Here she looked up from her absorbing grief,And round her, crow-like grouped, the Cousinry,(She grew aware) sat witnesses at watch.For, two days had elapsed since fate befellThe courser in the meadow, stretched so stark.They did not cluster on the tree-tops, closeTheir sooty ranks, caw and confabulateFor nothing: but, like calm determined crows,They came to take possession of their corpse.And who shall blame them? Had not they the right?One spoke. "They would be gentle, not austere.They understood, and were compassionate.Madame Muhlhausen lay too abject nowFor aught but the sincerest pity; still,Since plain speech salves the wound it seems to make,They must speak plainly—circumstances spoke!Sin had conceived and brought forth death indeed.As the commencement, so the close of things:Just what might be expected all along!Monsieur Léonce Miranda launched his youthInto a cesspool of debauchery,And, if he thence emerged all dripping slime,—Where was the change except from thin to thick,One warm rich mud-bath, Madame?—you, in placeOf Paris-drainage and distilment, youHe never needed budge from, boiled to rags!True, some good instinct left the natural man,Some touch of that deep dye wherewith imbuedBy education, in his happier day,The hopeful offspring of high parentageWas fleece-marked moral and religious sheep,—Some ruddle, faint reminder (we admit),Stuck to Miranda, rubbed he ne'er so rudeAgainst the goatly coarseness: to the last,Moral he styled himself, religious too!Which means—what ineradicable goodYou found, you never left till good's self provedPerversion and distortion, nursed to growthSo monstrous, that the tree-stock, dead and dry,Were seemlier far than such a heap grotesqueOf fungous nourishing excrescence. Here,Sap-like affection, meant for family,Stole off to feed one sucker fat—yourself;While branchage, trained religiously aloftTo rear its head in reverence to the sun,Was pulled down earthward, pegged and picketed,By topiary contrivance, till the treeBecame an arbor where, at vulgar ease,Sat superstition grinning through the loops.Still, nature is too strong or else too weakFor cockney treatment: either, tree springs backTo pristine shape, or else degraded droops,And turns to touchwood at the heart. So here—Body and mind, at last the man gave way.His body—there it lies, what part was leftUnmutilated! for, the strife commencedTwo years ago, when, both hands burnt to ash,—A branch broke loose, by loss of what choice twigs!As for his mind—behold our registerOf all its moods, from the incipient mad,Nay, mere erratic, to the stark insane,Absolute idiocy or what is worse!All have we catalogued—extravaganceIn worldly matters, luxury absurd,And zeal as crazed in its expenditureOf nonsense called devotion. Don't we know—We Cousins, bound in duty to our kin,—What mummeries were practised by you twoAt Clairvaux? Not a servant got dischargeBut came and told his grievance, testifiedTo acts which turn religion to a farce.And as the private mock, so patent—see—The public scandal! Ask the neighborhood—Or rather, since we asked them long ago,Read what they answer, depositions down,Signed, sealed and sworn to! Brief, the man was mad.We are his heirs and claim our heritage.Madame Muhlhausen,—whom good taste forbidsWe qualify as do these documents,—Fear not lest justice stifle mercy's prayer!True, had you lent a willing ear at first,Had you obeyed our call two years ago,Restrained a certain insolence of eye,A volubility of tongue, that time,Your prospects had been none the worse, perhaps.Still, fear not but a decent competenceShall smooth the way for your declining age!What we propose, then" ...Clara dried her eyes,Sat up, surveyed the consistory, spokeAfter due pause, with something of a smile."Gentlemen, kinsfolk of my friend defunct,In thus addressing me—of all the world!—You much misapprehend what part I play.I claim no property you speak about.You might as well address the park-keeper,Harangue him on some plan advisableFor covering the park with cottage-plots.He is the servant, no proprietor,His business is to see the sward kept trim,Untrespassed over by the indiscreet:Beyond that, he refers you to myself—Another servant of another kind—Who again—quite as limited in act—Refer you, with your projects,—can I else?To who in mastery is ultimate,The Church. The Church is sole administrant,Since sole possessor of what worldly wealthMonsieur Léonce Miranda late possessed.Often enough has he attempted, nay,Forced me, wellnigh, to occupy the postYou seemingly suppose I fill,—receiveAs gift the wealth intrusted me as grace.This—for quite other reasons than appearSo cogent to your perspicacity—This I refused; and, firm as you could wish,Still was my answer, 'We two understandEach one the other. I am intimate—As how can be mere fools and knaves—or, say,Even your Cousins?—with your love to me,Devotion to the Church. Would ProvidenceAppoint, and make me certain of the same,That I survive you (which is little like,Seeing you hardly overpass my ageAnd more than match me in abundant health)In such case, certainly I would acceptYour bounty: better I than alien heartsShould execute your planned benevolenceTo man, your proposed largess to the Church,But though I be survivor,—weakly frame,With only woman's wit to make amends,—When I shall die, or while I am alive,Cannot you figure me an easy markFor hypocritical rapacity,Kith, kin and generation, crouching low,Ever on the alert to pounce on prey?Far be it I should say they profitedBy that first frenzy-fit themselves induced,—Cold-blooded scenical buffoons at sportWith horror and damnation o'er a grave:That were too shocking—I absolve them there!Nor did they seize the moment of your swoonTo rifle pocket, wring a paper thence,Their Cousinly dictation, and enrichThereby each mother's son as heart could wish,Had nobody supplied a codicil.But when the pain, poor friend! had prostratedYour body, though your soul was right once more,I fear they turned your weakness to account!Why else to me, who agonizing watched,Sneak, cap in hand, now bribe me to forsakeMy maimed Léonce, now bully, cap on head,The impudent pretension to assuageSuch sorrows as demanded Cousins' care?