In brief, the man was angry with himself,With her, with all the world and much beside:And so the unseemly words were interchangedWhich crystallize what else evaporates,And make mere misty petulance grow hardAnd sharp inside each softness, heart and soul.Monsieur Léonce Miranda flung at lastOut of doors, fever-flushed: and there the SeineRolled at his feet, obsequious remedyFor fever, in a cold autumnal flow."Go and be rid of memory in a bath!"Craftily whispered Who besets the earOn such occasions.Done as soon as dreamed.Back shivers poor Léonce to bed—where else?And there he lies a month 'twixt life and death,Raving. "Remorse of conscience!" friends opine."Sirs, it may partly prove so," representsBeaumont—(the family physician, heWhom last year's Commune murdered, do you mind?)Beaumont reports, "There is some active cause,More than mere pungency of quarrel past,—Cause that keeps adding other food to fire.I hear the words and know the signs, I say!Dear Madame, you have read the Book of Saints,How Antony was tempted? As for me,Poor heathen, 't is by pictures I am taught.I say then, I see standing here,—betweenMe and my patient, and that crucifixYou very properly would interpose—A certain woman-shape, one white appeal,'Will you leave me, then, me, me, me for her?'Since cold Seine could not quench this flame, since flareOf fever does not redden it away,—Be rational, indulgent, mute—should chanceCome to the rescue—Providence, I mean—The while I blister and phlebotomize!"Well, somehow rescued by whatever power,At month's end, back again conveyed himselfMonsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags,Nay, tinder: stuff irreparably spoiled,Though kindly hand should stitch and patch its best.Clairvaux in Autumn is restorative.A friend stitched on, patched ever. All the same,Clairvaux looked grayer than a month ago.Unglossed was shrubbery, unglorifiedEach copse, so wealthy once; the garden-plots.The orchard-walks, showed dearth and dreariness.The sea lay out at distance crammed by cloudInto a leaden wedge; and sorrowfulSulked field and pasture with persistent rain.Nobody came so far from Paris now:Friends did their duty by an invalidWhose convalescence claimed entire repose.Only a single ministrant was stanchAt quiet reparation of the stuff—Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags:But she was Clara and the world beside.Another month, the year packed up his plaguesAnd sullenly departed, peddler-like,As apprehensive old-world ware might showTo disadvantage when the newcomer,Merchant of novelties, young 'Sixty-eight,With brand-new bargains, whistled o'er the lea.Things brightened somewhat o'er the Christmas hearth,As Clara plied assiduously her task."Words are but words and wind. Why let the windSing in your ear, bite, sounding, to your brain?Old folk and young folk, still at odds, of course!Age quarrels because Spring puts forth a leafWhile Winter has a mind that boughs stay bare;Or rather—worse than quarrel—age descriesPropriety in preaching life to death.'Enjoy nor youth, nor Clairvaux, nor poor me?'Dear Madame, you enjoy your age, 't is thought!Your number Thirty-three on Quai RousseauCost fifty times the price of Clairvaux, tippedEven with our prodigious Belvedere;You entertain the Curé,—we, Dumas:We play charades, while you prefer Bézique:Do lead your own life and let ours alone!Cross Old Year shall have done his worst, my friend!Here comes gay New Year with a gift, no doubt!Look up and let in light that longs to shine—One flash of light, and where will darkness hide?Your cold makes me too cold, love! Keep me warm!"Whereat Léonce Miranda raised his headFrom his two white thin hands, and forced a smile,And spoke: "I do look up, and see your lightAbove me! Let New Year contribute warmth—I shall refuse no fuel that may blaze."Nor did he. Three days after, just a sparkFrom Paris, answered by a snap at CaenOr whither reached the telegraphic wire:"Quickly to Paris! On arrival, learnWhy you are wanted!" Curt and critical!Off starts Léonce, one fear from head to foot;Caen, Rouen, Paris, as the railway helps;Then come the Quai and Number Thirty-three."What is the matter, concierge?"—a grimace!He mounts the staircase, makes for the main seatOf dreadful mystery which draws him there—Bursts in upon a bedroom known too well—There lies all left now of the mother once.Tapers define the stretch of rigid white,Nor want there ghastly velvets of the grave.A blackness sits on either side at watch,Sisters, good souls but frightful all the same,Silent: a priest is spokesman for his corpse."Dead, through Léonce Miranda! stricken downWithout a minute's warning, yesterday!What did she say to you, and you to her,Two months ago? This is the consequence!The doctors have their name for the disease;I, you, and God say—heart-break, nothing more!"Monsieur Léonce Miranda, like a stoneFell at the bedfoot and found respite so,While the priest went to tell the company.What follows you are free to disbelieve.It may be true or false that this good priestHad taken his instructions,—who shall blame?—From quite another quarter than, perchance,Monsieur Léonce Miranda might supposeWould offer solace in such pressing need.All he remembered of his kith and kinWas, they were worthily his substitutesIn commerce, did their work and drew their pay.Buttheyremembered, in addition, this—They fairly might expect inheritance,As nearest kin, called Family by lawAnd gospel both. Now, since Miranda's lifeShowed nothing like abatement of distasteFor conjugality, but preferenceContinued and confirmed of that smooth chainWhich slips and leaves no knot behind, no heir—Presumption was, the man, become mature,Would at a calculable day discardHis old and outworn ... what we blush to name,And make society the just amends;Scarce by a new attachment—Heaven forbid!Still less by lawful marriage: that 's reservedFor those who make a proper choice at first—Not try both courses and would grasp in ageThe very treasure, youth preferred to spurn!No! putting decently such thought aside,The penitent must rather give his powersTo such a reparation of the pastAs, edifying kindred, makes them rich.Now, how would it enrich prospectivelyThe Cousins, if he lavished such expenseOn Clairvaux?—pretty as a toy, but thenAs toy, so much productive and no more!If all the outcome of the goldsmith's shopWent to gild Clairvaux, where remain the fundsFor Cousinry to spread out lap and take?This must be thought of and provided for.I give it you a mere conjecture, mind!To help explain the wholesome unannouncedIntelligence, the shock that startled guilt,The scenic show, much yellow, black and whiteBy taper-shine, the nuns—portentous pair,And, more than all, the priest's admonishment—"No flattery of self! You murdered her!The gray lips, silent now, reprove by mine.You wasted all your living, riotedIn harlotry—she warned and I repeat!No warning had she, for she needed none:If this should be the last yourself receive?"Done for the best, no doubt, though clumsily,—Such, and so startling, the reception here.You hardly wonder if down fell at onceThe tawdry tent, pictorial, musical,Poetical, besprent with hearts and darts;Its cobweb-work, betinselled stitchery,Lay dust about our sleeper on the turf,And showed the outer towers distinct and dread.Senseless he fell, and long he lay, and muchSeemed salutary in his punishmentTo planners and performers of the piece.When pain ends, pardon prompt may operate.There was a good attendance close at hand,Waiting the issue in the great saloon,Cousins with consolation and advice.All things thus happily performed to point,No wonder at success commensurate.Once swooning stopped, once anguish subsequentRaved out,—a sudden resolution chilledHis blood and changed his swimming eyes to stone,As the poor fellow raised himself upright,Collected strength, looked, once for all, his look,Then, turning, put officious help asideAnd passed from out the chamber. "For affairs!"So he announced himself to the saloon:"We owe a duty to the living too!"—Monsieur Léonce Miranda tried to smile.How did the hearts of Cousinry rejoiceAt their stray sheep returning thus to fold,As, with a dignity, precision, sense,All unsuspected in the man before,Monsieur Léonce Miranda made minuteDetail of his intended scheme of lifeThenceforward and forever. "VanityWas ended: its redemption must begin—And, certain, would continue; but since lifeWas awfully uncertain—witness here!—Behooved him lose no moment but dischargeImmediate burden of the world's affairsOn backs that kindly volunteered to crouch.Cousins, with easier conscience, blamelesslyMight carry on the goldsmith's trade, in brief,Uninterfered with by its lord who lateWas used to supervise and take due tithe.A stipend now sufficed his natural need:Themselves should fix what sum allows man live.But half a dozen words concisely plainMight, first of all, make sure that, on demise,Monsieur Léonce Miranda's propertyPassed by bequeathment, every particle,To the right heirs, the cousins of his heart.As for that woman—they would understand!This was a step must take her by surprise!It were too cruel did he snatch awayDecent subsistence. She was young, and fair,And ... and attractive! Means must be suppliedTo save her from herself, and from the world,And ... from anxieties might haunt him elseWhen he were fain have other thoughts in mind."It was a sight to melt a stone, that thawOf rigid disapproval into dewOf sympathy, as each extended palmOf cousin hasted to enclose those fiveCold fingers, tendered so mistrustfully,Despairingly of condonation now!You would have thought,—at every fervent shake,In reassurance of those timid tips,—The penitent had squeezed, considerate,By way of fee into physician's handFor physicking his soul, some diamond knob.And now let pass a week. Once more beholdThe same assemblage in the same saloon,Waiting the entry of protagonistMonsieur Léonce Miranda. "Just a weekSince the death-day,—was ever man transformedLike this man?" questioned cousin of his mate.Last seal to the repentance had been setThree days before, at Sceaux in neighborhoodOf Paris where they laid with funeral pompMother by father. Let me spare the rest:How the poor fellow, in his misery,Buried hot face and bosom, where heaped snowOffered assistance, at the grave's black edge,And there lay, till uprooted by main forceFrom where he prayed to grow and ne'er againWalk earth unworthily as heretofore.It is not with impunity priests teachThe doctrine he was dosed with from his youth—"Pain to the body—profit to the soul;Corporeal pleasure—so much woe to payWhen disembodied spirit gives account."However, woe had done its worst, this time.Three days allow subsidence of much grief.Already, regular and equable,Forward went purpose to effect. At onceThe testament was written, signed and sealed.Disposer of the commerce—that took time,And would not suffer by a week's delay;But the immediate, the imperious need,The call demanding of the CousinryCo-operation, what convened them thus,Was—how and when should deputation marchTo Coliseum Street, the old abodeOf wickedness, and there acquaint—oh, shame!Her, its old inmate, who had followed upAnd lay in wait in the old haunt for prey—That they had rescued, they possessed Léonce,Whose loathing at recapture equalled theirs—Upbraid that sinner with her sinfulness,Impart the fellow-sinner's firm resolveNever to set eyes on her face again:Then, after stipulations strict but just,Hand her the first instalment—moderateEnough, no question—of her salary:Admonish for the future, and so end.—All which good purposes, decided onSufficiently, were waiting full effectWhen presently the culprit should appear.Somehow appearance was delayed too long;Chatting and chirping sunk inconsciouslyTo silence, nay, uneasiness, at lengthAlarm, till—anything for certitude!—A peeper was commissioned to explore,At keyhole, what the laggard's task might be—What caused so palpable a disrespect!Back came the tiptoe cousin from his quest."Monsieur Léonce was busy," he believed,"Contemplating—those love-letters, perhaps,He always carried, as if precious stones,About with him. He read, one after one,Some sort of letters. But his back was turned.The empty coffer open at his side,He leant on elbow by the mantelpieceBefore the hearth-fire; big and blazing too.""Better he shovelled them all in at once,And burned the rubbish!" was a cousin's quip,Warming his own hands at the fire the while,I told you, snow had fallen outside, I think.When suddenly a cry, a host of cries,Screams, hubbub and confusion thrilled the room.All by a common impulse rushed thence, reachedThe late death-chamber, tricked with trappings still,Skulls, crossbones, and such moral broidery.Madame Muhlhausen might have played the witch,Dropped down the chimney and appalled LéonceBy some proposal, "Parting touch of hand!"If she but touched his foolish hand, you know!Something had happened quite contrariwise.Monsieur Léonce Miranda, one by one,Had read the letters and the love they held,And, that task finished, had required his soulTo answer frankly what the prospect seemedOf his own love's departure—pledged to part!Then, answer being unmistakable,He had replaced the letters quietly,Shut coffer, and so, grasping either sideBy its convenient handle, plunged the whole—Letters and coffer and both hands to boot—Into the burning grate and held them there."Burn, burn, and purify my past!" said he,Calmly, as if he felt no pain at all.In vain they pulled him from the torture-place:The strong man, with the soul of tenfold strength,Broke from their clutch: and there again smiled he,The miserable hands re-bathed in fire—Constant to that ejaculation, "Burn,Burn, purify!" And when, combining force.They fairly dragged the victim out of reachOf further harm, he had no hands to hurt—Two horrible remains of right and left,"Whereof the bones, phalanges formerly,Carbonized, were still crackling with the flame,"Said Beaumont. And he fought them all the while:"Why am I hindered when I would be pure?Why leave the sacrifice still incomplete?She holds me, I must have more hands to burn!"They were the stronger, though, and bound him fast.Beaumont was in attendance presently."What did I tell you? Preachment to the deaf!I wish he had been deafer when they preached,Those priests! But wait till next Republic comes!"As for Léonce, a single sentimentPossessed his soul and occupied his tongue—Absolute satisfaction at the deed.Never he varied, 't is observable,Nor in the stage of agonies (which provedAbsent without leave,—science seemed to think),Nor yet in those three months' febricityWhich followed,—never did he vary tale—Remaining happy beyond utterance."Ineffable beatitude"—I quoteThe words, I cannot give the smile—"such blissAbolished pain! Pain might or might not be:He felt in heaven, where flesh desists to fret.Purified now and henceforth, all the pastReduced to ashes with the flesh defiled!Why all those anxious faces round his bed?What was to pity in their patient, pray,When doctor came and went, and Cousins watched?