,—too dearThat promise was, he made his grandsire so long since,Rather to boast "I own a Rafael" than "am Prince!"And now, the fancy soothed—if really sell he mustHis birthright for a mess of pottage—such a thrustI' the vitals of the Prince were mollified by balm,Could he prevail upon his stomach to bear qualm,And bequeath Liberty (because a purchaserWas ready with the sum—a trifle!) yes, transferHis heart at all events to that land where, at least,Free institutions reign! And so, its price increasedFivefold (Americans are such importunates!),Soon must his Rafael start for the United States.Oh, alternating bursts of hope now, then despair!At last, the bargain 's struck, I 'm all but beggared, thereThe Rafael faces me, in fine, no dream at all,My housemate, evermore to glorify my wall.A week must pass, before heart-palpitations sink,In gloating o'er my gain, so late I edged the brinkOf doom; a fortnight more, I spend in Paradise:"Was outline e'er so true, could coloring enticeSo calm, did harmony and quiet so avail?How right, how resolute, the action tells the tale!"A month, I bid my friends congratulate their best:"You happy Don!" (to me): "The blockhead!" (to the rest):"No doubt he thinks his daub original, poor dupe!"Then I resume my life: one chamber must not coopMan's life in, though it boast a marvel like my prize.Next year, I saunter past with unaverted eyes,Nay, loll and turn my back: perchance to overlookWith relish, leaf by leaf, Doré's last picture-book.XXXVIImagine that a voice reproached me from its frame:"Here do I hang, and may! Your Rafael, just the same,'T is only you that change; no ecstasies of yore!No purposed suicide distracts you any more!"Prompt would my answer meet such frivolous attack:"You misappropriate sensations. What men lack,And labor to obtain, is hoped and feared aboutAfter a fashion; what they once obtain, makes doubt,Expectancy's old fret and fume, henceforward void.But do they think to hold such havings unalloyedBy novel hopes and fears, of fashion just as new,To correspond i' the scale? Nowise, I promise you!Mine you are, therefore mine will be, as fit to cheerMy soul and glad my sense to-day as this-day-year.So, any sketch or scrap, pochade, caricature,Made in a moment, meant a moment to endure,I snap at, seize, enjoy, then tire of, throw aside,Find you in your old place. But if a servant cried'Fire in the gallery!'—methinks, were I engagedIn Doré, elbow-deep, picture-books million-pagedTo the four winds would pack, sped by the heartiest curseWas ever launched from lip, to strew the universe.Would not I brave the best o' the burning, bear awayEither my perfect piece in safety, or else stayAnd share its fate, be made its martyr, nor repine?Inextricably wed, such ashes mixed with mine!"

O trip and skip, Elvire! Link arm in arm with me!Like husband and like wife, together let us seeThe tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage,Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.

O trip and skip, Elvire! Link arm in arm with me!

Like husband and like wife, together let us see

The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage,

Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.

Now, who supposed the night would play us such a prank?—That what was raw and brown, rough pole and shaven plank,Mere bit of hoarding, half by trestle propped, half tub,Would flaunt it forth as brisk as butterfly from grub?This comes of sun and air, of Autumn afternoon,And Pornic and Saint Gille, whose feast affords the boon—This scaffold turned parterre, this flower-bed in full blow,Bateleurs, baladines! We shall not miss the show!They pace and promenade; they presently will dance:What good were else i' the drum and fife? O pleasant land of France!

Now, who supposed the night would play us such a prank?

—That what was raw and brown, rough pole and shaven plank,

Mere bit of hoarding, half by trestle propped, half tub,

Would flaunt it forth as brisk as butterfly from grub?

This comes of sun and air, of Autumn afternoon,

And Pornic and Saint Gille, whose feast affords the boon—

This scaffold turned parterre, this flower-bed in full blow,

Bateleurs, baladines! We shall not miss the show!

They pace and promenade; they presently will dance:

What good were else i' the drum and fife? O pleasant land of France!

III

Who saw them make their entry? At wink of eve, be sure!They love to steal a march, nor lightly risk the lure.They keep their treasure hid, nor stale (improvident)Before the time is ripe, each wonder of their tent—Yon six-legged sheep, to wit, and he who beats a gong,Lifts cap and waves salute, exhilarates the throng—Their ape of many years and much adventure, grimAnd gray with pitying fools who find a joke in him.Or, best, the human beauty, Mimi, Toinette, Fifine,Tricot fines down if fat, padding plumps up if lean,Ere, shedding petticoat, modesty, and such toys,They bounce forth, squalid girls transformed to gamesome boys.

Who saw them make their entry? At wink of eve, be sure!

They love to steal a march, nor lightly risk the lure.

They keep their treasure hid, nor stale (improvident)

Before the time is ripe, each wonder of their tent—

Yon six-legged sheep, to wit, and he who beats a gong,

Lifts cap and waves salute, exhilarates the throng—

Their ape of many years and much adventure, grim

And gray with pitying fools who find a joke in him.

Or, best, the human beauty, Mimi, Toinette, Fifine,

Tricot fines down if fat, padding plumps up if lean,

Ere, shedding petticoat, modesty, and such toys,

They bounce forth, squalid girls transformed to gamesome boys.

No, no, thrice, Pornic, no! Perpend the authentic tale!'T was not for every Gawain to gaze upon the Grail!But whoso went his rounds, when flew bat, flitted midge,Might hear across the dusk,—where both roads join the bridge,Hard by the little port,—creak a slow caravan,A chimneyed house on wheels; so shyly-sheathed, beganTo broaden out the bud which, bursting unaware,Now takes away our breath, queen-tulip of the Fair!

No, no, thrice, Pornic, no! Perpend the authentic tale!

'T was not for every Gawain to gaze upon the Grail!

But whoso went his rounds, when flew bat, flitted midge,

Might hear across the dusk,—where both roads join the bridge,

Hard by the little port,—creak a slow caravan,

A chimneyed house on wheels; so shyly-sheathed, began

To broaden out the bud which, bursting unaware,

Now takes away our breath, queen-tulip of the Fair!

Yet morning promised much: for, pitched and slung and rearedOn terrace 'neath the tower, 'twixt tree and tree appearedAn airy structure; how the pennon from its dome,Frenetic to be free, makes one red stretch for home!The home far and away, the distance where lives joy,The cure, at once and ever, of world and world's annoy;Since, what lolls full in front, a furlong from the booth,But ocean-idleness, sky-blue and millpond-smooth?

Yet morning promised much: for, pitched and slung and reared

On terrace 'neath the tower, 'twixt tree and tree appeared

An airy structure; how the pennon from its dome,

Frenetic to be free, makes one red stretch for home!

The home far and away, the distance where lives joy,

The cure, at once and ever, of world and world's annoy;

Since, what lolls full in front, a furlong from the booth,

But ocean-idleness, sky-blue and millpond-smooth?

Frenetic to be free! And, do you know, there beatsSomething within my breast, as sensitive?—repeatsThe fever of the flag? My heart makes just the samePassionate stretch, fires up for lawlessness, lays claimTo share the life they lead: losels, who have and useThe hour what way they will,—applaud them or abuseSociety, whereof myself am at the beck,Whose call obey, and stoop to burden stiffest neck!

Frenetic to be free! And, do you know, there beats

Something within my breast, as sensitive?—repeats

The fever of the flag? My heart makes just the same

Passionate stretch, fires up for lawlessness, lays claim

To share the life they lead: losels, who have and use

The hour what way they will,—applaud them or abuse

Society, whereof myself am at the beck,

Whose call obey, and stoop to burden stiffest neck!

VII

Why is it that whene'er a faithful few combineTo cast allegiance off, play truant, nor repine,Agree to bear the worst, forego the best in storeFor us who, left behind, do duty as of yore,—Why is it that, disgraced, they seem to relish life the more?—Seem as they said, "We know a secret passing praiseOr blame of such as you! Remain! we go our waysWith something you o'erlooked, forgot or chose to sweepClean out of door: our pearl picked from your rubbish-heap.You care not for your loss, we calculate our gain.All 's right. Are you content? Why, so let things remain!To the wood then, to the wild: free life, full liberty!"And when they rendezvous beneath the inclement sky,House by the hedge, reduced to brute-companionship,—Misguided ones who gave society the slip,And find too late how boon a parent they despised,What ministration spurned, how sweet and civilized—-Then, left alone at last with self-sought wretchedness,No interloper else!—why is it, can we guess?—At somebody's expense, goes up so frank a laugh?As though they held the corn, and left us only chaffFrom garners crammed and closed. And we indeed are cleverIf we get grain as good, by threshing straw forever!

Why is it that whene'er a faithful few combine

To cast allegiance off, play truant, nor repine,

Agree to bear the worst, forego the best in store

For us who, left behind, do duty as of yore,—

Why is it that, disgraced, they seem to relish life the more?

—Seem as they said, "We know a secret passing praise

Or blame of such as you! Remain! we go our ways

With something you o'erlooked, forgot or chose to sweep

Clean out of door: our pearl picked from your rubbish-heap.

You care not for your loss, we calculate our gain.

All 's right. Are you content? Why, so let things remain!

To the wood then, to the wild: free life, full liberty!"

And when they rendezvous beneath the inclement sky,

House by the hedge, reduced to brute-companionship,

—Misguided ones who gave society the slip,

And find too late how boon a parent they despised,

What ministration spurned, how sweet and civilized—-

Then, left alone at last with self-sought wretchedness,

No interloper else!—why is it, can we guess?—

At somebody's expense, goes up so frank a laugh?

As though they held the corn, and left us only chaff

From garners crammed and closed. And we indeed are clever

If we get grain as good, by threshing straw forever!

VIII

Still, truants as they are and purpose yet to be,That nowise needs forbid they venture—as you see—To cross confine, approach the once familiar roofO' the kindly race their flight estranged: stand half aloof,Sidle half up, press near, and proffer wares for sale—In their phrase,—make in ours, white levy of black mail.They, of the wild, require some touch of us the tame,Since clothing, meat and drink, mean money all the same.

Still, truants as they are and purpose yet to be,

That nowise needs forbid they venture—as you see—

To cross confine, approach the once familiar roof

O' the kindly race their flight estranged: stand half aloof,

Sidle half up, press near, and proffer wares for sale

—In their phrase,—make in ours, white levy of black mail.

They, of the wild, require some touch of us the tame,

Since clothing, meat and drink, mean money all the same.

If hunger, proverbs say, allures the wolf from wood,Much more the bird must dare a dash at something good:Must snatch up, bear away in beak, the trifle-treasureTo wood and wild, and then—oh, how enjoy at leisure!Was never tree-built nest, you climbed and took, of bird,(Rare city-visitant, talked of, scarce seen or heard,)But, when you would dissect the structure, piece by piece,You found, enwreathed amid the country-product —fleeceAnd feather, thistle-fluffs and bearded windle-strawsSome shred of foreign silk, unravelling of gauze,Bit, maybe, of brocade, mid fur and blow-bell-down:Filched plainly from mankind, dear tribute paid by town,Which proved how oft the bird had plucked up heart of grace,Swooped down at waif and stray, made furtively our placePay tax and toll, then borne the booty to enrichHer paradise i' the waste; the how and why of which,That is the secret, there the mystery that stings!

If hunger, proverbs say, allures the wolf from wood,

Much more the bird must dare a dash at something good:

Must snatch up, bear away in beak, the trifle-treasure

To wood and wild, and then—oh, how enjoy at leisure!

Was never tree-built nest, you climbed and took, of bird,

(Rare city-visitant, talked of, scarce seen or heard,)

But, when you would dissect the structure, piece by piece,

You found, enwreathed amid the country-product —fleece

And feather, thistle-fluffs and bearded windle-straws

Some shred of foreign silk, unravelling of gauze,

Bit, maybe, of brocade, mid fur and blow-bell-down:

Filched plainly from mankind, dear tribute paid by town,

Which proved how oft the bird had plucked up heart of grace,

Swooped down at waif and stray, made furtively our place

Pay tax and toll, then borne the booty to enrich

Her paradise i' the waste; the how and why of which,

That is the secret, there the mystery that stings!

For, what they traffic in, consists of just the thingsWe,—proud ones who so scorn dwellers without the pale,Bateleurs, baladines, white leviers of black mail,I say, they sell what we most pique us that we keep!How comes it, all we hold so dear they count so cheap?

For, what they traffic in, consists of just the things

We,—proud ones who so scorn dwellers without the pale,

Bateleurs, baladines, white leviers of black mail,

I say, they sell what we most pique us that we keep!

How comes it, all we hold so dear they count so cheap?

What price should you impose, for instance, on repute,Good fame, your own good fame and family's to boot?Stay start of quick moustache, arrest the angry riseOf eyebrow! All I asked is answered by surprise.Now tell me: are you worth the cost of a cigar?Go boldly, enter booth, disburse the coin at barOf doorway where presides the master of the troop,And forthwith you survey his Graces in a group,Live Picture, picturesque no doubt and close to life:His sisters, right and left; the Grace in front, his wife.Next, who is this performs the feat of the Trapeze?Lo, she is launched, look—fie, the fairy!—how she fleesO'er all those heads thrust back,—mouths, eyes, one gape and stare,—No scrap of skirt impedes free passage through the air,Till, plumb on the other side, she lights and laughs again,That fairy-form, whereof each muscle, nay, each veinThe curious may inspect,—his daughter that he sellsEach rustic for five sous. Desiderate aught elseO' the vendor? As you leave his show, why, joke the man!"You cheat: your six-legged sheep, I recollect, beganBoth life and trade, last year, trimmed properly and clipt,As the Twin-headed Babe, and Human Nondescript!"What does he care? You paid his price, may pass your jest.So values he repute, good fame, and all the rest!

What price should you impose, for instance, on repute,

Good fame, your own good fame and family's to boot?

Stay start of quick moustache, arrest the angry rise

Of eyebrow! All I asked is answered by surprise.

Now tell me: are you worth the cost of a cigar?

Go boldly, enter booth, disburse the coin at bar

Of doorway where presides the master of the troop,

And forthwith you survey his Graces in a group,

Live Picture, picturesque no doubt and close to life:

His sisters, right and left; the Grace in front, his wife.

Next, who is this performs the feat of the Trapeze?

Lo, she is launched, look—fie, the fairy!—how she flees

O'er all those heads thrust back,—mouths, eyes, one gape and stare,—

No scrap of skirt impedes free passage through the air,

Till, plumb on the other side, she lights and laughs again,

That fairy-form, whereof each muscle, nay, each vein

The curious may inspect,—his daughter that he sells

Each rustic for five sous. Desiderate aught else

O' the vendor? As you leave his show, why, joke the man!