—Kindness, but in pure waste!" he said and smiled.And if a trouble would at times disturbThe ambrosial mood, it came from other sourceThan the corporeal transitory pang."If sacrifice be incomplete!" cried he—"If ashes have not sunk reduced to dust,To nullity! If atoms coalesceTill something grow, grow, get to be a shapeI hate, I hoped to burn away from me!She is my body, she and I are one,Yet, all the same, there, there at bedfoot standsThe woman wound about my flesh and blood,There, the arms open, the more wonderful,The whiter for the burning ... Vanish thou!Avaunt, fiend's self found in the form I wore!""Whereat," said Beaumont, "since his hands were gone,The patient in a frenzy kicked and kickedTo keep off some imagined visitant.So will it prove as long as priests may preachSpiritual terrors!" groaned the evidenceOf Beaumont that his patient was stark mad—Produced in time and place: of which anon."Mad, or why thus insensible to pain?Body and soul are one thing, with two namesFor more or less elaborated stuff."Such is the newReligio Medici.Though antiquated faith held otherwise,Explained that body is not soul, but justSoul's servant: that, if soul be satisfied,Possess already joy or pain enough,It uses to ignore, as master may,What increase, joy or pain, its servant brings—Superfluous contribution: soul, once served,Has naught to do with body's service more.Each, speculated on exclusively,As if its office were the only one,Body or soul, either shows service paidIn joy and pain, that 's blind and objectless—A servant's toiling for no master's good—Or else shows good received and put to use,As if within soul's self grew joy and pain,Nor needed body for a ministrant.I note these old unscientific ways:Poor Beaumont cannot: for the Commune ruledNext year, and ere they shot his priests, shot him.Monsieur Léonce Miranda raved himselfTo rest; lay three long months in bliss or bale,Inactive, anyhow: more need that heirs,His natural protectors, should assumeThe management, bestir their cousinship,And carry out that purpose of reformSuch tragic work now made imperative.A deputation, with austerity,Nay, sternness, bore her sentence to the fiendAforesaid,—she at watch for turn of wheelAnd fortune's favor, Street—you know the name.A certain roughness seemed appropriate: "You—Steiner, Muhlhausen, whatsoe'er your name,Cause whole and sole of this catastrophe!"—And so forth, introduced the embassage."Monsieur Léonce Miranda was divorcedOnce and forever from his—ugly word.Himself had gone for good to Portugal;They came empowered to act and stipulate.Hold! no discussion! Terms were settled now:So much of present and prospective pay,But also—good engagement in plain termsShe never seek renewal of the past!"This little harmless tale produced effect.Madame Muhlhausen owned her sentence just,Its execution gentle. "Stern their phrase,These kinsfolk with a right she recognized—But kind its import probably, which nowHer agitation, her bewilderment,Rendered too hard to understand, perhaps.Let them accord the natural delay,And she would ponder and decide. Meantime,So far was she from wish to follow friendWho fled her, that she would not budge from place—Now that her friend was fled to Portugal,—Never!Sheleave this Coliseum Street?No, not a footstep!" she assured them.So—They saw they might have left that tale untoldWhen, after some weeks more were gone to waste,Recovery seemed incontestable,And the poor mutilated figure, onceThe gay and glancing fortunate young spark,Miranda, humble and obedient tookThe doctor's counsel, issued sad and slowFrom precincts of the sick-room, tottered down,And out, and into carriage for fresh air,And so drove straight to Coliseum Street,And tottered upstairs, knocked, and in a triceWas clasped in the embrace of whom you know—With much asseveration, I omit,Of constancy henceforth till life should end.When all this happened,—"What reward," cried she,"For judging her Miranda by herself!For never having entertained a thoughtOf breaking promise, leaving home forsooth,To follow who was fled to Portugal!As if she thought they spoke a word of truth!She knew what love was, knew that he loved her;The Cousinry knew nothing of the kind."I will not scandalize you and recountHow matters made the morning pass away.Not one reproach, not one acknowledgment,One explanation: all was understood!Matters at end, the home-uneasinessCousins were feeling at this jaunt prolongedWas ended also by the entry of—Not simply him whose exit had been madeBy mild command of doctor "Out with you!I warrant we receive another man!"But—would that I could say, the married pair!And, quite another man assuredly,Monsieur Léonce Miranda took on himForthwith to bid the trio, priest and nuns,Constant in their attendance all this while,Take his thanks and their own departure too;Politely but emphatically. Next,The Cousins were dismissed: "No protest, pray!Whatever I engaged to do is done,Or shall be—I but follow your advice:Love I abjure: the lady, you behold,Is changed as I myself; her sex is changed:This is my Brother—He will tend me now,Be all my world henceforth as brother should.Gentlemen, of a kinship I revere,Your interest in trade is laudable;I purpose to indulge it: manage mine,My goldsmith-business in the Place Vendôme,Wholly—through purchase at the price adjudgedBy experts I shall have assistance from.If, in conformity with sage advice,I leave a busy world of interestsI own myself unfit for—yours the careThat any world of other aims, whereinI hope to dwell, be easy of accessThrough ministration of the moneys due,As we determine, with all proper speed,Since I leave Paris to repair my health.Say farewell to our Cousins, Brother mine!"And, all submissiveness, as brother might,The lady curtsied gracefully, and droptMore than mere curtsey, a concluding phraseSo silver-soft, yet penetrative too,That none of it escaped the favored ears:"Had I but credited one syllable,I should to-day be lying stretched on straw,The produce of your miserablerente!Whereas, I hold him—do you comprehend?"Cousin regarded cousin, turned up eye,And took departure, as our Tuscans laugh,Each with his added palm-breadth of long nose,—Curtailed but imperceptibly, next week,When transfer was accomplished, and the tradeIn Paris did indeed become their own,But bought by them and sold by him on terms'Twixt man and man,—might serve 'twixt wolf and wolf,Substitute "bit and clawed" for "signed and sealed"—Our ordinary business-terms, in short.Another week, and Clairvaux broke in bloomAt end of April, to receive againMonsieur Léonce Miranda, gentleman,Ex-jeweller and goldsmith: never more—According to the purpose he professed—To quit this paradise, his property,This Clara, his companion: so it proved.The Cousins, each with elongated nose,Discussed their bargain, reconciled them soonTo hard necessity, disbursed the cash,And hastened to subjoin, wherever typeProclaimed "Miranda" to the public, "CalledNow Firm-Miranda." There, a colony,They flourish underneath the name that stillMaintains the old repute, I understand.They built their Clairvaux, dream-Château, in Spain,Perhaps—but Place Vendôme is waking worth:Oh, they lost little!—only, man and manHardly conclude transactions of the kindAs cousin should with cousin,—cousins think.For the rest, all was honorably done,So, ere buds break to blossom, let us breathe!Never suppose there was one particleOf recrudescence—wound, half-healed before,Set freshly running—sin, repressed as such,New loosened as necessity of life!In all this revocation and resolve,Far be sin's self-indulgence from your thought!The man had simply made discovery,By process I respect if not admire,That what was, was:—that turf, his feet had touched,Felt solid just as much as yonder towersHe saw with eyes, but did not stand upon,And could not, if he would, reach in a leap.People had told him flowery turf was falseTo footstep, tired the traveller soon, beside:That was untrue. They told him "One fair stridePlants on safe platform, and secures man rest."That was untrue. Some varied the advice:"Neither was solid, towers no more than turf:"Double assertion, therefore twice as false."I like these amateurs"—our friend had laughed,Could he turn what he felt to what he thought,And, that again, to what he put in words:"I like their pretty trial, proof of pasteOr precious stone, by delicate approachOf eye askance, fine feel of finger-tip,Or touch of tongue inquisitive for cold.I tried my jewels in a crucible:Fierce fire has felt them, licked them, left them sound.Don't tell me that my earthly love is sham,My heavenly fear a clever counterfeit!Each may oppose each, yet be true alike!"To build up, independent of the towers,A durable pavilion o'er the turf,Had issued in disaster. "What remainedExcept, by tunnel, or else gallery,To keep communication 'twixt the two,Unite the opposites, both near and far,And never try complete abandonmentOf one or other?" so he thought, not said.And to such engineering feat, I say,Monsieur Léonce Miranda saw the meansPrecisely in this revocation promptOf just those benefits of worldly wealthConferred upon his Cousinry—all but!This Clairvaux—you would know, were you at topOf yonder crowning grace, its Belvedere—Is situate in one angle-niche of three,At equidistance from Saint-Rambert—thereBehind you, and The Ravissante, beside—There: steeple, steeple, and this Clairvaux-top(A sort of steeple) constitute a trine,With not a tenement to break each side,Two miles or so in length, if eye can judge.Now this is native land of miracle.Oh, why, why, why, from all recorded time,Was miracle not wrought once, only once,To help whoever wanted help indeed?If on the day when Spring's green girlishnessGrew nubile, and she trembled into May,And our Miranda climbed to clasp the SpringA-tiptoe o'er the sea, those wafts of warmth,Those cloudlets scudding under the bare blue,And all that new sun, that fresh hope aboutHis airy place of observation,—friend,Feel with me that if just then, just for once,Some angel,—such as the authentic penYonder records a daily visitantOf ploughman Claude, rheumatic in the joints,And spinster Jeanne, with megrim troubled sore,—If such an angel, with naught else to do,Had taken station on the pinnacleAnd simply said, "Léonce, look straight before!Neither to right hand nor to left: for why?Being a stupid soul, you want a guideTo turn the goodness in you to accountAnd make stupidity submit itself.Go to Saint-Rambert! Straightway get such guide!There stands a man of men. You, jeweller,Must needs have heard how once the biggest blockOf diamond now in Europe lay exposed'Mid specimens of stone and earth and ore,On huckster's stall,—Navona names the Square,And Rome the city for the incident,—Labelled 'quartz-crystal, price one halfpenny.'Haste and secure that ha'p'worth, on your life!That man will read you rightly head to foot,Mark the brown face of you, the bushy beard,The breadth 'twixt shoulderblades, and through each blackCastilian orbit, see into your soul.Talk to him for five minutes—nonsense, sense,No matter what—describe your horse, your hound,—Give your opinion of the policyOf Monsieur Rouher,—will he succor Rome?Your estimate of what may outcome beFrom Œcumenical Assemblage there!After which samples of intelligence,Rapidly run through those events you callYour past life, tell what once you tried to do,What you intend on doing this next May!There he stands, reads an English newspaper,Stock-still, and now, again upon the move,Paces the beach to taste the Spring, like you,Since both are human beings in God's eye.He will have understood you, I engage.Endeavor, for your part, to understandHe knows more, and loves better, than the worldThat never heard his name, and never may.He will have recognized, ere breath be spentAnd speech at end, how much that 's good in man,And generous, and self-devoting, makesMonsieur Léonce Miranda worth his help;While sounding to the bottom ignoranceHistorical and philosophicalAnd moral and religious, all one couchOf crassitude, a portent of its kind.Then, just as he would pityingly teachYour body to repair maltreatment, giveAdvice that you should make those stumps to stirWith artificial hands of caoutchouc,So would he soon supply your crippled soulWith crutches, from his own intelligence,Able to help you onward in the pathOf rectitude whereto your face is set,And counsel justice—to yourself, the first,To your associate, very like a wifeOr something better,—to the world at large,Friends, strangers, horses, hounds, and Cousinry—All which amount of justice will includeJustice to God. Go and consult his voice!"Since angel would not say this simple truth,What hinders that my heart relieve itself,Milsand, who makest warm my wintry world,And wise my heaven, if there we consort too?Monsieur Léonce Miranda turned, alas,Or was turned, by no angel, t' other way,And got him guidance of The Ravissante.Now, into the originals of faith,Yours, mine, Miranda's, no inquiry here!Of faith, as apprehended by mankind,The causes, were they caught and catalogued,Would too distract, too desperately foilInquirer. How may analyst reduceQuantities to exact their opposites,Value to zero, then bring zero backTo value of supreme preponderance?How substitute thing meant for thing expressed?Detect the wire-thread through that fluffy silkMen call their rope, their real compulsive power?Suppose effected such anatomy,And demonstration made of what beliefHas moved believer—were the consequenceReward at all? would each man straight deduce,From proved reality of cause, effectConformable—believe and unbelieveAccording to your True thus disengagedFrom all his heap of False called reason first?No: hand once used to hold a soft thick twist,Cannot now grope its way by wire alone:Childhood may catch the knack, scarce Youth, not Age!That 's the reply rewards you. Just as wellRemonstrate to yon peasant in the blouseThat, had he justified the true intentOf Nature who composed him thus and thus,Weakly or strongly, here he would not standStruggling with uncongenial earth and sky,But elsewhere tread the surface of the globe,Since one meridian suits the faulty lungs,Another bids the sluggish liver work."Here I was born, for better or for worse:I did not choose a climate for myself;Admit, my life were healthy, led elsewhere,"(He answers,) "how am I to migrate, pray?"