"You cheat: your six-legged sheep, I recollect, began

Both life and trade, last year, trimmed properly and clipt,

As the Twin-headed Babe, and Human Nondescript!"

What does he care? You paid his price, may pass your jest.

So values he repute, good fame, and all the rest!

XII

But try another tack; say: "I indulge caprice,Who am Don and Duke, and Knight, beside, o' the Golden Fleece,And, never mind how rich. Abandon this career!Have hearth and home, nor let your womankind appearWithout as multiplied a coating as protectsAn onion from the eye! Become, in all respects,God-fearing householder, subsistent by brain-skill,Hand-labor; win your bread whatever way you will,So it be honestly,—and, while I have a purse,Means shall not lack!"—his thanks will be the roundest curseThat ever rolled from lip.

But try another tack; say: "I indulge caprice,

Who am Don and Duke, and Knight, beside, o' the Golden Fleece,

And, never mind how rich. Abandon this career!

Have hearth and home, nor let your womankind appear

Without as multiplied a coating as protects

An onion from the eye! Become, in all respects,

God-fearing householder, subsistent by brain-skill,

Hand-labor; win your bread whatever way you will,

So it be honestly,—and, while I have a purse,

Means shall not lack!"—his thanks will be the roundest curse

That ever rolled from lip.

XIII

Now, what is it?—returnsThe question—heartens so this losel that he spurnsAll we so prize? I want, put down in black and white,What compensating joy, unknown and infinite,Turns lawlessness to law, makes destitution—wealth,Vice—virtue, and disease of soul and body—health?

Now, what is it?—returns

The question—heartens so this losel that he spurns

All we so prize? I want, put down in black and white,

What compensating joy, unknown and infinite,

Turns lawlessness to law, makes destitution—wealth,

Vice—virtue, and disease of soul and body—health?

XIV

Ah, the slow shake of head, the melancholy smile,The sigh almost a sob! What's wrong, was right erewhile?Why are we two at once such ocean-width apart?Pale fingers press my arm, and sad eyes probe my heart.Why is the wife in trouble?

Ah, the slow shake of head, the melancholy smile,

The sigh almost a sob! What's wrong, was right erewhile?

Why are we two at once such ocean-width apart?

Pale fingers press my arm, and sad eyes probe my heart.

Why is the wife in trouble?

This way, this way, Fifine!Here 's she, shall make my thoughts be surer what they mean!First let me read the signs, portray you past mistakeThe gypsy's foreign self, no swarth our sun could bake.Yet where 's a woolly trace degrades the wiry hair?And note the Greek-nymph nose, and—oh, my Hebrew pairOf eye and eye—o'erarched by velvet of the mole—That swim as in a sea, that dip and rise and roll,Spilling the light around! While either ear is cutThin as a dusk-leaved rose carved from a cocoanut.And then, her neck! now, grant you had the power to deck,Just as your fancy pleased, the bistre-length of neck,Could lay, to shine against its shade, a moonlike rowOf pearls, each round and white as bubble Cupids blowBig out of mother's milk,—what pearl-moon would surpassThat string of mock-turquoise, those almandines of glass,Where girlhood terminates? for with breasts'-birth commenceThe boy, and page-costume, till pink and impudenceEnd admirably all: complete the creature tripsOur way now, brings sunshine upon her spangled hips,As here she fronts us full, with pose half-frank, half-fierce!

This way, this way, Fifine!

Here 's she, shall make my thoughts be surer what they mean!

First let me read the signs, portray you past mistake

The gypsy's foreign self, no swarth our sun could bake.

Yet where 's a woolly trace degrades the wiry hair?

And note the Greek-nymph nose, and—oh, my Hebrew pair

Of eye and eye—o'erarched by velvet of the mole—

That swim as in a sea, that dip and rise and roll,

Spilling the light around! While either ear is cut

Thin as a dusk-leaved rose carved from a cocoanut.

And then, her neck! now, grant you had the power to deck,

Just as your fancy pleased, the bistre-length of neck,

Could lay, to shine against its shade, a moonlike row

Of pearls, each round and white as bubble Cupids blow

Big out of mother's milk,—what pearl-moon would surpass

That string of mock-turquoise, those almandines of glass,

Where girlhood terminates? for with breasts'-birth commence

The boy, and page-costume, till pink and impudence

End admirably all: complete the creature trips

Our way now, brings sunshine upon her spangled hips,

As here she fronts us full, with pose half-frank, half-fierce!

XVI

Words urged in vain, Elvire! You waste your quart and tierce,Lunge at a phantom here, try fence in fairy-land.For me, I own defeat, ask but to understandThe acknowledged victory of whom I call my queen,Sexless and bloodless sprite: though mischievous and mean,Yet free and flower-like too, with loveliness for law,And self-sustainment made morality.

Words urged in vain, Elvire! You waste your quart and tierce,

Lunge at a phantom here, try fence in fairy-land.

For me, I own defeat, ask but to understand

The acknowledged victory of whom I call my queen,

Sexless and bloodless sprite: though mischievous and mean,

Yet free and flower-like too, with loveliness for law,

And self-sustainment made morality.

XVII

A flawDo you account i' the lily, of lands which travellers know,That, just as golden gloom supersedes Northern snowI' the chalice, so, about each pistil, spice is packed,—Deliriously-drugged scent, in lieu of odor lacked,With us, by bee and moth, their banquet to enhanceAt morn and eve, when dew, the chilly sustenance,Needs mixture of some chaste and temperate perfume?I ask, is she in fault who guards such golden gloom,Such dear and damning scent, by who cares what devices,And takes the idle life of insects she enticesWhen, drowned to heart's desire, they satiate the insideO' the lily, mark her wealth and manifest her pride?

A flaw

Do you account i' the lily, of lands which travellers know,

That, just as golden gloom supersedes Northern snow

I' the chalice, so, about each pistil, spice is packed,—

Deliriously-drugged scent, in lieu of odor lacked,

With us, by bee and moth, their banquet to enhance

At morn and eve, when dew, the chilly sustenance,

Needs mixture of some chaste and temperate perfume?

I ask, is she in fault who guards such golden gloom,

Such dear and damning scent, by who cares what devices,

And takes the idle life of insects she entices

When, drowned to heart's desire, they satiate the inside

O' the lily, mark her wealth and manifest her pride?

XVIII

But, wiser, we keep off, nor tempt the acrid juice;Discreet we peer and praise, put rich things to right use.No flavorous venomed bell,—the rose it is, I wot,Only the rose, we pluck and place, unwronged a jot,No worse for homage done by every devotee,I' the proper loyal throne, on breast where rose should be.Or if the simpler sweets we have to choose among,Would taste between our teeth, and give its toy the tongue,—O gorgeous poison-plague, on thee no hearts are set!We gather daisy meek, or maiden violet:I think it is Elvire we love, and not Fifine.

But, wiser, we keep off, nor tempt the acrid juice;

Discreet we peer and praise, put rich things to right use.

No flavorous venomed bell,—the rose it is, I wot,

Only the rose, we pluck and place, unwronged a jot,

No worse for homage done by every devotee,

I' the proper loyal throne, on breast where rose should be.

Or if the simpler sweets we have to choose among,

Would taste between our teeth, and give its toy the tongue,—

O gorgeous poison-plague, on thee no hearts are set!

We gather daisy meek, or maiden violet:

I think it is Elvire we love, and not Fifine.

XIX

"How does she make my thoughts be sure of what they mean?"Judge and be just! Suppose, an age and time long pastnenew for our behoof one pageant more, the lastO' the kind, sick Louis liked to see defile betweenHim and the yawning grave, its passage served to screen.With eye as gray as lead, with cheek as brown as bronze,Here where we stand, shall sit and suffer Louis Onze:The while from yonder tent parade forth, not—oh, no—Bateleurs, baladines! but range themselves a-rowThose well-sung women-worthies whereof loud fame still findsSome echo linger faint, less in our hearts than minds.

"How does she make my thoughts be sure of what they mean?"

Judge and be just! Suppose, an age and time long past

nenew for our behoof one pageant more, the last

O' the kind, sick Louis liked to see defile between

Him and the yawning grave, its passage served to screen.

With eye as gray as lead, with cheek as brown as bronze,

Here where we stand, shall sit and suffer Louis Onze:

The while from yonder tent parade forth, not—oh, no—

Bateleurs, baladines! but range themselves a-row

Those well-sung women-worthies whereof loud fame still finds

Some echo linger faint, less in our hearts than minds.

See, Helen! pushed in front o' the world's worst night and storm,By Lady Venus' hand on shoulder: the sweet formShrinkingly prominent, though mighty, like a moonOutbreaking from a cloud, to put harsh things in tune,And magically bring mankind to acquiesceIn its own ravage,—call no curse upon, but bless(Beldame, a moment since) the outbreaking beauty, now,That casts o'er all the blood a candor from her brow.See, Cleopatra! bared, the entire and sinuous wealthO' the shining shape; each orb of indolent ripe health,Captured, just where it finds a fellow-orb as fineI' the body: traced about by jewels which outline,Fire-frame, and keep distinct, perfections—lest they meltTo soft smooth unity ere half their hold be felt:Yet, o'er that white and wonder, a soul's predominanceI' the head so high and haught—except one thievish glance,From back of oblong eye, intent to count the slain.Hush,—oh, I know, Elvire! Be patient, more remain!What say you to Saint? ... Pish! Whatever Saint you please,Cold-pinnacled aloft o' the spire, prays calm the seasFrom Pornic Church, and oft at midnight (peasants say)Goes walking out to save from shipwreck: well she may!For think how many a year has she been conversantWith naught but winds and rains, sharp courtesy and scantO' the wintry snow that coats the pent-house of her shrine,Covers each knee, climbs near, but spares the smile benignWhich seems to say, "I looked for scarce so much from earth!"She follows, one long thin pure finger in the girthO' the girdle—whence the folds of garment, eye and eye,Besprent with fleurs-de-lys, flow down and multiplyAround her feet,—and one, pressed hushingly to lip:As if, while thus we made her march, some foundering shipMight miss her from her post, nearer to God halfwayIn heaven, and she inquired, "Who that treads earth can pray?I doubt if even she, the unashamed! though, sure,She must have stripped herself only to clothe the poor."

See, Helen! pushed in front o' the world's worst night and storm,

By Lady Venus' hand on shoulder: the sweet form

Shrinkingly prominent, though mighty, like a moon

Outbreaking from a cloud, to put harsh things in tune,

And magically bring mankind to acquiesce

In its own ravage,—call no curse upon, but bless

(Beldame, a moment since) the outbreaking beauty, now,

That casts o'er all the blood a candor from her brow.

See, Cleopatra! bared, the entire and sinuous wealth

O' the shining shape; each orb of indolent ripe health,

Captured, just where it finds a fellow-orb as fine

I' the body: traced about by jewels which outline,

Fire-frame, and keep distinct, perfections—lest they melt

To soft smooth unity ere half their hold be felt:

Yet, o'er that white and wonder, a soul's predominance

I' the head so high and haught—except one thievish glance,

From back of oblong eye, intent to count the slain.

Hush,—oh, I know, Elvire! Be patient, more remain!

What say you to Saint? ... Pish! Whatever Saint you please,

Cold-pinnacled aloft o' the spire, prays calm the seas

From Pornic Church, and oft at midnight (peasants say)

Goes walking out to save from shipwreck: well she may!

For think how many a year has she been conversant

With naught but winds and rains, sharp courtesy and scant

O' the wintry snow that coats the pent-house of her shrine,

Covers each knee, climbs near, but spares the smile benign

Which seems to say, "I looked for scarce so much from earth!"

She follows, one long thin pure finger in the girth

O' the girdle—whence the folds of garment, eye and eye,

Besprent with fleurs-de-lys, flow down and multiply

Around her feet,—and one, pressed hushingly to lip:

As if, while thus we made her march, some foundering ship

Might miss her from her post, nearer to God halfway

In heaven, and she inquired, "Who that treads earth can pray?

I doubt if even she, the unashamed! though, sure,

She must have stripped herself only to clothe the poor."

XXI

This time, enough 's a feast, not one more form, Elvire!Provided you allow that, bringing up the rearO' the bevy I am loth to—by one bird—curtail,First note may lead to last, an octave crown the scale,And this feminity be followed—do not flout!—By—who concludes the masque with curtsey, smile and pout,Submissive-mutinous? No other than FifinePoints toe, imposes haunch, and pleads with tambourine!

This time, enough 's a feast, not one more form, Elvire!

Provided you allow that, bringing up the rear

O' the bevy I am loth to—by one bird—curtail,

First note may lead to last, an octave crown the scale,

And this feminity be followed—do not flout!—

By—who concludes the masque with curtsey, smile and pout,

Submissive-mutinous? No other than Fifine

Points toe, imposes haunch, and pleads with tambourine!

XXII

"Well, what 's the meaning here, what does the masque intend,Which, unabridged, we saw file past us, with no endOf fair ones, till Fifine came, closed the catalogue?"

"Well, what 's the meaning here, what does the masque intend,

Which, unabridged, we saw file past us, with no end

Of fair ones, till Fifine came, closed the catalogue?"

XXIII

Task fancy yet again! Suppose you cast this clogOf flesh away (that weeps, upbraids, withstands my arm)And pass to join your peers, paragon charm with charm,As I shall show you may,—prove best of beauty there!Yourself confront yourself! This, help me to declareThat yonder-you, who stand beside these, braving eachAnd blinking none, beat her who lured to Troy-town beachThe purple prows of Greece,—nay, beat Fifine; whose face,Mark how I will inflame, when seigneur-like I placeI' the tambourine, to spot the strained and piteous blankOf pleading parchment, see, no less than a whole franc!

Task fancy yet again! Suppose you cast this clog

Of flesh away (that weeps, upbraids, withstands my arm)

And pass to join your peers, paragon charm with charm,

As I shall show you may,—prove best of beauty there!

Yourself confront yourself! This, help me to declare

That yonder-you, who stand beside these, braving each

And blinking none, beat her who lured to Troy-town beach

The purple prows of Greece,—nay, beat Fifine; whose face,

Mark how I will inflame, when seigneur-like I place

I' the tambourine, to spot the strained and piteous blank

Of pleading parchment, see, no less than a whole franc!

XXIV

Ah, do you mark the brown o' the cloud, made bright with fireThrough and through? as, old wiles succeeding to desire,Quality (you and I) once more compassionateA hapless infant, doomed (fie on such partial fate!)To sink the inborn shame, waive privilege of sex,And posture as you see, support the nods and becksOf clowns that have their stare, nor always pay its price;An infant born perchance as sensitive and niceAs any soul of you, proud dames, whom destinyKeeps uncontaminate from stigma of the styShe wallows in! You draw back skirts from filth like herWho, possibly, braves scorn, if, scorned, she ministerTo age, want, and disease of parents one or both;Nay, peradventure, stoops to degradation, lothThat some just-budding sister, the dew yet on the rose,Should have to share in turn the ignoble trade,—who knows?