In brief, the man was angry with himself,With her, with all the world and much beside:And so the unseemly words were interchangedWhich crystallize what else evaporates,And make mere misty petulance grow hardAnd sharp inside each softness, heart and soul.Monsieur Léonce Miranda flung at lastOut of doors, fever-flushed: and there the SeineRolled at his feet, obsequious remedyFor fever, in a cold autumnal flow."Go and be rid of memory in a bath!"Craftily whispered Who besets the earOn such occasions.Done as soon as dreamed.Back shivers poor Léonce to bed—where else?And there he lies a month 'twixt life and death,Raving. "Remorse of conscience!" friends opine."Sirs, it may partly prove so," representsBeaumont—(the family physician, heWhom last year's Commune murdered, do you mind?)Beaumont reports, "There is some active cause,More than mere pungency of quarrel past,—Cause that keeps adding other food to fire.I hear the words and know the signs, I say!Dear Madame, you have read the Book of Saints,How Antony was tempted? As for me,Poor heathen, 't is by pictures I am taught.I say then, I see standing here,—betweenMe and my patient, and that crucifixYou very properly would interpose—A certain woman-shape, one white appeal,'Will you leave me, then, me, me, me for her?'Since cold Seine could not quench this flame, since flareOf fever does not redden it away,—Be rational, indulgent, mute—should chanceCome to the rescue—Providence, I mean—The while I blister and phlebotomize!"Well, somehow rescued by whatever power,At month's end, back again conveyed himselfMonsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags,Nay, tinder: stuff irreparably spoiled,Though kindly hand should stitch and patch its best.Clairvaux in Autumn is restorative.A friend stitched on, patched ever. All the same,Clairvaux looked grayer than a month ago.Unglossed was shrubbery, unglorifiedEach copse, so wealthy once; the garden-plots.The orchard-walks, showed dearth and dreariness.The sea lay out at distance crammed by cloudInto a leaden wedge; and sorrowfulSulked field and pasture with persistent rain.Nobody came so far from Paris now:Friends did their duty by an invalidWhose convalescence claimed entire repose.Only a single ministrant was stanchAt quiet reparation of the stuff—Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags:But she was Clara and the world beside.Another month, the year packed up his plaguesAnd sullenly departed, peddler-like,As apprehensive old-world ware might showTo disadvantage when the newcomer,Merchant of novelties, young 'Sixty-eight,With brand-new bargains, whistled o'er the lea.Things brightened somewhat o'er the Christmas hearth,As Clara plied assiduously her task."Words are but words and wind. Why let the windSing in your ear, bite, sounding, to your brain?Old folk and young folk, still at odds, of course!Age quarrels because Spring puts forth a leafWhile Winter has a mind that boughs stay bare;Or rather—worse than quarrel—age descriesPropriety in preaching life to death.'Enjoy nor youth, nor Clairvaux, nor poor me?'Dear Madame, you enjoy your age, 't is thought!Your number Thirty-three on Quai RousseauCost fifty times the price of Clairvaux, tippedEven with our prodigious Belvedere;You entertain the Curé,—we, Dumas:We play charades, while you prefer Bézique:Do lead your own life and let ours alone!Cross Old Year shall have done his worst, my friend!Here comes gay New Year with a gift, no doubt!Look up and let in light that longs to shine—One flash of light, and where will darkness hide?Your cold makes me too cold, love! Keep me warm!"Whereat Léonce Miranda raised his headFrom his two white thin hands, and forced a smile,And spoke: "I do look up, and see your lightAbove me! Let New Year contribute warmth—I shall refuse no fuel that may blaze."Nor did he. Three days after, just a sparkFrom Paris, answered by a snap at CaenOr whither reached the telegraphic wire:"Quickly to Paris! On arrival, learnWhy you are wanted!" Curt and critical!Off starts Léonce, one fear from head to foot;Caen, Rouen, Paris, as the railway helps;Then come the Quai and Number Thirty-three."What is the matter, concierge?"—a grimace!He mounts the staircase, makes for the main seatOf dreadful mystery which draws him there—Bursts in upon a bedroom known too well—There lies all left now of the mother once.Tapers define the stretch of rigid white,Nor want there ghastly velvets of the grave.A blackness sits on either side at watch,Sisters, good souls but frightful all the same,Silent: a priest is spokesman for his corpse."Dead, through Léonce Miranda! stricken downWithout a minute's warning, yesterday!What did she say to you, and you to her,Two months ago? This is the consequence!The doctors have their name for the disease;I, you, and God say—heart-break, nothing more!"Monsieur Léonce Miranda, like a stoneFell at the bedfoot and found respite so,While the priest went to tell the company.What follows you are free to disbelieve.It may be true or false that this good priestHad taken his instructions,—who shall blame?—From quite another quarter than, perchance,Monsieur Léonce Miranda might supposeWould offer solace in such pressing need.All he remembered of his kith and kinWas, they were worthily his substitutesIn commerce, did their work and drew their pay.Buttheyremembered, in addition, this—They fairly might expect inheritance,As nearest kin, called Family by lawAnd gospel both. Now, since Miranda's lifeShowed nothing like abatement of distasteFor conjugality, but preferenceContinued and confirmed of that smooth chainWhich slips and leaves no knot behind, no heir—Presumption was, the man, become mature,Would at a calculable day discardHis old and outworn ... what we blush to name,And make society the just amends;Scarce by a new attachment—Heaven forbid!Still less by lawful marriage: that 's reservedFor those who make a proper choice at first—Not try both courses and would grasp in ageThe very treasure, youth preferred to spurn!No! putting decently such thought aside,The penitent must rather give his powersTo such a reparation of the pastAs, edifying kindred, makes them rich.Now, how would it enrich prospectivelyThe Cousins, if he lavished such expenseOn Clairvaux?—pretty as a toy, but thenAs toy, so much productive and no more!If all the outcome of the goldsmith's shopWent to gild Clairvaux, where remain the fundsFor Cousinry to spread out lap and take?This must be thought of and provided for.I give it you a mere conjecture, mind!To help explain the wholesome unannouncedIntelligence, the shock that startled guilt,The scenic show, much yellow, black and whiteBy taper-shine, the nuns—portentous pair,And, more than all, the priest's admonishment—"No flattery of self! You murdered her!The gray lips, silent now, reprove by mine.You wasted all your living, riotedIn harlotry—she warned and I repeat!No warning had she, for she needed none:If this should be the last yourself receive?"Done for the best, no doubt, though clumsily,—Such, and so startling, the reception here.You hardly wonder if down fell at onceThe tawdry tent, pictorial, musical,Poetical, besprent with hearts and darts;Its cobweb-work, betinselled stitchery,Lay dust about our sleeper on the turf,And showed the outer towers distinct and dread.Senseless he fell, and long he lay, and muchSeemed salutary in his punishmentTo planners and performers of the piece.When pain ends, pardon prompt may operate.There was a good attendance close at hand,Waiting the issue in the great saloon,Cousins with consolation and advice.All things thus happily performed to point,No wonder at success commensurate.Once swooning stopped, once anguish subsequentRaved out,—a sudden resolution chilledHis blood and changed his swimming eyes to stone,As the poor fellow raised himself upright,Collected strength, looked, once for all, his look,Then, turning, put officious help asideAnd passed from out the chamber. "For affairs!"So he announced himself to the saloon:"We owe a duty to the living too!"—Monsieur Léonce Miranda tried to smile.How did the hearts of Cousinry rejoiceAt their stray sheep returning thus to fold,As, with a dignity, precision, sense,All unsuspected in the man before,Monsieur Léonce Miranda made minuteDetail of his intended scheme of lifeThenceforward and forever. "VanityWas ended: its redemption must begin—And, certain, would continue; but since lifeWas awfully uncertain—witness here!—Behooved him lose no moment but dischargeImmediate burden of the world's affairsOn backs that kindly volunteered to crouch.Cousins, with easier conscience, blamelesslyMight carry on the goldsmith's trade, in brief,Uninterfered with by its lord who lateWas used to supervise and take due tithe.A stipend now sufficed his natural need:Themselves should fix what sum allows man live.But half a dozen words concisely plainMight, first of all, make sure that, on demise,Monsieur Léonce Miranda's propertyPassed by bequeathment, every particle,To the right heirs, the cousins of his heart.As for that woman—they would understand!This was a step must take her by surprise!It were too cruel did he snatch awayDecent subsistence. She was young, and fair,And ... and attractive! Means must be suppliedTo save her from herself, and from the world,And ... from anxieties might haunt him elseWhen he were fain have other thoughts in mind."It was a sight to melt a stone, that thawOf rigid disapproval into dewOf sympathy, as each extended palmOf cousin hasted to enclose those fiveCold fingers, tendered so mistrustfully,Despairingly of condonation now!You would have thought,—at every fervent shake,In reassurance of those timid tips,—The penitent had squeezed, considerate,By way of fee into physician's handFor physicking his soul, some diamond knob.And now let pass a week. Once more beholdThe same assemblage in the same saloon,Waiting the entry of protagonistMonsieur Léonce Miranda. "Just a weekSince the death-day,—was ever man transformedLike this man?" questioned cousin of his mate.Last seal to the repentance had been setThree days before, at Sceaux in neighborhoodOf Paris where they laid with funeral pompMother by father. Let me spare the rest:How the poor fellow, in his misery,Buried hot face and bosom, where heaped snowOffered assistance, at the grave's black edge,And there lay, till uprooted by main forceFrom where he prayed to grow and ne'er againWalk earth unworthily as heretofore.It is not with impunity priests teachThe doctrine he was dosed with from his youth—"Pain to the body—profit to the soul;Corporeal pleasure—so much woe to payWhen disembodied spirit gives account."However, woe had done its worst, this time.Three days allow subsidence of much grief.Already, regular and equable,Forward went purpose to effect. At onceThe testament was written, signed and sealed.Disposer of the commerce—that took time,And would not suffer by a week's delay;But the immediate, the imperious need,The call demanding of the CousinryCo-operation, what convened them thus,Was—how and when should deputation marchTo Coliseum Street, the old abodeOf wickedness, and there acquaint—oh, shame!Her, its old inmate, who had followed upAnd lay in wait in the old haunt for prey—That they had rescued, they possessed Léonce,Whose loathing at recapture equalled theirs—Upbraid that sinner with her sinfulness,Impart the fellow-sinner's firm resolveNever to set eyes on her face again:Then, after stipulations strict but just,Hand her the first instalment—moderateEnough, no question—of her salary:Admonish for the future, and so end.—All which good purposes, decided onSufficiently, were waiting full effectWhen presently the culprit should appear.Somehow appearance was delayed too long;Chatting and chirping sunk inconsciouslyTo silence, nay, uneasiness, at lengthAlarm, till—anything for certitude!—A peeper was commissioned to explore,At keyhole, what the laggard's task might be—What caused so palpable a disrespect!Back came the tiptoe cousin from his quest."Monsieur Léonce was busy," he believed,"Contemplating—those love-letters, perhaps,He always carried, as if precious stones,About with him. He read, one after one,Some sort of letters. But his back was turned.The empty coffer open at his side,He leant on elbow by the mantelpieceBefore the hearth-fire; big and blazing too.""Better he shovelled them all in at once,And burned the rubbish!" was a cousin's quip,Warming his own hands at the fire the while,I told you, snow had fallen outside, I think.When suddenly a cry, a host of cries,Screams, hubbub and confusion thrilled the room.All by a common impulse rushed thence, reachedThe late death-chamber, tricked with trappings still,Skulls, crossbones, and such moral broidery.Madame Muhlhausen might have played the witch,Dropped down the chimney and appalled LéonceBy some proposal, "Parting touch of hand!"If she but touched his foolish hand, you know!Something had happened quite contrariwise.Monsieur Léonce Miranda, one by one,Had read the letters and the love they held,And, that task finished, had required his soulTo answer frankly what the prospect seemedOf his own love's departure—pledged to part!Then, answer being unmistakable,He had replaced the letters quietly,Shut coffer, and so, grasping either sideBy its convenient handle, plunged the whole—Letters and coffer and both hands to boot—Into the burning grate and held them there."Burn, burn, and purify my past!" said he,Calmly, as if he felt no pain at all.In vain they pulled him from the torture-place:The strong man, with the soul of tenfold strength,Broke from their clutch: and there again smiled he,The miserable hands re-bathed in fire—Constant to that ejaculation, "Burn,Burn, purify!" And when, combining force.They fairly dragged the victim out of reachOf further harm, he had no hands to hurt—Two horrible remains of right and left,"Whereof the bones, phalanges formerly,Carbonized, were still crackling with the flame,"Said Beaumont. And he fought them all the while:"Why am I hindered when I would be pure?Why leave the sacrifice still incomplete?She holds me, I must have more hands to burn!"They were the stronger, though, and bound him fast.Beaumont was in attendance presently."What did I tell you? Preachment to the deaf!I wish he had been deafer when they preached,Those priests! But wait till next Republic comes!"As for Léonce, a single sentimentPossessed his soul and occupied his tongue—Absolute satisfaction at the deed.Never he varied, 't is observable,Nor in the stage of agonies (which provedAbsent without leave,—science seemed to think),Nor yet in those three months' febricityWhich followed,—never did he vary tale—Remaining happy beyond utterance."Ineffable beatitude"—I quoteThe words, I cannot give the smile—"such blissAbolished pain! Pain might or might not be:He felt in heaven, where flesh desists to fret.Purified now and henceforth, all the pastReduced to ashes with the flesh defiled!Why all those anxious faces round his bed?What was to pity in their patient, pray,When doctor came and went, and Cousins watched?—Kindness, but in pure waste!" he said and smiled.And if a trouble would at times disturbThe ambrosial mood, it came from other sourceThan the corporeal transitory pang."If sacrifice be incomplete!" cried he—"If ashes have not sunk reduced to dust,To nullity! If atoms coalesceTill something grow, grow, get to be a shapeI hate, I hoped to burn away from me!She is my body, she and I are one,Yet, all the same, there, there at bedfoot standsThe woman wound about my flesh and blood,There, the arms open, the more wonderful,The whiter for the burning ... Vanish thou!Avaunt, fiend's self found in the form I wore!""Whereat," said Beaumont, "since his hands were gone,The patient in a frenzy kicked and kickedTo keep off some imagined visitant.So will it prove as long as priests may preachSpiritual terrors!" groaned the evidenceOf Beaumont that his patient was stark mad—Produced in time and place: of which anon."Mad, or why thus insensible to pain?Body and soul are one thing, with two namesFor more or less elaborated stuff."Such is the newReligio Medici.Though antiquated faith held otherwise,Explained that body is not soul, but justSoul's servant: that, if soul be satisfied,Possess already joy or pain enough,It uses to ignore, as master may,What increase, joy or pain, its servant brings—Superfluous contribution: soul, once served,Has naught to do with body's service more.Each, speculated on exclusively,As if its office were the only one,Body or soul, either shows service paidIn joy and pain, that 's blind and objectless—A servant's toiling for no master's good—Or else shows good received and put to use,As if within soul's self grew joy and pain,Nor needed body for a ministrant.I note these old unscientific ways:Poor Beaumont cannot: for the Commune ruledNext year, and ere they shot his priests, shot him.Monsieur Léonce Miranda raved himselfTo rest; lay three long months in bliss or bale,Inactive, anyhow: more need that heirs,His natural protectors, should assumeThe management, bestir their cousinship,And carry out that purpose of reformSuch tragic work now made imperative.A deputation, with austerity,Nay, sternness, bore her sentence to the fiendAforesaid,—she at watch for turn of wheelAnd fortune's favor, Street—you know the name.A certain roughness seemed appropriate: "You—Steiner, Muhlhausen, whatsoe'er your name,Cause whole and sole of this catastrophe!"—And so forth, introduced the embassage."Monsieur Léonce Miranda was divorcedOnce and forever from his—ugly word.Himself had gone for good to Portugal;They came empowered to act and stipulate.Hold! no discussion! Terms were settled now:So much of present and prospective pay,But also—good engagement in plain termsShe never seek renewal of the past!"This little harmless tale produced effect.Madame Muhlhausen owned her sentence just,Its execution gentle. "Stern their phrase,These kinsfolk with a right she recognized—But kind its import probably, which nowHer agitation, her bewilderment,Rendered too hard to understand, perhaps.Let them accord the natural delay,And she would ponder and decide. Meantime,So far was she from wish to follow friendWho fled her, that she would not budge from place—Now that her friend was fled to Portugal,—Never!Sheleave this Coliseum Street?No, not a footstep!" she assured them.So—They saw they might have left that tale untoldWhen, after some weeks more were gone to waste,Recovery seemed incontestable,And the poor mutilated figure, onceThe gay and glancing fortunate young spark,Miranda, humble and obedient tookThe doctor's counsel, issued sad and slowFrom precincts of the sick-room, tottered down,And out, and into carriage for fresh air,And so drove straight to Coliseum Street,And tottered upstairs, knocked, and in a triceWas clasped in the embrace of whom you know—With much asseveration, I omit,Of constancy henceforth till life should end.When all this happened,—"What reward," cried she,"For judging her Miranda by herself!For never having entertained a thoughtOf breaking promise, leaving home forsooth,To follow who was fled to Portugal!As if she thought they spoke a word of truth!She knew what love was, knew that he loved her;The Cousinry knew nothing of the kind."I will not scandalize you and recountHow matters made the morning pass away.Not one reproach, not one acknowledgment,One explanation: all was understood!Matters at end, the home-uneasinessCousins were feeling at this jaunt prolongedWas ended also by the entry of—Not simply him whose exit had been madeBy mild command of doctor "Out with you!I warrant we receive another man!"But—would that I could say, the married pair!And, quite another man assuredly,Monsieur Léonce Miranda took on himForthwith to bid the trio, priest and nuns,Constant in their attendance all this while,Take his thanks and their own departure too;Politely but emphatically. Next,The Cousins were dismissed: "No protest, pray!Whatever I engaged to do is done,Or shall be—I but follow your advice:Love I abjure: the lady, you behold,Is changed as I myself; her sex is changed:This is my Brother—He will tend me now,Be all my world henceforth as brother should.Gentlemen, of a kinship I revere,Your interest in trade is laudable;I purpose to indulge it: manage mine,My goldsmith-business in the Place Vendôme,Wholly—through purchase at the price adjudgedBy experts I shall have assistance from.If, in conformity with sage advice,I leave a busy world of interestsI own myself unfit for—yours the careThat any world of other aims, whereinI hope to dwell, be easy of accessThrough ministration of the moneys due,As we determine, with all proper speed,Since I leave Paris to repair my health.Say farewell to our Cousins, Brother mine!"And, all submissiveness, as brother might,The lady curtsied gracefully, and droptMore than mere curtsey, a concluding phraseSo silver-soft, yet penetrative too,That none of it escaped the favored ears:"Had I but credited one syllable,I should to-day be lying stretched on straw,The produce of your miserablerente!Whereas, I hold him—do you comprehend?"Cousin regarded cousin, turned up eye,And took departure, as our Tuscans laugh,Each with his added palm-breadth of long nose,—Curtailed but imperceptibly, next week,When transfer was accomplished, and the tradeIn Paris did indeed become their own,But bought by them and sold by him on terms'Twixt man and man,—might serve 'twixt wolf and wolf,Substitute "bit and clawed" for "signed and sealed"—Our ordinary business-terms, in short.Another week, and Clairvaux broke in bloomAt end of April, to receive againMonsieur Léonce Miranda, gentleman,Ex-jeweller and goldsmith: never more—According to the purpose he professed—To quit this paradise, his property,This Clara, his companion: so it proved.The Cousins, each with elongated nose,Discussed their bargain, reconciled them soonTo hard necessity, disbursed the cash,And hastened to subjoin, wherever typeProclaimed "Miranda" to the public, "CalledNow Firm-Miranda." There, a colony,They flourish underneath the name that stillMaintains the old repute, I understand.They built their Clairvaux, dream-Château, in Spain,Perhaps—but Place Vendôme is waking worth:Oh, they lost little!—only, man and manHardly conclude transactions of the kindAs cousin should with cousin,—cousins think.For the rest, all was honorably done,So, ere buds break to blossom, let us breathe!Never suppose there was one particleOf recrudescence—wound, half-healed before,Set freshly running—sin, repressed as such,New loosened as necessity of life!In all this revocation and resolve,Far be sin's self-indulgence from your thought!The man had simply made discovery,By process I respect if not admire,That what was, was:—that turf, his feet had touched,Felt solid just as much as yonder towersHe saw with eyes, but did not stand upon,And could not, if he would, reach in a leap.People had told him flowery turf was falseTo footstep, tired the traveller soon, beside:That was untrue. They told him "One fair stridePlants on safe platform, and secures man rest."That was untrue. Some varied the advice:"Neither was solid, towers no more than turf:"Double assertion, therefore twice as false."I like these amateurs"—our friend had laughed,Could he turn what he felt to what he thought,And, that again, to what he put in words:"I like their pretty trial, proof of pasteOr precious stone, by delicate approachOf eye askance, fine feel of finger-tip,Or touch of tongue inquisitive for cold.I tried my jewels in a crucible:Fierce fire has felt them, licked them, left them sound.Don't tell me that my earthly love is sham,My heavenly fear a clever counterfeit!Each may oppose each, yet be true alike!"To build up, independent of the towers,A durable pavilion o'er the turf,Had issued in disaster. "What remainedExcept, by tunnel, or else gallery,To keep communication 'twixt the two,Unite the opposites, both near and far,And never try complete abandonmentOf one or other?" so he thought, not said.And to such engineering feat, I say,Monsieur Léonce Miranda saw the meansPrecisely in this revocation promptOf just those benefits of worldly wealthConferred upon his Cousinry—all but!This Clairvaux—you would know, were you at topOf yonder crowning grace, its Belvedere—Is situate in one angle-niche of three,At equidistance from Saint-Rambert—thereBehind you, and The Ravissante, beside—There: steeple, steeple, and this Clairvaux-top(A sort of steeple) constitute a trine,With not a tenement to break each side,Two miles or so in length, if eye can judge.Now this is native land of miracle.Oh, why, why, why, from all recorded time,Was miracle not wrought once, only once,To help whoever wanted help indeed?If on the day when Spring's green girlishnessGrew nubile, and she trembled into May,And our Miranda climbed to clasp the SpringA-tiptoe o'er the sea, those wafts of warmth,Those cloudlets scudding under the bare blue,And all that new sun, that fresh hope aboutHis airy place of observation,—friend,Feel with me that if just then, just for once,Some angel,—such as the authentic penYonder records a daily visitantOf ploughman Claude, rheumatic in the joints,And spinster Jeanne, with megrim troubled sore,—If such an angel, with naught else to do,Had taken station on the pinnacleAnd simply said, "Léonce, look straight before!Neither to right hand nor to left: for why?Being a stupid soul, you want a guideTo turn the goodness in you to accountAnd make stupidity submit itself.Go to Saint-Rambert! Straightway get such guide!There stands a man of men. You, jeweller,Must needs have heard how once the biggest blockOf diamond now in Europe lay exposed'Mid specimens of stone and earth and ore,On huckster's stall,—Navona names the Square,And Rome the city for the incident,—Labelled 'quartz-crystal, price one halfpenny.'Haste and secure that ha'p'worth, on your life!That man will read you rightly head to foot,Mark the brown face of you, the bushy beard,The breadth 'twixt shoulderblades, and through each blackCastilian orbit, see into your soul.Talk to him for five minutes—nonsense, sense,No matter what—describe your horse, your hound,—Give your opinion of the policyOf Monsieur Rouher,—will he succor Rome?Your estimate of what may outcome beFrom Œcumenical Assemblage there!After which samples of intelligence,Rapidly run through those events you callYour past life, tell what once you tried to do,What you intend on doing this next May!There he stands, reads an English newspaper,Stock-still, and now, again upon the move,Paces the beach to taste the Spring, like you,Since both are human beings in God's eye.He will have understood you, I engage.Endeavor, for your part, to understandHe knows more, and loves better, than the worldThat never heard his name, and never may.He will have recognized, ere breath be spentAnd speech at end, how much that 's good in man,And generous, and self-devoting, makesMonsieur Léonce Miranda worth his help;While sounding to the bottom ignoranceHistorical and philosophicalAnd moral and religious, all one couchOf crassitude, a portent of its kind.Then, just as he would pityingly teachYour body to repair maltreatment, giveAdvice that you should make those stumps to stirWith artificial hands of caoutchouc,So would he soon supply your crippled soulWith crutches, from his own intelligence,Able to help you onward in the pathOf rectitude whereto your face is set,And counsel justice—to yourself, the first,To your associate, very like a wifeOr something better,—to the world at large,Friends, strangers, horses, hounds, and Cousinry—All which amount of justice will includeJustice to God. Go and consult his voice!"Since angel would not say this simple truth,What hinders that my heart relieve itself,Milsand, who makest warm my wintry world,And wise my heaven, if there we consort too?Monsieur Léonce Miranda turned, alas,Or was turned, by no angel, t' other way,And got him guidance of The Ravissante.Now, into the originals of faith,Yours, mine, Miranda's, no inquiry here!Of faith, as apprehended by mankind,The causes, were they caught and catalogued,Would too distract, too desperately foilInquirer. How may analyst reduceQuantities to exact their opposites,Value to zero, then bring zero backTo value of supreme preponderance?How substitute thing meant for thing expressed?Detect the wire-thread through that fluffy silkMen call their rope, their real compulsive power?Suppose effected such anatomy,And demonstration made of what beliefHas moved believer—were the consequenceReward at all? would each man straight deduce,From proved reality of cause, effectConformable—believe and unbelieveAccording to your True thus disengagedFrom all his heap of False called reason first?No: hand once used to hold a soft thick twist,Cannot now grope its way by wire alone:Childhood may catch the knack, scarce Youth, not Age!That 's the reply rewards you. Just as wellRemonstrate to yon peasant in the blouseThat, had he justified the true intentOf Nature who composed him thus and thus,Weakly or strongly, here he would not standStruggling with uncongenial earth and sky,But elsewhere tread the surface of the globe,Since one meridian suits the faulty lungs,Another bids the sluggish liver work."Here I was born, for better or for worse:I did not choose a climate for myself;Admit, my life were healthy, led elsewhere,"(He answers,) "how am I to migrate, pray?"
In brief, the man was angry with himself,With her, with all the world and much beside:And so the unseemly words were interchangedWhich crystallize what else evaporates,And make mere misty petulance grow hardAnd sharp inside each softness, heart and soul.Monsieur Léonce Miranda flung at lastOut of doors, fever-flushed: and there the SeineRolled at his feet, obsequious remedyFor fever, in a cold autumnal flow."Go and be rid of memory in a bath!"Craftily whispered Who besets the earOn such occasions.
In brief, the man was angry with himself,
With her, with all the world and much beside:
And so the unseemly words were interchanged
Which crystallize what else evaporates,
And make mere misty petulance grow hard
And sharp inside each softness, heart and soul.