Ah, do you mark the brown o' the cloud, made bright with fire

Through and through? as, old wiles succeeding to desire,

Quality (you and I) once more compassionate

A hapless infant, doomed (fie on such partial fate!)

To sink the inborn shame, waive privilege of sex,

And posture as you see, support the nods and becks

Of clowns that have their stare, nor always pay its price;

An infant born perchance as sensitive and nice

As any soul of you, proud dames, whom destiny

Keeps uncontaminate from stigma of the sty

She wallows in! You draw back skirts from filth like her

Who, possibly, braves scorn, if, scorned, she minister

To age, want, and disease of parents one or both;

Nay, peradventure, stoops to degradation, loth

That some just-budding sister, the dew yet on the rose,

Should have to share in turn the ignoble trade,—who knows?

XXV

Ay, who indeed! Myself know nothing, but dare guessThat oft she trips in haste to hand the booty ... yes,'Twixt fold and fold of tent, there looms he, dim-discerned,The ogre, lord of all those lavish limbs have earned!—Brute-beast-face,—ravage, sear, scowl and malignancy,—O' the Strong Man, whom (no doubt, her husband) by and byYou shall behold do feats: lift up nor quail beneathA quintal in each hand, a cart-wheel 'twixt his teeth.Oh, she prefers sheer strength to ineffective grace,Breeding and culture! seeks the essential in the case!To him has flown my franc; and welcome, if that squintO' the diabolic eye so soften through absinthe,That for once, tambourine, tunic and tricot 'scapeTheir customary curse "Not half the gain o' the ape!"Ay, they go in together!

Ay, who indeed! Myself know nothing, but dare guess

That oft she trips in haste to hand the booty ... yes,

'Twixt fold and fold of tent, there looms he, dim-discerned,

The ogre, lord of all those lavish limbs have earned!

—Brute-beast-face,—ravage, sear, scowl and malignancy,—

O' the Strong Man, whom (no doubt, her husband) by and by

You shall behold do feats: lift up nor quail beneath

A quintal in each hand, a cart-wheel 'twixt his teeth.

Oh, she prefers sheer strength to ineffective grace,

Breeding and culture! seeks the essential in the case!

To him has flown my franc; and welcome, if that squint

O' the diabolic eye so soften through absinthe,

That for once, tambourine, tunic and tricot 'scape

Their customary curse "Not half the gain o' the ape!"

Ay, they go in together!

XXVI

Yet still her phantom staysOpposite, where you stand: as steady 'neath our gaze,—The live Elvire's and mine,—though fancy stuff and mereIllusion; to be judged—dream-figures—without fearOr favor, those the false, by you and me the true.

Yet still her phantom stays

Opposite, where you stand: as steady 'neath our gaze,—

The live Elvire's and mine,—though fancy stuff and mere

Illusion; to be judged—dream-figures—without fear

Or favor, those the false, by you and me the true.

XXVII

"What puts it in my head to make yourself judge you?"Well, it may be, the name of Helen brought to mindA certain myth I mused in years long left behind:How she that fled from Greece with Paris whom she loved,And came to Troy, and there found shelter, and so provedSuch cause of the world's woe,—how she, old stories callThis creature, Helen's self, never saw Troy at all.Jove had his fancy-fit, must needs take empty air,Fashion her likeness forth, and set the phantom thereI' the midst for sport, to try conclusions with the blindAnd blundering race, the game create for Gods, mankind:Experiment on these,—establish who would yearnTo give up life for her, who, other-minded, spurnThe best her eyes could smile,—make half the world sublime,And half absurd, for just a phantom all the time!Meanwhile true Helen's self sat, safe and far away,By a great river-side, beneath a purer day,With solitude around, tranquillity within;Was able to lean forth, look, listen, through the dinAnd stir; could estimate the worthlessness or worthOf Helen who inspired such passion to the earth,A phantom all the time! That put it in my headTo make yourself judge you—the phantom-wife insteadO' the tearful true Elvire!

"What puts it in my head to make yourself judge you?"

Well, it may be, the name of Helen brought to mind

A certain myth I mused in years long left behind:

How she that fled from Greece with Paris whom she loved,

And came to Troy, and there found shelter, and so proved

Such cause of the world's woe,—how she, old stories call

This creature, Helen's self, never saw Troy at all.

Jove had his fancy-fit, must needs take empty air,

Fashion her likeness forth, and set the phantom there

I' the midst for sport, to try conclusions with the blind

And blundering race, the game create for Gods, mankind:

Experiment on these,—establish who would yearn

To give up life for her, who, other-minded, spurn

The best her eyes could smile,—make half the world sublime,

And half absurd, for just a phantom all the time!

Meanwhile true Helen's self sat, safe and far away,

By a great river-side, beneath a purer day,

With solitude around, tranquillity within;

Was able to lean forth, look, listen, through the din

And stir; could estimate the worthlessness or worth

Of Helen who inspired such passion to the earth,

A phantom all the time! That put it in my head

To make yourself judge you—the phantom-wife instead

O' the tearful true Elvire!

XXVIII

I thank the smile at lastWhich thins away the tear! Our sky was overcast,And something fell; but day clears up: if there chanced rain,The landscape glistens more. I have not vexed in vainElvire: because she knows, now she has stood the test,How, this and this being good, herself may still be bestO' the beauty in review; because the flesh that claimedUnduly my regard, she thought, the taste, she blamedIn me, for things externe, was all mistake, she finds,—Or will find, when I prove that bodies show me minds,That, through the outward sign, the inward grace allures,And sparks from heaven transpierce earth's coarsest covertures,All by demonstrating-the value of Fifine!

I thank the smile at last

Which thins away the tear! Our sky was overcast,

And something fell; but day clears up: if there chanced rain,

The landscape glistens more. I have not vexed in vain

Elvire: because she knows, now she has stood the test,

How, this and this being good, herself may still be best

O' the beauty in review; because the flesh that claimed

Unduly my regard, she thought, the taste, she blamed

In me, for things externe, was all mistake, she finds,—

Or will find, when I prove that bodies show me minds,

That, through the outward sign, the inward grace allures,

And sparks from heaven transpierce earth's coarsest covertures,

All by demonstrating-the value of Fifine!

XXIX

Partake my confidence! No creature 's made so meanBut that, some way, it boasts, could we investigate,Its supreme worth: fulfils, by ordinance of fate,Its momentary task, gets glory all its own,Tastes triumph in the world, pre-eminent, alone.Where is the single grain of sand, 'mid millions heaped.Confusedly on the beach, but, did we know, has leapedOr will leap, would we wait, i' the century, some once,To the very throne of things?—earth's brightest for the nonce,When sunshine shall impinge on just that grain's facetteWhich fronts him fullest, first, returns his ray with jetOf promptest praise, thanks God best in creation's name!As firm is my belief, quick sense perceives the sameSelf-vindicating flash illustrate every manAnd woman of our mass, and prove, throughout the plan,No detail but, in place allotted it, was primeAnd perfect.

Partake my confidence! No creature 's made so mean

But that, some way, it boasts, could we investigate,

Its supreme worth: fulfils, by ordinance of fate,

Its momentary task, gets glory all its own,

Tastes triumph in the world, pre-eminent, alone.