Monsieur Léonce Miranda flung at last
Out of doors, fever-flushed: and there the Seine
Rolled at his feet, obsequious remedy
For fever, in a cold autumnal flow.
"Go and be rid of memory in a bath!"
Craftily whispered Who besets the ear
On such occasions.
Done as soon as dreamed.Back shivers poor Léonce to bed—where else?And there he lies a month 'twixt life and death,Raving. "Remorse of conscience!" friends opine."Sirs, it may partly prove so," representsBeaumont—(the family physician, heWhom last year's Commune murdered, do you mind?)Beaumont reports, "There is some active cause,More than mere pungency of quarrel past,—Cause that keeps adding other food to fire.I hear the words and know the signs, I say!Dear Madame, you have read the Book of Saints,How Antony was tempted? As for me,Poor heathen, 't is by pictures I am taught.I say then, I see standing here,—betweenMe and my patient, and that crucifixYou very properly would interpose—A certain woman-shape, one white appeal,'Will you leave me, then, me, me, me for her?'Since cold Seine could not quench this flame, since flareOf fever does not redden it away,—Be rational, indulgent, mute—should chanceCome to the rescue—Providence, I mean—The while I blister and phlebotomize!"
Done as soon as dreamed.
Back shivers poor Léonce to bed—where else?
And there he lies a month 'twixt life and death,
Raving. "Remorse of conscience!" friends opine.
"Sirs, it may partly prove so," represents
Beaumont—(the family physician, he
Whom last year's Commune murdered, do you mind?)
Beaumont reports, "There is some active cause,
More than mere pungency of quarrel past,—
Cause that keeps adding other food to fire.
I hear the words and know the signs, I say!
Dear Madame, you have read the Book of Saints,
How Antony was tempted? As for me,
Poor heathen, 't is by pictures I am taught.
I say then, I see standing here,—between
Me and my patient, and that crucifix
You very properly would interpose—
A certain woman-shape, one white appeal,
'Will you leave me, then, me, me, me for her?'
Since cold Seine could not quench this flame, since flare
Of fever does not redden it away,—
Be rational, indulgent, mute—should chance
Come to the rescue—Providence, I mean—
The while I blister and phlebotomize!"
Well, somehow rescued by whatever power,At month's end, back again conveyed himselfMonsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags,Nay, tinder: stuff irreparably spoiled,Though kindly hand should stitch and patch its best.Clairvaux in Autumn is restorative.A friend stitched on, patched ever. All the same,Clairvaux looked grayer than a month ago.Unglossed was shrubbery, unglorifiedEach copse, so wealthy once; the garden-plots.The orchard-walks, showed dearth and dreariness.The sea lay out at distance crammed by cloudInto a leaden wedge; and sorrowfulSulked field and pasture with persistent rain.Nobody came so far from Paris now:Friends did their duty by an invalidWhose convalescence claimed entire repose.Only a single ministrant was stanchAt quiet reparation of the stuff—Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags:But she was Clara and the world beside.
Well, somehow rescued by whatever power,
At month's end, back again conveyed himself
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags,
Nay, tinder: stuff irreparably spoiled,
Though kindly hand should stitch and patch its best.
Clairvaux in Autumn is restorative.
A friend stitched on, patched ever. All the same,
Clairvaux looked grayer than a month ago.
Unglossed was shrubbery, unglorified
Each copse, so wealthy once; the garden-plots.
The orchard-walks, showed dearth and dreariness.
The sea lay out at distance crammed by cloud
Into a leaden wedge; and sorrowful
Sulked field and pasture with persistent rain.
Nobody came so far from Paris now:
Friends did their duty by an invalid
Whose convalescence claimed entire repose.
Only a single ministrant was stanch
At quiet reparation of the stuff—
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags:
But she was Clara and the world beside.
Another month, the year packed up his plaguesAnd sullenly departed, peddler-like,As apprehensive old-world ware might showTo disadvantage when the newcomer,Merchant of novelties, young 'Sixty-eight,With brand-new bargains, whistled o'er the lea.Things brightened somewhat o'er the Christmas hearth,As Clara plied assiduously her task.
Another month, the year packed up his plagues
And sullenly departed, peddler-like,
As apprehensive old-world ware might show
To disadvantage when the newcomer,
Merchant of novelties, young 'Sixty-eight,
With brand-new bargains, whistled o'er the lea.
Things brightened somewhat o'er the Christmas hearth,
As Clara plied assiduously her task.
"Words are but words and wind. Why let the windSing in your ear, bite, sounding, to your brain?Old folk and young folk, still at odds, of course!Age quarrels because Spring puts forth a leafWhile Winter has a mind that boughs stay bare;Or rather—worse than quarrel—age descriesPropriety in preaching life to death.'Enjoy nor youth, nor Clairvaux, nor poor me?'Dear Madame, you enjoy your age, 't is thought!Your number Thirty-three on Quai RousseauCost fifty times the price of Clairvaux, tippedEven with our prodigious Belvedere;You entertain the Curé,—we, Dumas:We play charades, while you prefer Bézique:Do lead your own life and let ours alone!Cross Old Year shall have done his worst, my friend!Here comes gay New Year with a gift, no doubt!Look up and let in light that longs to shine—One flash of light, and where will darkness hide?Your cold makes me too cold, love! Keep me warm!"
"Words are but words and wind. Why let the wind
Sing in your ear, bite, sounding, to your brain?
Old folk and young folk, still at odds, of course!
Age quarrels because Spring puts forth a leaf
While Winter has a mind that boughs stay bare;
Or rather—worse than quarrel—age descries
Propriety in preaching life to death.
'Enjoy nor youth, nor Clairvaux, nor poor me?'
Dear Madame, you enjoy your age, 't is thought!
Your number Thirty-three on Quai Rousseau
Cost fifty times the price of Clairvaux, tipped
Even with our prodigious Belvedere;
You entertain the Curé,—we, Dumas:
We play charades, while you prefer Bézique:
Do lead your own life and let ours alone!
Cross Old Year shall have done his worst, my friend!
Here comes gay New Year with a gift, no doubt!
Look up and let in light that longs to shine—
One flash of light, and where will darkness hide?
Your cold makes me too cold, love! Keep me warm!"
Whereat Léonce Miranda raised his headFrom his two white thin hands, and forced a smile,And spoke: "I do look up, and see your lightAbove me! Let New Year contribute warmth—I shall refuse no fuel that may blaze."Nor did he. Three days after, just a sparkFrom Paris, answered by a snap at CaenOr whither reached the telegraphic wire:"Quickly to Paris! On arrival, learnWhy you are wanted!" Curt and critical!
Whereat Léonce Miranda raised his head
From his two white thin hands, and forced a smile,
And spoke: "I do look up, and see your light
Above me! Let New Year contribute warmth—
I shall refuse no fuel that may blaze."
Nor did he. Three days after, just a spark
From Paris, answered by a snap at Caen
Or whither reached the telegraphic wire:
"Quickly to Paris! On arrival, learn
Why you are wanted!" Curt and critical!
Off starts Léonce, one fear from head to foot;Caen, Rouen, Paris, as the railway helps;Then come the Quai and Number Thirty-three."What is the matter, concierge?"—a grimace!He mounts the staircase, makes for the main seatOf dreadful mystery which draws him there—Bursts in upon a bedroom known too well—There lies all left now of the mother once.Tapers define the stretch of rigid white,Nor want there ghastly velvets of the grave.A blackness sits on either side at watch,Sisters, good souls but frightful all the same,Silent: a priest is spokesman for his corpse."Dead, through Léonce Miranda! stricken downWithout a minute's warning, yesterday!What did she say to you, and you to her,Two months ago? This is the consequence!The doctors have their name for the disease;I, you, and God say—heart-break, nothing more!"Monsieur Léonce Miranda, like a stoneFell at the bedfoot and found respite so,While the priest went to tell the company.What follows you are free to disbelieve.It may be true or false that this good priestHad taken his instructions,—who shall blame?—From quite another quarter than, perchance,Monsieur Léonce Miranda might supposeWould offer solace in such pressing need.All he remembered of his kith and kinWas, they were worthily his substitutesIn commerce, did their work and drew their pay.Buttheyremembered, in addition, this—They fairly might expect inheritance,As nearest kin, called Family by lawAnd gospel both. Now, since Miranda's lifeShowed nothing like abatement of distasteFor conjugality, but preferenceContinued and confirmed of that smooth chainWhich slips and leaves no knot behind, no heir—Presumption was, the man, become mature,Would at a calculable day discardHis old and outworn ... what we blush to name,And make society the just amends;Scarce by a new attachment—Heaven forbid!Still less by lawful marriage: that 's reservedFor those who make a proper choice at first—Not try both courses and would grasp in ageThe very treasure, youth preferred to spurn!No! putting decently such thought aside,The penitent must rather give his powersTo such a reparation of the pastAs, edifying kindred, makes them rich.Now, how would it enrich prospectivelyThe Cousins, if he lavished such expenseOn Clairvaux?—pretty as a toy, but thenAs toy, so much productive and no more!If all the outcome of the goldsmith's shopWent to gild Clairvaux, where remain the fundsFor Cousinry to spread out lap and take?This must be thought of and provided for.I give it you a mere conjecture, mind!To help explain the wholesome unannouncedIntelligence, the shock that startled guilt,The scenic show, much yellow, black and whiteBy taper-shine, the nuns—portentous pair,And, more than all, the priest's admonishment—"No flattery of self! You murdered her!The gray lips, silent now, reprove by mine.You wasted all your living, riotedIn harlotry—she warned and I repeat!No warning had she, for she needed none:If this should be the last yourself receive?"Done for the best, no doubt, though clumsily,—Such, and so startling, the reception here.You hardly wonder if down fell at onceThe tawdry tent, pictorial, musical,Poetical, besprent with hearts and darts;Its cobweb-work, betinselled stitchery,Lay dust about our sleeper on the turf,And showed the outer towers distinct and dread.
Off starts Léonce, one fear from head to foot;
Caen, Rouen, Paris, as the railway helps;
Then come the Quai and Number Thirty-three.
"What is the matter, concierge?"—a grimace!
He mounts the staircase, makes for the main seat
Of dreadful mystery which draws him there—
Bursts in upon a bedroom known too well—
There lies all left now of the mother once.
Tapers define the stretch of rigid white,
Nor want there ghastly velvets of the grave.
A blackness sits on either side at watch,
Sisters, good souls but frightful all the same,
Silent: a priest is spokesman for his corpse.
"Dead, through Léonce Miranda! stricken down
Without a minute's warning, yesterday!
What did she say to you, and you to her,
Two months ago? This is the consequence!
The doctors have their name for the disease;
I, you, and God say—heart-break, nothing more!"
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, like a stone
Fell at the bedfoot and found respite so,
While the priest went to tell the company.
What follows you are free to disbelieve.
It may be true or false that this good priest
Had taken his instructions,—who shall blame?—
From quite another quarter than, perchance,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda might suppose
Would offer solace in such pressing need.
All he remembered of his kith and kin
Was, they were worthily his substitutes
In commerce, did their work and drew their pay.
Buttheyremembered, in addition, this—
They fairly might expect inheritance,
As nearest kin, called Family by law
And gospel both. Now, since Miranda's life
Showed nothing like abatement of distaste
For conjugality, but preference
Continued and confirmed of that smooth chain
Which slips and leaves no knot behind, no heir—
Presumption was, the man, become mature,
Would at a calculable day discard
His old and outworn ... what we blush to name,
And make society the just amends;
Scarce by a new attachment—Heaven forbid!
Still less by lawful marriage: that 's reserved
For those who make a proper choice at first—
Not try both courses and would grasp in age
The very treasure, youth preferred to spurn!
No! putting decently such thought aside,
The penitent must rather give his powers
To such a reparation of the past
As, edifying kindred, makes them rich.
Now, how would it enrich prospectively
The Cousins, if he lavished such expense
On Clairvaux?—pretty as a toy, but then
As toy, so much productive and no more!
If all the outcome of the goldsmith's shop
Went to gild Clairvaux, where remain the funds
For Cousinry to spread out lap and take?
This must be thought of and provided for.
I give it you a mere conjecture, mind!
To help explain the wholesome unannounced
Intelligence, the shock that startled guilt,
The scenic show, much yellow, black and white
By taper-shine, the nuns—portentous pair,
And, more than all, the priest's admonishment—
"No flattery of self! You murdered her!
The gray lips, silent now, reprove by mine.
You wasted all your living, rioted
In harlotry—she warned and I repeat!
No warning had she, for she needed none:
If this should be the last yourself receive?"
Done for the best, no doubt, though clumsily,—
Such, and so startling, the reception here.
You hardly wonder if down fell at once
The tawdry tent, pictorial, musical,
Poetical, besprent with hearts and darts;
Its cobweb-work, betinselled stitchery,
Lay dust about our sleeper on the turf,
And showed the outer towers distinct and dread.
Senseless he fell, and long he lay, and muchSeemed salutary in his punishmentTo planners and performers of the piece.When pain ends, pardon prompt may operate.There was a good attendance close at hand,Waiting the issue in the great saloon,Cousins with consolation and advice.
Senseless he fell, and long he lay, and much
Seemed salutary in his punishment
To planners and performers of the piece.
When pain ends, pardon prompt may operate.