Where is the single grain of sand, 'mid millions heaped.

Confusedly on the beach, but, did we know, has leaped

Or will leap, would we wait, i' the century, some once,

To the very throne of things?—earth's brightest for the nonce,

When sunshine shall impinge on just that grain's facette

Which fronts him fullest, first, returns his ray with jet

Of promptest praise, thanks God best in creation's name!

As firm is my belief, quick sense perceives the same

Self-vindicating flash illustrate every man

And woman of our mass, and prove, throughout the plan,

No detail but, in place allotted it, was prime

And perfect.

XXX

Witness her, kept waiting all this time!What happy angle makes Fifine reverberateSunshine, least sand-grain, she, of shadiest social state?No adamantine shield, polished like Helen there,Fit to absorb the sun, regorge him till the glare,Dazing the universe, draw Troy-ward those blind beaksOf equal-sided ships rowed by the well-greaved Greeks!No Asian mirror, like yon Ptolemaic witchAble to fix sun fast and tame sun down, enrich,Not burn the world with beams thus flatteringly rolledAbout her, head to foot, turned slavish snakes of gold!And oh, no tinted pane of oriel sanctity,Does our Fifine afford, such as permits supplyOf lustrous heaven, revealed, far more than mundane sightCould master, to thy cell, pure Saint! where, else too bright,So suits thy sense the orb, that, what outside was noon,Pales, through thy lozenged blue, to meek benefic moon!What then? does that prevent each dunghill, we may passDaily, from boasting too its bit of looking-glass,Its sherd which, sun-smit, shines, shoots arrowy fire beyondThat satin-muffled mope, your sulky diamond?

Witness her, kept waiting all this time!

What happy angle makes Fifine reverberate

Sunshine, least sand-grain, she, of shadiest social state?

No adamantine shield, polished like Helen there,

Fit to absorb the sun, regorge him till the glare,

Dazing the universe, draw Troy-ward those blind beaks

Of equal-sided ships rowed by the well-greaved Greeks!

No Asian mirror, like yon Ptolemaic witch

Able to fix sun fast and tame sun down, enrich,

Not burn the world with beams thus flatteringly rolled

About her, head to foot, turned slavish snakes of gold!

And oh, no tinted pane of oriel sanctity,

Does our Fifine afford, such as permits supply

Of lustrous heaven, revealed, far more than mundane sight

Could master, to thy cell, pure Saint! where, else too bright,

So suits thy sense the orb, that, what outside was noon,

Pales, through thy lozenged blue, to meek benefic moon!

What then? does that prevent each dunghill, we may pass

Daily, from boasting too its bit of looking-glass,

Its sherd which, sun-smit, shines, shoots arrowy fire beyond

That satin-muffled mope, your sulky diamond?

XXXI

And now, the mingled ray she shoots, I decompose.Her antecedents, take for execrable! GlozeNo whit on your premiss: let be, there was no worstOf degradation spared Fifine: ordained from firstTo last, in body and soul, for one life-long debauch,The Pariah of the North, the European Nautch!This, far from seek to hide, she puts in evidenceCalmly, displays the brand, bids pry without offenceYour finger on the place. You comment, "Fancy usSo operated on, maltreated, mangled thus!Such torture in our case, had we survived an hour?Some other sort of flesh and blood must be, with powerAppropriate to the vile, unsensitive, tough-thonged,In lieu of our fine nerve! Be sure, she was not wrongedToo much: you must not think she winced at prick as we!"Come, come, that 's what you say, or would, were thoughts but free.

And now, the mingled ray she shoots, I decompose.

Her antecedents, take for execrable! Gloze

No whit on your premiss: let be, there was no worst

Of degradation spared Fifine: ordained from first

To last, in body and soul, for one life-long debauch,

The Pariah of the North, the European Nautch!

This, far from seek to hide, she puts in evidence

Calmly, displays the brand, bids pry without offence

Your finger on the place. You comment, "Fancy us

So operated on, maltreated, mangled thus!

Such torture in our case, had we survived an hour?

Some other sort of flesh and blood must be, with power

Appropriate to the vile, unsensitive, tough-thonged,

In lieu of our fine nerve! Be sure, she was not wronged

Too much: you must not think she winced at prick as we!"

Come, come, that 's what you say, or would, were thoughts but free.

XXXII

Well then, thus much confessed, what wonder if there stealUnchallenged to nay heart the force of one appealShe makes, and justice stamp the sole claim she asserts?So absolutely good is truth, truth never hurtsThe teller, whose worst crime gets somehow grace, avowed.To me, that silent pose and prayer proclaimed aloud:"Know all of me outside, the rest be emptinessFor such as you! I call attention to my dress,Coiffure, outlandish features, lithe memorable limbs,Piquant entreaty, all that eye-glance overskims.Does this give pleasure? Then, repay the pleasure, putIts price i' the tambourine! Do you seek further? Tut!I 'm just my instrument,—sound hollow: mere smooth skinStretched o'er gilt framework, I; rub-dub, naught else within—Always, for such as you!—if I have use elsewhere,If certain bells, now mute, can jingle, need you care?Be it enough, there 's truth i' the pleading, which comportsWith no word spoken out in cottages or courts,Since all I plead is, 'Pay for just the sight you see,And give no credit to another charm in me!'Do I say, like your Love? 'To praise my face is well,But, who would know my worth, must search my heart to tell!'Do I say, like your Wife? 'Had I passed in reviewThe produce of the globe, my man of men were —you!'Do I say, like your Helen? 'Yield yourself up, obeyImplicitly, nor pause to question, to surveyEven the worshipful! prostrate you at my shrine!Shall you dare controvert what the world counts divine?Array your private taste, own liking of the sense,Own longing of the soul, against the impudenceOf history, the blare and bullying of verse?As if man ever yet saw reason to disburseThe amount of what sense liked, soul longed for,—given, devisedAs love, forsooth,—until the price was recognizedAs moderate enough by divers fellow-men!Then, with his warrant safe that these would love too, then,Sure that particular gain implies a public loss,And that no smile he buys but proves a slash acrossThe face, a stab into the side of somebody—Sure that, along with love's main-purchase, he will buyUp the whole stock of earth's uncharitableness,Envy and hatred,—then, decides he to professHis estimate of one, by love discerned, though dimTo all the world beside: since what 's the world to him?'Do I say, like your Queen of Egypt? 'Who foregoesMy cup of witchcraft—fault be on the fool! He knowsNothing of how I pack my wine-press, turn its winchThree-times-three, all the time to song and dance, nor flinchFrom charming on and on, till at the last I squeezeOut the exhaustive drop that leaves behind mere leesAnd dregs, vapidity, thought essence heretofore!Sup of my sorcery, old pleasures please no more!Be great, be good, love, learn, have potency of handOr heart or head,—what boots? You die, nor understandWhat bliss might be in life: you ate the grapes, but knewNever the taste of wine, such vintage as I brew!'Do I say, like your Saint? 'An exquisitest touchBides in the birth of things: no after-time can muchEnhance that fine, that faint, fugitive first of all!What color paints the cup o' the May-rose, like the smallSuspicion of a blush which doubtfully begins?What sound outwarbles brook, while, at the source, it winsThat moss and stone dispart, allow its bubblings breathe?What taste excels the fruit, just where sharp flavors sheatheTheir sting, and let encroach the honey that allays?And so with soul and sense; when sanctity betraysFirst fear lest earth below seem real as heaven above,And holy worship, late, change soon to sinful love—Where is the plenitude of passion which enduresComparison with that, I ask of amateurs?'Do I say, like Elvire" ...