There was a good attendance close at hand,
Waiting the issue in the great saloon,
Cousins with consolation and advice.
All things thus happily performed to point,No wonder at success commensurate.Once swooning stopped, once anguish subsequentRaved out,—a sudden resolution chilledHis blood and changed his swimming eyes to stone,As the poor fellow raised himself upright,Collected strength, looked, once for all, his look,Then, turning, put officious help asideAnd passed from out the chamber. "For affairs!"So he announced himself to the saloon:"We owe a duty to the living too!"—Monsieur Léonce Miranda tried to smile.How did the hearts of Cousinry rejoiceAt their stray sheep returning thus to fold,As, with a dignity, precision, sense,All unsuspected in the man before,Monsieur Léonce Miranda made minuteDetail of his intended scheme of lifeThenceforward and forever. "VanityWas ended: its redemption must begin—And, certain, would continue; but since lifeWas awfully uncertain—witness here!—Behooved him lose no moment but dischargeImmediate burden of the world's affairsOn backs that kindly volunteered to crouch.Cousins, with easier conscience, blamelesslyMight carry on the goldsmith's trade, in brief,Uninterfered with by its lord who lateWas used to supervise and take due tithe.A stipend now sufficed his natural need:Themselves should fix what sum allows man live.But half a dozen words concisely plainMight, first of all, make sure that, on demise,Monsieur Léonce Miranda's propertyPassed by bequeathment, every particle,To the right heirs, the cousins of his heart.As for that woman—they would understand!This was a step must take her by surprise!It were too cruel did he snatch awayDecent subsistence. She was young, and fair,And ... and attractive! Means must be suppliedTo save her from herself, and from the world,And ... from anxieties might haunt him elseWhen he were fain have other thoughts in mind."
All things thus happily performed to point,
No wonder at success commensurate.
Once swooning stopped, once anguish subsequent
Raved out,—a sudden resolution chilled
His blood and changed his swimming eyes to stone,
As the poor fellow raised himself upright,
Collected strength, looked, once for all, his look,
Then, turning, put officious help aside
And passed from out the chamber. "For affairs!"
So he announced himself to the saloon:
"We owe a duty to the living too!"—
Monsieur Léonce Miranda tried to smile.
How did the hearts of Cousinry rejoice
At their stray sheep returning thus to fold,
As, with a dignity, precision, sense,
All unsuspected in the man before,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda made minute
Detail of his intended scheme of life
Thenceforward and forever. "Vanity
Was ended: its redemption must begin—
And, certain, would continue; but since life
Was awfully uncertain—witness here!—
Behooved him lose no moment but discharge
Immediate burden of the world's affairs
On backs that kindly volunteered to crouch.
Cousins, with easier conscience, blamelessly
Might carry on the goldsmith's trade, in brief,
Uninterfered with by its lord who late
Was used to supervise and take due tithe.
A stipend now sufficed his natural need:
Themselves should fix what sum allows man live.
But half a dozen words concisely plain
Might, first of all, make sure that, on demise,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda's property
Passed by bequeathment, every particle,
To the right heirs, the cousins of his heart.
As for that woman—they would understand!
This was a step must take her by surprise!
It were too cruel did he snatch away
Decent subsistence. She was young, and fair,
And ... and attractive! Means must be supplied
To save her from herself, and from the world,
And ... from anxieties might haunt him else
When he were fain have other thoughts in mind."
It was a sight to melt a stone, that thawOf rigid disapproval into dewOf sympathy, as each extended palmOf cousin hasted to enclose those fiveCold fingers, tendered so mistrustfully,Despairingly of condonation now!You would have thought,—at every fervent shake,In reassurance of those timid tips,—The penitent had squeezed, considerate,By way of fee into physician's handFor physicking his soul, some diamond knob.
It was a sight to melt a stone, that thaw
Of rigid disapproval into dew
Of sympathy, as each extended palm
Of cousin hasted to enclose those five
Cold fingers, tendered so mistrustfully,
Despairingly of condonation now!
You would have thought,—at every fervent shake,
In reassurance of those timid tips,—
The penitent had squeezed, considerate,
By way of fee into physician's hand
For physicking his soul, some diamond knob.
And now let pass a week. Once more beholdThe same assemblage in the same saloon,Waiting the entry of protagonistMonsieur Léonce Miranda. "Just a weekSince the death-day,—was ever man transformedLike this man?" questioned cousin of his mate.
And now let pass a week. Once more behold
The same assemblage in the same saloon,
Waiting the entry of protagonist
Monsieur Léonce Miranda. "Just a week
Since the death-day,—was ever man transformed
Like this man?" questioned cousin of his mate.
Last seal to the repentance had been setThree days before, at Sceaux in neighborhoodOf Paris where they laid with funeral pompMother by father. Let me spare the rest:How the poor fellow, in his misery,Buried hot face and bosom, where heaped snowOffered assistance, at the grave's black edge,And there lay, till uprooted by main forceFrom where he prayed to grow and ne'er againWalk earth unworthily as heretofore.It is not with impunity priests teachThe doctrine he was dosed with from his youth—"Pain to the body—profit to the soul;Corporeal pleasure—so much woe to payWhen disembodied spirit gives account."
Last seal to the repentance had been set
Three days before, at Sceaux in neighborhood
Of Paris where they laid with funeral pomp
Mother by father. Let me spare the rest:
How the poor fellow, in his misery,
Buried hot face and bosom, where heaped snow
Offered assistance, at the grave's black edge,
And there lay, till uprooted by main force
From where he prayed to grow and ne'er again
Walk earth unworthily as heretofore.
It is not with impunity priests teach
The doctrine he was dosed with from his youth—
"Pain to the body—profit to the soul;
Corporeal pleasure—so much woe to pay
When disembodied spirit gives account."
However, woe had done its worst, this time.Three days allow subsidence of much grief.Already, regular and equable,Forward went purpose to effect. At onceThe testament was written, signed and sealed.Disposer of the commerce—that took time,And would not suffer by a week's delay;But the immediate, the imperious need,The call demanding of the CousinryCo-operation, what convened them thus,Was—how and when should deputation marchTo Coliseum Street, the old abodeOf wickedness, and there acquaint—oh, shame!Her, its old inmate, who had followed upAnd lay in wait in the old haunt for prey—That they had rescued, they possessed Léonce,Whose loathing at recapture equalled theirs—Upbraid that sinner with her sinfulness,Impart the fellow-sinner's firm resolveNever to set eyes on her face again:Then, after stipulations strict but just,Hand her the first instalment—moderateEnough, no question—of her salary:Admonish for the future, and so end.—All which good purposes, decided onSufficiently, were waiting full effectWhen presently the culprit should appear.
However, woe had done its worst, this time.
Three days allow subsidence of much grief.
Already, regular and equable,
Forward went purpose to effect. At once
The testament was written, signed and sealed.
Disposer of the commerce—that took time,
And would not suffer by a week's delay;
But the immediate, the imperious need,
The call demanding of the Cousinry
Co-operation, what convened them thus,
Was—how and when should deputation march
To Coliseum Street, the old abode
Of wickedness, and there acquaint—oh, shame!
Her, its old inmate, who had followed up
And lay in wait in the old haunt for prey—
That they had rescued, they possessed Léonce,
Whose loathing at recapture equalled theirs—
Upbraid that sinner with her sinfulness,
Impart the fellow-sinner's firm resolve
Never to set eyes on her face again:
Then, after stipulations strict but just,
Hand her the first instalment—moderate
Enough, no question—of her salary:
Admonish for the future, and so end.—
All which good purposes, decided on
Sufficiently, were waiting full effect
When presently the culprit should appear.
Somehow appearance was delayed too long;Chatting and chirping sunk inconsciouslyTo silence, nay, uneasiness, at lengthAlarm, till—anything for certitude!—A peeper was commissioned to explore,At keyhole, what the laggard's task might be—What caused so palpable a disrespect!
Somehow appearance was delayed too long;
Chatting and chirping sunk inconsciously
To silence, nay, uneasiness, at length
Alarm, till—anything for certitude!—
A peeper was commissioned to explore,
At keyhole, what the laggard's task might be—
What caused so palpable a disrespect!
Back came the tiptoe cousin from his quest."Monsieur Léonce was busy," he believed,"Contemplating—those love-letters, perhaps,He always carried, as if precious stones,About with him. He read, one after one,Some sort of letters. But his back was turned.The empty coffer open at his side,He leant on elbow by the mantelpieceBefore the hearth-fire; big and blazing too."
Back came the tiptoe cousin from his quest.
"Monsieur Léonce was busy," he believed,
"Contemplating—those love-letters, perhaps,
He always carried, as if precious stones,
About with him. He read, one after one,
Some sort of letters. But his back was turned.
The empty coffer open at his side,
He leant on elbow by the mantelpiece
Before the hearth-fire; big and blazing too."
"Better he shovelled them all in at once,And burned the rubbish!" was a cousin's quip,Warming his own hands at the fire the while,I told you, snow had fallen outside, I think.
"Better he shovelled them all in at once,
And burned the rubbish!" was a cousin's quip,
Warming his own hands at the fire the while,
I told you, snow had fallen outside, I think.
When suddenly a cry, a host of cries,Screams, hubbub and confusion thrilled the room.All by a common impulse rushed thence, reachedThe late death-chamber, tricked with trappings still,Skulls, crossbones, and such moral broidery.Madame Muhlhausen might have played the witch,Dropped down the chimney and appalled LéonceBy some proposal, "Parting touch of hand!"If she but touched his foolish hand, you know!
When suddenly a cry, a host of cries,
Screams, hubbub and confusion thrilled the room.
All by a common impulse rushed thence, reached
The late death-chamber, tricked with trappings still,
Skulls, crossbones, and such moral broidery.
Madame Muhlhausen might have played the witch,
Dropped down the chimney and appalled Léonce
By some proposal, "Parting touch of hand!"
If she but touched his foolish hand, you know!
Something had happened quite contrariwise.Monsieur Léonce Miranda, one by one,Had read the letters and the love they held,And, that task finished, had required his soulTo answer frankly what the prospect seemedOf his own love's departure—pledged to part!Then, answer being unmistakable,He had replaced the letters quietly,Shut coffer, and so, grasping either sideBy its convenient handle, plunged the whole—Letters and coffer and both hands to boot—Into the burning grate and held them there."Burn, burn, and purify my past!" said he,Calmly, as if he felt no pain at all.
Something had happened quite contrariwise.
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, one by one,
Had read the letters and the love they held,
And, that task finished, had required his soul
To answer frankly what the prospect seemed
Of his own love's departure—pledged to part!
Then, answer being unmistakable,
He had replaced the letters quietly,
Shut coffer, and so, grasping either side
By its convenient handle, plunged the whole—
Letters and coffer and both hands to boot—
Into the burning grate and held them there.
"Burn, burn, and purify my past!" said he,
Calmly, as if he felt no pain at all.
In vain they pulled him from the torture-place:The strong man, with the soul of tenfold strength,Broke from their clutch: and there again smiled he,The miserable hands re-bathed in fire—Constant to that ejaculation, "Burn,Burn, purify!" And when, combining force.They fairly dragged the victim out of reachOf further harm, he had no hands to hurt—Two horrible remains of right and left,"Whereof the bones, phalanges formerly,Carbonized, were still crackling with the flame,"Said Beaumont. And he fought them all the while:"Why am I hindered when I would be pure?Why leave the sacrifice still incomplete?She holds me, I must have more hands to burn!"They were the stronger, though, and bound him fast.
In vain they pulled him from the torture-place:
The strong man, with the soul of tenfold strength,
Broke from their clutch: and there again smiled he,
The miserable hands re-bathed in fire—
Constant to that ejaculation, "Burn,
Burn, purify!" And when, combining force.
They fairly dragged the victim out of reach
Of further harm, he had no hands to hurt—
Two horrible remains of right and left,
"Whereof the bones, phalanges formerly,
Carbonized, were still crackling with the flame,"
Said Beaumont. And he fought them all the while:
"Why am I hindered when I would be pure?
Why leave the sacrifice still incomplete?
She holds me, I must have more hands to burn!"
They were the stronger, though, and bound him fast.
Beaumont was in attendance presently."What did I tell you? Preachment to the deaf!I wish he had been deafer when they preached,Those priests! But wait till next Republic comes!"
Beaumont was in attendance presently.
"What did I tell you? Preachment to the deaf!
I wish he had been deafer when they preached,
Those priests! But wait till next Republic comes!"
As for Léonce, a single sentimentPossessed his soul and occupied his tongue—Absolute satisfaction at the deed.Never he varied, 't is observable,Nor in the stage of agonies (which provedAbsent without leave,—science seemed to think),Nor yet in those three months' febricityWhich followed,—never did he vary tale—Remaining happy beyond utterance."Ineffable beatitude"—I quoteThe words, I cannot give the smile—"such blissAbolished pain! Pain might or might not be:He felt in heaven, where flesh desists to fret.Purified now and henceforth, all the pastReduced to ashes with the flesh defiled!Why all those anxious faces round his bed?What was to pity in their patient, pray,When doctor came and went, and Cousins watched?—Kindness, but in pure waste!" he said and smiled.And if a trouble would at times disturbThe ambrosial mood, it came from other sourceThan the corporeal transitory pang."If sacrifice be incomplete!" cried he—"If ashes have not sunk reduced to dust,To nullity! If atoms coalesceTill something grow, grow, get to be a shapeI hate, I hoped to burn away from me!She is my body, she and I are one,Yet, all the same, there, there at bedfoot standsThe woman wound about my flesh and blood,There, the arms open, the more wonderful,The whiter for the burning ... Vanish thou!Avaunt, fiend's self found in the form I wore!"