Well then, thus much confessed, what wonder if there steal

Unchallenged to nay heart the force of one appeal

She makes, and justice stamp the sole claim she asserts?

So absolutely good is truth, truth never hurts

The teller, whose worst crime gets somehow grace, avowed.

To me, that silent pose and prayer proclaimed aloud:

"Know all of me outside, the rest be emptiness

For such as you! I call attention to my dress,

Coiffure, outlandish features, lithe memorable limbs,

Piquant entreaty, all that eye-glance overskims.

Does this give pleasure? Then, repay the pleasure, put

Its price i' the tambourine! Do you seek further? Tut!

I 'm just my instrument,—sound hollow: mere smooth skin

Stretched o'er gilt framework, I; rub-dub, naught else within—

Always, for such as you!—if I have use elsewhere,

If certain bells, now mute, can jingle, need you care?

Be it enough, there 's truth i' the pleading, which comports

With no word spoken out in cottages or courts,

Since all I plead is, 'Pay for just the sight you see,

And give no credit to another charm in me!'

Do I say, like your Love? 'To praise my face is well,

But, who would know my worth, must search my heart to tell!'

Do I say, like your Wife? 'Had I passed in review

The produce of the globe, my man of men were —you!'

Do I say, like your Helen? 'Yield yourself up, obey

Implicitly, nor pause to question, to survey

Even the worshipful! prostrate you at my shrine!

Shall you dare controvert what the world counts divine?

Array your private taste, own liking of the sense,

Own longing of the soul, against the impudence

Of history, the blare and bullying of verse?

As if man ever yet saw reason to disburse

The amount of what sense liked, soul longed for,—given, devised

As love, forsooth,—until the price was recognized

As moderate enough by divers fellow-men!

Then, with his warrant safe that these would love too, then,

Sure that particular gain implies a public loss,

And that no smile he buys but proves a slash across

The face, a stab into the side of somebody—

Sure that, along with love's main-purchase, he will buy

Up the whole stock of earth's uncharitableness,

Envy and hatred,—then, decides he to profess

His estimate of one, by love discerned, though dim

To all the world beside: since what 's the world to him?'

Do I say, like your Queen of Egypt? 'Who foregoes

My cup of witchcraft—fault be on the fool! He knows

Nothing of how I pack my wine-press, turn its winch

Three-times-three, all the time to song and dance, nor flinch

From charming on and on, till at the last I squeeze

Out the exhaustive drop that leaves behind mere lees

And dregs, vapidity, thought essence heretofore!

Sup of my sorcery, old pleasures please no more!

Be great, be good, love, learn, have potency of hand

Or heart or head,—what boots? You die, nor understand

What bliss might be in life: you ate the grapes, but knew

Never the taste of wine, such vintage as I brew!'

Do I say, like your Saint? 'An exquisitest touch

Bides in the birth of things: no after-time can much

Enhance that fine, that faint, fugitive first of all!

What color paints the cup o' the May-rose, like the small

Suspicion of a blush which doubtfully begins?

What sound outwarbles brook, while, at the source, it wins

That moss and stone dispart, allow its bubblings breathe?

What taste excels the fruit, just where sharp flavors sheathe

Their sting, and let encroach the honey that allays?

And so with soul and sense; when sanctity betrays

First fear lest earth below seem real as heaven above,

And holy worship, late, change soon to sinful love—

Where is the plenitude of passion which endures

Comparison with that, I ask of amateurs?'

Do I say, like Elvire" ...

XXXIII

(Your husband holds you fast,Will have you listen, learn your character at last!)"Do I say?—like her mixed unrest and discontent,Reproachfulness and scorn, with that submission blentSo strangely, in the face, by sad smiles and gay tears,—Quiescence which attacks, rebellion which endears,—Say? 'As you loved me once, could you but love me now!Years probably have graved their passage on my brow,Lips turn more rarely red, eyes sparkle less than erst;Such tribute body pays to time; but, unamerced,The soul retains, nay, boasts old treasure multiplied.Though dew-prime flee,—mature at noonday, love defiedChance, the wind, change, the rain: love strenuous all the moreFor storm, struck deeper root and choicer fruitage bore,Despite the rocking world; yet truth struck root in vain:While tenderness bears fruit, you praise, not taste again.Why? They are yours, which once were hardly yours, might goTo grace another's ground: and then—the hopes we know,The fears we keep in mind!—when, ours to arbitrate,Your part was to bow neck, bid fall decree of fate.Then, O the knotty point—white-night's work to revolve—What meant that smile, that sigh? Not Solon's self could solve!Then, O the deep surmise what one word might express,And if what seemed her "No" may not have meant her "Yes!"Then, such annoy, for cause—calm welcome, such acquistOf rapture if, refused her arm, hand touched her wrist!Now, what 's a smile to you? Poor candle that lights upThe decent household gloom which sends you out to sup.A tear? worse! warns that health requires you keep aloofFrom nuptial chamber, since rain penetrates the roof!Soul, body got and gained, inalienably safeYour own, become despised; more worth has any waifOr stray from neighbor's pale: pouch that,—'t is pleasure, pride,Novelty, property, and larceny beside!Preposterous thought! to find no value fixed in things,To covet all you see, hear, dream of, till fate bringsAbout that, what you want, you gain; then follows change.Give you the sun to keep, forthwith must fancy range:A goodly lamp, no doubt,—yet might you catch her hairAnd capture, as she frisks, the fen-fire dancing there!What do I say? at least a meteor 's half in heaven;Provided filth but shine, my husband hankers evenAfter putridity that 's phosphorescent, cribsThe rustic's tallow-rush, makes spoil of urchins' squibs,In short, prefers to me—chaste, temperate, serene—What sputters green and blue, this fizgig called Fifine!'"

(Your husband holds you fast,

Will have you listen, learn your character at last!)

"Do I say?—like her mixed unrest and discontent,

Reproachfulness and scorn, with that submission blent

So strangely, in the face, by sad smiles and gay tears,—

Quiescence which attacks, rebellion which endears,—

Say? 'As you loved me once, could you but love me now!

Years probably have graved their passage on my brow,

Lips turn more rarely red, eyes sparkle less than erst;

Such tribute body pays to time; but, unamerced,

The soul retains, nay, boasts old treasure multiplied.

Though dew-prime flee,—mature at noonday, love defied

Chance, the wind, change, the rain: love strenuous all the more

For storm, struck deeper root and choicer fruitage bore,

Despite the rocking world; yet truth struck root in vain:

While tenderness bears fruit, you praise, not taste again.

Why? They are yours, which once were hardly yours, might go

To grace another's ground: and then—the hopes we know,

The fears we keep in mind!—when, ours to arbitrate,

Your part was to bow neck, bid fall decree of fate.

Then, O the knotty point—white-night's work to revolve—

What meant that smile, that sigh? Not Solon's self could solve!

Then, O the deep surmise what one word might express,

And if what seemed her "No" may not have meant her "Yes!"

Then, such annoy, for cause—calm welcome, such acquist

Of rapture if, refused her arm, hand touched her wrist!

Now, what 's a smile to you? Poor candle that lights up

The decent household gloom which sends you out to sup.

A tear? worse! warns that health requires you keep aloof

From nuptial chamber, since rain penetrates the roof!