As for Léonce, a single sentiment
Possessed his soul and occupied his tongue—
Absolute satisfaction at the deed.
Never he varied, 't is observable,
Nor in the stage of agonies (which proved
Absent without leave,—science seemed to think),
Nor yet in those three months' febricity
Which followed,—never did he vary tale—
Remaining happy beyond utterance.
"Ineffable beatitude"—I quote
The words, I cannot give the smile—"such bliss
Abolished pain! Pain might or might not be:
He felt in heaven, where flesh desists to fret.
Purified now and henceforth, all the past
Reduced to ashes with the flesh defiled!
Why all those anxious faces round his bed?
What was to pity in their patient, pray,
When doctor came and went, and Cousins watched?
—Kindness, but in pure waste!" he said and smiled.
And if a trouble would at times disturb
The ambrosial mood, it came from other source
Than the corporeal transitory pang.
"If sacrifice be incomplete!" cried he—
"If ashes have not sunk reduced to dust,
To nullity! If atoms coalesce
Till something grow, grow, get to be a shape
I hate, I hoped to burn away from me!
She is my body, she and I are one,
Yet, all the same, there, there at bedfoot stands
The woman wound about my flesh and blood,
There, the arms open, the more wonderful,
The whiter for the burning ... Vanish thou!
Avaunt, fiend's self found in the form I wore!"
"Whereat," said Beaumont, "since his hands were gone,The patient in a frenzy kicked and kickedTo keep off some imagined visitant.So will it prove as long as priests may preachSpiritual terrors!" groaned the evidenceOf Beaumont that his patient was stark mad—Produced in time and place: of which anon."Mad, or why thus insensible to pain?Body and soul are one thing, with two namesFor more or less elaborated stuff."
"Whereat," said Beaumont, "since his hands were gone,
The patient in a frenzy kicked and kicked
To keep off some imagined visitant.
So will it prove as long as priests may preach
Spiritual terrors!" groaned the evidence
Of Beaumont that his patient was stark mad—
Produced in time and place: of which anon.
"Mad, or why thus insensible to pain?
Body and soul are one thing, with two names
For more or less elaborated stuff."
Such is the newReligio Medici.Though antiquated faith held otherwise,Explained that body is not soul, but justSoul's servant: that, if soul be satisfied,Possess already joy or pain enough,It uses to ignore, as master may,What increase, joy or pain, its servant brings—Superfluous contribution: soul, once served,Has naught to do with body's service more.Each, speculated on exclusively,As if its office were the only one,Body or soul, either shows service paidIn joy and pain, that 's blind and objectless—A servant's toiling for no master's good—Or else shows good received and put to use,As if within soul's self grew joy and pain,Nor needed body for a ministrant.I note these old unscientific ways:Poor Beaumont cannot: for the Commune ruledNext year, and ere they shot his priests, shot him.
Such is the newReligio Medici.
Though antiquated faith held otherwise,
Explained that body is not soul, but just
Soul's servant: that, if soul be satisfied,
Possess already joy or pain enough,
It uses to ignore, as master may,
What increase, joy or pain, its servant brings—
Superfluous contribution: soul, once served,
Has naught to do with body's service more.
Each, speculated on exclusively,
As if its office were the only one,
Body or soul, either shows service paid
In joy and pain, that 's blind and objectless—
A servant's toiling for no master's good—
Or else shows good received and put to use,
As if within soul's self grew joy and pain,
Nor needed body for a ministrant.
I note these old unscientific ways:
Poor Beaumont cannot: for the Commune ruled
Next year, and ere they shot his priests, shot him.
Monsieur Léonce Miranda raved himselfTo rest; lay three long months in bliss or bale,Inactive, anyhow: more need that heirs,His natural protectors, should assumeThe management, bestir their cousinship,And carry out that purpose of reformSuch tragic work now made imperative.A deputation, with austerity,Nay, sternness, bore her sentence to the fiendAforesaid,—she at watch for turn of wheelAnd fortune's favor, Street—you know the name.A certain roughness seemed appropriate: "You—Steiner, Muhlhausen, whatsoe'er your name,Cause whole and sole of this catastrophe!"—And so forth, introduced the embassage.
Monsieur Léonce Miranda raved himself
To rest; lay three long months in bliss or bale,
Inactive, anyhow: more need that heirs,
His natural protectors, should assume
The management, bestir their cousinship,
And carry out that purpose of reform
Such tragic work now made imperative.
A deputation, with austerity,
Nay, sternness, bore her sentence to the fiend
Aforesaid,—she at watch for turn of wheel
And fortune's favor, Street—you know the name.
A certain roughness seemed appropriate: "You—
Steiner, Muhlhausen, whatsoe'er your name,
Cause whole and sole of this catastrophe!"—
And so forth, introduced the embassage.
"Monsieur Léonce Miranda was divorcedOnce and forever from his—ugly word.Himself had gone for good to Portugal;They came empowered to act and stipulate.Hold! no discussion! Terms were settled now:So much of present and prospective pay,But also—good engagement in plain termsShe never seek renewal of the past!"
"Monsieur Léonce Miranda was divorced
Once and forever from his—ugly word.
Himself had gone for good to Portugal;
They came empowered to act and stipulate.
Hold! no discussion! Terms were settled now:
So much of present and prospective pay,
But also—good engagement in plain terms
She never seek renewal of the past!"
This little harmless tale produced effect.Madame Muhlhausen owned her sentence just,Its execution gentle. "Stern their phrase,These kinsfolk with a right she recognized—But kind its import probably, which nowHer agitation, her bewilderment,Rendered too hard to understand, perhaps.Let them accord the natural delay,And she would ponder and decide. Meantime,So far was she from wish to follow friendWho fled her, that she would not budge from place—Now that her friend was fled to Portugal,—Never!Sheleave this Coliseum Street?No, not a footstep!" she assured them.
This little harmless tale produced effect.
Madame Muhlhausen owned her sentence just,
Its execution gentle. "Stern their phrase,
These kinsfolk with a right she recognized—
But kind its import probably, which now
Her agitation, her bewilderment,
Rendered too hard to understand, perhaps.
Let them accord the natural delay,
And she would ponder and decide. Meantime,
So far was she from wish to follow friend
Who fled her, that she would not budge from place—
Now that her friend was fled to Portugal,—
Never!Sheleave this Coliseum Street?
No, not a footstep!" she assured them.
So—They saw they might have left that tale untoldWhen, after some weeks more were gone to waste,Recovery seemed incontestable,And the poor mutilated figure, onceThe gay and glancing fortunate young spark,Miranda, humble and obedient tookThe doctor's counsel, issued sad and slowFrom precincts of the sick-room, tottered down,And out, and into carriage for fresh air,And so drove straight to Coliseum Street,And tottered upstairs, knocked, and in a triceWas clasped in the embrace of whom you know—With much asseveration, I omit,Of constancy henceforth till life should end.When all this happened,—"What reward," cried she,"For judging her Miranda by herself!For never having entertained a thoughtOf breaking promise, leaving home forsooth,To follow who was fled to Portugal!As if she thought they spoke a word of truth!She knew what love was, knew that he loved her;The Cousinry knew nothing of the kind."
So—
They saw they might have left that tale untold
When, after some weeks more were gone to waste,
Recovery seemed incontestable,
And the poor mutilated figure, once
The gay and glancing fortunate young spark,
Miranda, humble and obedient took
The doctor's counsel, issued sad and slow
From precincts of the sick-room, tottered down,
And out, and into carriage for fresh air,
And so drove straight to Coliseum Street,
And tottered upstairs, knocked, and in a trice
Was clasped in the embrace of whom you know—
With much asseveration, I omit,
Of constancy henceforth till life should end.
When all this happened,—"What reward," cried she,
"For judging her Miranda by herself!
For never having entertained a thought
Of breaking promise, leaving home forsooth,
To follow who was fled to Portugal!
As if she thought they spoke a word of truth!
She knew what love was, knew that he loved her;
The Cousinry knew nothing of the kind."
I will not scandalize you and recountHow matters made the morning pass away.Not one reproach, not one acknowledgment,One explanation: all was understood!Matters at end, the home-uneasinessCousins were feeling at this jaunt prolongedWas ended also by the entry of—Not simply him whose exit had been madeBy mild command of doctor "Out with you!I warrant we receive another man!"But—would that I could say, the married pair!And, quite another man assuredly,Monsieur Léonce Miranda took on himForthwith to bid the trio, priest and nuns,Constant in their attendance all this while,Take his thanks and their own departure too;Politely but emphatically. Next,The Cousins were dismissed: "No protest, pray!Whatever I engaged to do is done,Or shall be—I but follow your advice:Love I abjure: the lady, you behold,Is changed as I myself; her sex is changed:This is my Brother—He will tend me now,Be all my world henceforth as brother should.Gentlemen, of a kinship I revere,Your interest in trade is laudable;I purpose to indulge it: manage mine,My goldsmith-business in the Place Vendôme,Wholly—through purchase at the price adjudgedBy experts I shall have assistance from.If, in conformity with sage advice,I leave a busy world of interestsI own myself unfit for—yours the careThat any world of other aims, whereinI hope to dwell, be easy of accessThrough ministration of the moneys due,As we determine, with all proper speed,Since I leave Paris to repair my health.Say farewell to our Cousins, Brother mine!"
I will not scandalize you and recount
How matters made the morning pass away.
Not one reproach, not one acknowledgment,
One explanation: all was understood!
Matters at end, the home-uneasiness
Cousins were feeling at this jaunt prolonged
Was ended also by the entry of—
Not simply him whose exit had been made
By mild command of doctor "Out with you!
I warrant we receive another man!"
But—would that I could say, the married pair!
And, quite another man assuredly,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda took on him
Forthwith to bid the trio, priest and nuns,
Constant in their attendance all this while,
Take his thanks and their own departure too;
Politely but emphatically. Next,
The Cousins were dismissed: "No protest, pray!
Whatever I engaged to do is done,
Or shall be—I but follow your advice:
Love I abjure: the lady, you behold,
Is changed as I myself; her sex is changed:
This is my Brother—He will tend me now,
Be all my world henceforth as brother should.
Gentlemen, of a kinship I revere,
Your interest in trade is laudable;
I purpose to indulge it: manage mine,
My goldsmith-business in the Place Vendôme,
Wholly—through purchase at the price adjudged
By experts I shall have assistance from.
If, in conformity with sage advice,
I leave a busy world of interests
I own myself unfit for—yours the care
That any world of other aims, wherein
I hope to dwell, be easy of access
Through ministration of the moneys due,
As we determine, with all proper speed,
Since I leave Paris to repair my health.
Say farewell to our Cousins, Brother mine!"
And, all submissiveness, as brother might,The lady curtsied gracefully, and droptMore than mere curtsey, a concluding phraseSo silver-soft, yet penetrative too,That none of it escaped the favored ears:"Had I but credited one syllable,I should to-day be lying stretched on straw,The produce of your miserablerente!Whereas, I hold him—do you comprehend?"Cousin regarded cousin, turned up eye,And took departure, as our Tuscans laugh,Each with his added palm-breadth of long nose,—Curtailed but imperceptibly, next week,When transfer was accomplished, and the tradeIn Paris did indeed become their own,But bought by them and sold by him on terms'Twixt man and man,—might serve 'twixt wolf and wolf,Substitute "bit and clawed" for "signed and sealed"—Our ordinary business-terms, in short.Another week, and Clairvaux broke in bloomAt end of April, to receive againMonsieur Léonce Miranda, gentleman,Ex-jeweller and goldsmith: never more—According to the purpose he professed—To quit this paradise, his property,This Clara, his companion: so it proved.
And, all submissiveness, as brother might,
The lady curtsied gracefully, and dropt
More than mere curtsey, a concluding phrase
So silver-soft, yet penetrative too,
That none of it escaped the favored ears:
"Had I but credited one syllable,
I should to-day be lying stretched on straw,
The produce of your miserablerente!
Whereas, I hold him—do you comprehend?"
Cousin regarded cousin, turned up eye,
And took departure, as our Tuscans laugh,
Each with his added palm-breadth of long nose,—
Curtailed but imperceptibly, next week,
When transfer was accomplished, and the trade
In Paris did indeed become their own,
But bought by them and sold by him on terms
'Twixt man and man,—might serve 'twixt wolf and wolf,
Substitute "bit and clawed" for "signed and sealed"—
Our ordinary business-terms, in short.
Another week, and Clairvaux broke in bloom
At end of April, to receive again
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, gentleman,
Ex-jeweller and goldsmith: never more—
According to the purpose he professed—
To quit this paradise, his property,
This Clara, his companion: so it proved.
The Cousins, each with elongated nose,Discussed their bargain, reconciled them soonTo hard necessity, disbursed the cash,And hastened to subjoin, wherever typeProclaimed "Miranda" to the public, "CalledNow Firm-Miranda." There, a colony,They flourish underneath the name that stillMaintains the old repute, I understand.They built their Clairvaux, dream-Château, in Spain,Perhaps—but Place Vendôme is waking worth:Oh, they lost little!—only, man and manHardly conclude transactions of the kindAs cousin should with cousin,—cousins think.For the rest, all was honorably done,So, ere buds break to blossom, let us breathe!Never suppose there was one particleOf recrudescence—wound, half-healed before,Set freshly running—sin, repressed as such,New loosened as necessity of life!In all this revocation and resolve,Far be sin's self-indulgence from your thought!The man had simply made discovery,By process I respect if not admire,That what was, was:—that turf, his feet had touched,Felt solid just as much as yonder towersHe saw with eyes, but did not stand upon,And could not, if he would, reach in a leap.People had told him flowery turf was falseTo footstep, tired the traveller soon, beside:That was untrue. They told him "One fair stridePlants on safe platform, and secures man rest."That was untrue. Some varied the advice:"Neither was solid, towers no more than turf:"Double assertion, therefore twice as false."I like these amateurs"—our friend had laughed,Could he turn what he felt to what he thought,And, that again, to what he put in words:"I like their pretty trial, proof of pasteOr precious stone, by delicate approachOf eye askance, fine feel of finger-tip,Or touch of tongue inquisitive for cold.I tried my jewels in a crucible:Fierce fire has felt them, licked them, left them sound.Don't tell me that my earthly love is sham,My heavenly fear a clever counterfeit!Each may oppose each, yet be true alike!"
The Cousins, each with elongated nose,
Discussed their bargain, reconciled them soon
To hard necessity, disbursed the cash,
And hastened to subjoin, wherever type
Proclaimed "Miranda" to the public, "Called
Now Firm-Miranda." There, a colony,
They flourish underneath the name that still
Maintains the old repute, I understand.
They built their Clairvaux, dream-Château, in Spain,
Perhaps—but Place Vendôme is waking worth:
Oh, they lost little!—only, man and man
Hardly conclude transactions of the kind
As cousin should with cousin,—cousins think.
For the rest, all was honorably done,
So, ere buds break to blossom, let us breathe!
Never suppose there was one particle
Of recrudescence—wound, half-healed before,
Set freshly running—sin, repressed as such,
New loosened as necessity of life!
In all this revocation and resolve,
Far be sin's self-indulgence from your thought!
The man had simply made discovery,
By process I respect if not admire,
That what was, was:—that turf, his feet had touched,
Felt solid just as much as yonder towers
He saw with eyes, but did not stand upon,
And could not, if he would, reach in a leap.
People had told him flowery turf was false
To footstep, tired the traveller soon, beside:
That was untrue. They told him "One fair stride
Plants on safe platform, and secures man rest."
That was untrue. Some varied the advice:
"Neither was solid, towers no more than turf:"
Double assertion, therefore twice as false.
"I like these amateurs"—our friend had laughed,
Could he turn what he felt to what he thought,
And, that again, to what he put in words:
"I like their pretty trial, proof of paste
Or precious stone, by delicate approach
Of eye askance, fine feel of finger-tip,
Or touch of tongue inquisitive for cold.
I tried my jewels in a crucible:
Fierce fire has felt them, licked them, left them sound.
Don't tell me that my earthly love is sham,
My heavenly fear a clever counterfeit!
Each may oppose each, yet be true alike!"
To build up, independent of the towers,A durable pavilion o'er the turf,Had issued in disaster. "What remainedExcept, by tunnel, or else gallery,To keep communication 'twixt the two,Unite the opposites, both near and far,And never try complete abandonmentOf one or other?" so he thought, not said.And to such engineering feat, I say,Monsieur Léonce Miranda saw the meansPrecisely in this revocation promptOf just those benefits of worldly wealthConferred upon his Cousinry—all but!
To build up, independent of the towers,
A durable pavilion o'er the turf,
Had issued in disaster. "What remained
Except, by tunnel, or else gallery,
To keep communication 'twixt the two,
Unite the opposites, both near and far,
And never try complete abandonment
Of one or other?" so he thought, not said.
And to such engineering feat, I say,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda saw the means
Precisely in this revocation prompt
Of just those benefits of worldly wealth
Conferred upon his Cousinry—all but!
This Clairvaux—you would know, were you at topOf yonder crowning grace, its Belvedere—Is situate in one angle-niche of three,At equidistance from Saint-Rambert—thereBehind you, and The Ravissante, beside—There: steeple, steeple, and this Clairvaux-top(A sort of steeple) constitute a trine,With not a tenement to break each side,Two miles or so in length, if eye can judge.
This Clairvaux—you would know, were you at top
Of yonder crowning grace, its Belvedere—
Is situate in one angle-niche of three,
At equidistance from Saint-Rambert—there
Behind you, and The Ravissante, beside—
There: steeple, steeple, and this Clairvaux-top
(A sort of steeple) constitute a trine,
With not a tenement to break each side,
Two miles or so in length, if eye can judge.
Now this is native land of miracle.Oh, why, why, why, from all recorded time,Was miracle not wrought once, only once,To help whoever wanted help indeed?If on the day when Spring's green girlishnessGrew nubile, and she trembled into May,And our Miranda climbed to clasp the SpringA-tiptoe o'er the sea, those wafts of warmth,Those cloudlets scudding under the bare blue,And all that new sun, that fresh hope aboutHis airy place of observation,—friend,Feel with me that if just then, just for once,Some angel,—such as the authentic penYonder records a daily visitantOf ploughman Claude, rheumatic in the joints,And spinster Jeanne, with megrim troubled sore,—If such an angel, with naught else to do,Had taken station on the pinnacleAnd simply said, "Léonce, look straight before!Neither to right hand nor to left: for why?Being a stupid soul, you want a guideTo turn the goodness in you to accountAnd make stupidity submit itself.Go to Saint-Rambert! Straightway get such guide!There stands a man of men. You, jeweller,Must needs have heard how once the biggest blockOf diamond now in Europe lay exposed'Mid specimens of stone and earth and ore,On huckster's stall,—Navona names the Square,And Rome the city for the incident,—Labelled 'quartz-crystal, price one halfpenny.'Haste and secure that ha'p'worth, on your life!That man will read you rightly head to foot,Mark the brown face of you, the bushy beard,The breadth 'twixt shoulderblades, and through each blackCastilian orbit, see into your soul.Talk to him for five minutes—nonsense, sense,No matter what—describe your horse, your hound,—Give your opinion of the policyOf Monsieur Rouher,—will he succor Rome?Your estimate of what may outcome beFrom Œcumenical Assemblage there!After which samples of intelligence,Rapidly run through those events you callYour past life, tell what once you tried to do,What you intend on doing this next May!There he stands, reads an English newspaper,Stock-still, and now, again upon the move,Paces the beach to taste the Spring, like you,Since both are human beings in God's eye.He will have understood you, I engage.Endeavor, for your part, to understandHe knows more, and loves better, than the worldThat never heard his name, and never may.He will have recognized, ere breath be spentAnd speech at end, how much that 's good in man,And generous, and self-devoting, makesMonsieur Léonce Miranda worth his help;While sounding to the bottom ignoranceHistorical and philosophicalAnd moral and religious, all one couchOf crassitude, a portent of its kind.Then, just as he would pityingly teachYour body to repair maltreatment, giveAdvice that you should make those stumps to stirWith artificial hands of caoutchouc,So would he soon supply your crippled soulWith crutches, from his own intelligence,Able to help you onward in the pathOf rectitude whereto your face is set,And counsel justice—to yourself, the first,To your associate, very like a wifeOr something better,—to the world at large,Friends, strangers, horses, hounds, and Cousinry—All which amount of justice will includeJustice to God. Go and consult his voice!"Since angel would not say this simple truth,What hinders that my heart relieve itself,Milsand, who makest warm my wintry world,And wise my heaven, if there we consort too?Monsieur Léonce Miranda turned, alas,Or was turned, by no angel, t' other way,And got him guidance of The Ravissante.
Now this is native land of miracle.
Oh, why, why, why, from all recorded time,
Was miracle not wrought once, only once,
To help whoever wanted help indeed?
If on the day when Spring's green girlishness
Grew nubile, and she trembled into May,
And our Miranda climbed to clasp the Spring
A-tiptoe o'er the sea, those wafts of warmth,
Those cloudlets scudding under the bare blue,
And all that new sun, that fresh hope about
His airy place of observation,—friend,
Feel with me that if just then, just for once,
Some angel,—such as the authentic pen
Yonder records a daily visitant
Of ploughman Claude, rheumatic in the joints,
And spinster Jeanne, with megrim troubled sore,—
If such an angel, with naught else to do,
Had taken station on the pinnacle
And simply said, "Léonce, look straight before!
Neither to right hand nor to left: for why?
Being a stupid soul, you want a guide
To turn the goodness in you to account
And make stupidity submit itself.
Go to Saint-Rambert! Straightway get such guide!
There stands a man of men. You, jeweller,
Must needs have heard how once the biggest block
Of diamond now in Europe lay exposed
'Mid specimens of stone and earth and ore,
On huckster's stall,—Navona names the Square,
And Rome the city for the incident,—
Labelled 'quartz-crystal, price one halfpenny.'
Haste and secure that ha'p'worth, on your life!
That man will read you rightly head to foot,
Mark the brown face of you, the bushy beard,
The breadth 'twixt shoulderblades, and through each black
Castilian orbit, see into your soul.
Talk to him for five minutes—nonsense, sense,
No matter what—describe your horse, your hound,—
Give your opinion of the policy
Of Monsieur Rouher,—will he succor Rome?
Your estimate of what may outcome be
From Œcumenical Assemblage there!
After which samples of intelligence,
Rapidly run through those events you call
Your past life, tell what once you tried to do,
What you intend on doing this next May!
There he stands, reads an English newspaper,
Stock-still, and now, again upon the move,
Paces the beach to taste the Spring, like you,
Since both are human beings in God's eye.
He will have understood you, I engage.
Endeavor, for your part, to understand
He knows more, and loves better, than the world
That never heard his name, and never may.
He will have recognized, ere breath be spent
And speech at end, how much that 's good in man,
And generous, and self-devoting, makes
Monsieur Léonce Miranda worth his help;
While sounding to the bottom ignorance
Historical and philosophical
And moral and religious, all one couch
Of crassitude, a portent of its kind.
Then, just as he would pityingly teach
Your body to repair maltreatment, give
Advice that you should make those stumps to stir
With artificial hands of caoutchouc,
So would he soon supply your crippled soul
With crutches, from his own intelligence,
Able to help you onward in the path
Of rectitude whereto your face is set,
And counsel justice—to yourself, the first,
To your associate, very like a wife
Or something better,—to the world at large,
Friends, strangers, horses, hounds, and Cousinry—
All which amount of justice will include
Justice to God. Go and consult his voice!"
Since angel would not say this simple truth,
What hinders that my heart relieve itself,
Milsand, who makest warm my wintry world,
And wise my heaven, if there we consort too?
Monsieur Léonce Miranda turned, alas,
Or was turned, by no angel, t' other way,
And got him guidance of The Ravissante.
Now, into the originals of faith,Yours, mine, Miranda's, no inquiry here!Of faith, as apprehended by mankind,The causes, were they caught and catalogued,Would too distract, too desperately foilInquirer. How may analyst reduceQuantities to exact their opposites,Value to zero, then bring zero backTo value of supreme preponderance?How substitute thing meant for thing expressed?Detect the wire-thread through that fluffy silkMen call their rope, their real compulsive power?Suppose effected such anatomy,And demonstration made of what beliefHas moved believer—were the consequenceReward at all? would each man straight deduce,From proved reality of cause, effectConformable—believe and unbelieveAccording to your True thus disengagedFrom all his heap of False called reason first?
Now, into the originals of faith,
Yours, mine, Miranda's, no inquiry here!
Of faith, as apprehended by mankind,
The causes, were they caught and catalogued,
Would too distract, too desperately foil
Inquirer. How may analyst reduce
Quantities to exact their opposites,
Value to zero, then bring zero back
To value of supreme preponderance?
How substitute thing meant for thing expressed?
Detect the wire-thread through that fluffy silk
Men call their rope, their real compulsive power?
Suppose effected such anatomy,
And demonstration made of what belief
Has moved believer—were the consequence
Reward at all? would each man straight deduce,
From proved reality of cause, effect
Conformable—believe and unbelieve
According to your True thus disengaged
From all his heap of False called reason first?
No: hand once used to hold a soft thick twist,Cannot now grope its way by wire alone:Childhood may catch the knack, scarce Youth, not Age!That 's the reply rewards you. Just as wellRemonstrate to yon peasant in the blouseThat, had he justified the true intentOf Nature who composed him thus and thus,Weakly or strongly, here he would not standStruggling with uncongenial earth and sky,But elsewhere tread the surface of the globe,Since one meridian suits the faulty lungs,Another bids the sluggish liver work."Here I was born, for better or for worse:I did not choose a climate for myself;Admit, my life were healthy, led elsewhere,"(He answers,) "how am I to migrate, pray?"
No: hand once used to hold a soft thick twist,
Cannot now grope its way by wire alone:
Childhood may catch the knack, scarce Youth, not Age!
That 's the reply rewards you. Just as well
Remonstrate to yon peasant in the blouse
That, had he justified the true intent
Of Nature who composed him thus and thus,
Weakly or strongly, here he would not stand
Struggling with uncongenial earth and sky,
But elsewhere tread the surface of the globe,
Since one meridian suits the faulty lungs,
Another bids the sluggish liver work.
"Here I was born, for better or for worse:
I did not choose a climate for myself;
Admit, my life were healthy, led elsewhere,"
(He answers,) "how am I to migrate, pray?"