Soul, body got and gained, inalienably safe

Your own, become despised; more worth has any waif

Or stray from neighbor's pale: pouch that,—'t is pleasure, pride,

Novelty, property, and larceny beside!

Preposterous thought! to find no value fixed in things,

To covet all you see, hear, dream of, till fate brings

About that, what you want, you gain; then follows change.

Give you the sun to keep, forthwith must fancy range:

A goodly lamp, no doubt,—yet might you catch her hair

And capture, as she frisks, the fen-fire dancing there!

What do I say? at least a meteor 's half in heaven;

Provided filth but shine, my husband hankers even

After putridity that 's phosphorescent, cribs

The rustic's tallow-rush, makes spoil of urchins' squibs,

In short, prefers to me—chaste, temperate, serene—

What sputters green and blue, this fizgig called Fifine!'"

XXXIV

So all your sex mistake! Strange that so plain a factShould raise such dire debate! Few families were rackedBy torture self-supplied, did Nature grant but this—That women comprehend mental analysis!

So all your sex mistake! Strange that so plain a fact

Should raise such dire debate! Few families were racked

By torture self-supplied, did Nature grant but this—

That women comprehend mental analysis!

XXXV

Elvire, do you recall when, years ago, our homeThe intimation reached, a certain pride of Rome,Authenticated piece, in the third, last and bestManner—whatever, fools and connoisseurs contest,—No particle disturbed by rude restorer's touch,The palaced picture-pearl, so long eluding clutchOf creditor, at last, the Rafael might—could weBut come to terms—change lord, pass from the Prince to me?I think you recollect my fever of a year:How the Prince would, and how he would not; now,—too dearThat promise was, he made his grandsire so long since,Rather to boast "I own a Rafael" than "am Prince!"And now, the fancy soothed—if really sell he mustHis birthright for a mess of pottage—such a thrustI' the vitals of the Prince were mollified by balm,Could he prevail upon his stomach to bear qualm,And bequeath Liberty (because a purchaserWas ready with the sum—a trifle!) yes, transferHis heart at all events to that land where, at least,Free institutions reign! And so, its price increasedFivefold (Americans are such importunates!),Soon must his Rafael start for the United States.Oh, alternating bursts of hope now, then despair!At last, the bargain 's struck, I 'm all but beggared, thereThe Rafael faces me, in fine, no dream at all,My housemate, evermore to glorify my wall.A week must pass, before heart-palpitations sink,In gloating o'er my gain, so late I edged the brinkOf doom; a fortnight more, I spend in Paradise:"Was outline e'er so true, could coloring enticeSo calm, did harmony and quiet so avail?How right, how resolute, the action tells the tale!"A month, I bid my friends congratulate their best:"You happy Don!" (to me): "The blockhead!" (to the rest):"No doubt he thinks his daub original, poor dupe!"Then I resume my life: one chamber must not coopMan's life in, though it boast a marvel like my prize.Next year, I saunter past with unaverted eyes,Nay, loll and turn my back: perchance to overlookWith relish, leaf by leaf, Doré's last picture-book.

Elvire, do you recall when, years ago, our home

The intimation reached, a certain pride of Rome,

Authenticated piece, in the third, last and best

Manner—whatever, fools and connoisseurs contest,—

No particle disturbed by rude restorer's touch,

The palaced picture-pearl, so long eluding clutch

Of creditor, at last, the Rafael might—could we

But come to terms—change lord, pass from the Prince to me?

I think you recollect my fever of a year:

How the Prince would, and how he would not; now,—too dear

That promise was, he made his grandsire so long since,

Rather to boast "I own a Rafael" than "am Prince!"

And now, the fancy soothed—if really sell he must

His birthright for a mess of pottage—such a thrust

I' the vitals of the Prince were mollified by balm,

Could he prevail upon his stomach to bear qualm,

And bequeath Liberty (because a purchaser

Was ready with the sum—a trifle!) yes, transfer

His heart at all events to that land where, at least,

Free institutions reign! And so, its price increased

Fivefold (Americans are such importunates!),

Soon must his Rafael start for the United States.

Oh, alternating bursts of hope now, then despair!

At last, the bargain 's struck, I 'm all but beggared, there

The Rafael faces me, in fine, no dream at all,

My housemate, evermore to glorify my wall.

A week must pass, before heart-palpitations sink,

In gloating o'er my gain, so late I edged the brink

Of doom; a fortnight more, I spend in Paradise:

"Was outline e'er so true, could coloring entice

So calm, did harmony and quiet so avail?

How right, how resolute, the action tells the tale!"

A month, I bid my friends congratulate their best:

"You happy Don!" (to me): "The blockhead!" (to the rest):

"No doubt he thinks his daub original, poor dupe!"

Then I resume my life: one chamber must not coop

Man's life in, though it boast a marvel like my prize.

Next year, I saunter past with unaverted eyes,

Nay, loll and turn my back: perchance to overlook

With relish, leaf by leaf, Doré's last picture-book.

XXXVI

Imagine that a voice reproached me from its frame:"Here do I hang, and may! Your Rafael, just the same,'T is only you that change; no ecstasies of yore!No purposed suicide distracts you any more!"Prompt would my answer meet such frivolous attack:"You misappropriate sensations. What men lack,And labor to obtain, is hoped and feared aboutAfter a fashion; what they once obtain, makes doubt,Expectancy's old fret and fume, henceforward void.But do they think to hold such havings unalloyedBy novel hopes and fears, of fashion just as new,To correspond i' the scale? Nowise, I promise you!Mine you are, therefore mine will be, as fit to cheerMy soul and glad my sense to-day as this-day-year.So, any sketch or scrap, pochade, caricature,Made in a moment, meant a moment to endure,I snap at, seize, enjoy, then tire of, throw aside,Find you in your old place. But if a servant cried'Fire in the gallery!'—methinks, were I engagedIn Doré, elbow-deep, picture-books million-pagedTo the four winds would pack, sped by the heartiest curseWas ever launched from lip, to strew the universe.Would not I brave the best o' the burning, bear awayEither my perfect piece in safety, or else stayAnd share its fate, be made its martyr, nor repine?Inextricably wed, such ashes mixed with mine!"

Imagine that a voice reproached me from its frame:

"Here do I hang, and may! Your Rafael, just the same,

'T is only you that change; no ecstasies of yore!

No purposed suicide distracts you any more!"

Prompt would my answer meet such frivolous attack:

"You misappropriate sensations. What men lack,

And labor to obtain, is hoped and feared about

After a fashion; what they once obtain, makes doubt,

Expectancy's old fret and fume, henceforward void.

But do they think to hold such havings unalloyed

By novel hopes and fears, of fashion just as new,

To correspond i' the scale? Nowise, I promise you!

Mine you are, therefore mine will be, as fit to cheer

My soul and glad my sense to-day as this-day-year.

So, any sketch or scrap, pochade, caricature,

Made in a moment, meant a moment to endure,

I snap at, seize, enjoy, then tire of, throw aside,

Find you in your old place. But if a servant cried

'Fire in the gallery!'—methinks, were I engaged

In Doré, elbow-deep, picture-books million-paged

To the four winds would pack, sped by the heartiest curse

Was ever launched from lip, to strew the universe.

Would not I brave the best o' the burning, bear away

Either my perfect piece in safety, or else stay

And share its fate, be made its martyr, nor repine?

Inextricably wed, such ashes mixed with mine!"

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