—For you rejected, hated, fled me, farIn foreign lands you laughed at me!—they judged.And, think you, will the unkind one hesitateTo try conclusions with my helplessness,—To pounce on and misuse your derelict,Helped by advantage that bereavement lendsFolk, who, while yet you lived, played tricks like these?You only have to die, and they detect,In all you said and did, insanity!Your faith was fetish-worship, your regardFor Christ's prime precept which endows the poorAnd strips the rich, a craze from first to last!They so would limn your likeness, paint your life,That if it ended by some accident,—For instance, if, attempting to arrangeThe plants below that dangerous BelvedereI cannot warn you from sufficiently,You lost your balance and fell headlong—fineOccasion, such, for cryingSuicide!Non compos mentis, naturally next,Hands over Clairvaux to a Cousin-tribeWho nor like me nor love The Ravissante:Therefore be ruled by both! Life-interestIn Clairvaux,—conservation, guardianshipOf earthly good for heavenly purpose,—giveSuch and no other proof of confidence!Let Clara represent The Ravissante!'—To whom accordingly, he then and thereBequeathed each stick and stone, by testamentIn holograph, mouth managing the quill:Go, see the same in Londres, if you doubt!"Then smile grew laugh, as sudden up she stoodAnd out she spoke: intemperate the speech!"And now, sirs, for your special courtesy,Your candle held up to the characterOf Lucie Steiner, whom you qualifyAs coming short of perfect womanhood.Yes, kindly critics, truth for once you tell!True is it that through childhood, poverty,Sloth, pressure of temptation, I succumbed,And, ere I found what honor meant, lost mine.So was the sheep lost, which the Shepherd foundAnd never lost again. My friend found me;Or better say, the Shepherd found us both—Since he, my friend, was much in the same mire,When first we made acquaintance. Each helped each,—A twofold extrication from the slough;And, saving me, he saved himself. Since then,Unsmirched we kept our cleanliness of coat.It is his perfect constancy, you callMy friend's main fault—he never left his love!While as for me, I dare your worst, imputeOne breach of loving bond, these twenty years.To me whom only cobwebs bound, you count!'He was religiously disposed in youth!'That may be, though we did not meet at church.Under my teaching did he, like you scamps,Become Voltairian—fools who mock his faith?'Infirm of body!' I am silent there:Even yourselves acknowledge service done,Whatever motive your own souls supplyAs inspiration. Love made labor light."Then laugh grew frown, and frown grew terrible.Do recollect what sort of person shrieked—"Such was I, saint or sinner, what you please:And who is it casts stone at me but you?By your own showing, sirs, you bought and sold,Took what advantage bargain promised bag,Abundantly did business, and with whom?The man whom you pronounce imbecile, pushIndignantly aside if he presumeTo settle his affairs like other folk!How is it you have stepped into his shoes,And stand there, bold as brass, 'Miranda, late;Now, Firm-Miranda'? Sane, he signed awayThat little birthright, did he? Hence to trade!I know and he knew who 't was dipped and ducked,Truckled and played the parasite in vain,As now one, now the other, here you cringed,Were feasted, took our presents, you—those drops,Just for your wife's adornment! you—that sprayExactly suiting, as most diamonds would,Your daughter on her marriage! No word thenOf somebody the wanton! Hence, I say,Subscribers to the 'Siècle,' every snob—For here the post brings me the 'Univers'!Home and make money in the Place Vendôme,Sully yourselves no longer by my sight,And, when next Schneider wants a newparure,Be careful lest you stick there by mischanceThat stone beyond compare intrusted youTo kindle faith with, when, Miranda's gift,Crowning the very crown, The RavissanteShall claim it! As to Clairvaux—talk to Her!She answers by the Chapter of Raimbaux!"Vituperative, truly! All this wrathBecause the man's relations thought him mad!Whereat, I hope you see the CousinryTurn each to other, blankly dolorous,Consult a moment, more by shrug and shrugThan mere man's language,—finally concludeTo leave the reprobate untroubled nowIn her unholy triumph, till the LawShall right the injured ones; for gentlemenAllow the female sex, this sort at least.Its privilege. So, simply "Cockatrice!"—"Jezebel!"—"Queen of the Camellias!"—criedCousin to cousin, as yon hinge a-creakShut out the party, and the gate returnedTo custody of Clairvaux. "Pretty place!What say you, when it proves our property,To trying a concurrence with La Roche,And laying down a rival oyster-bed?Where the park ends, the sea begins, you know."So took they comfort till they came to Vire.But I would linger, fain to snatch a lookAt Clara as she stands in pride of place,Somewhat more satisfying than my glanceSo furtive, so near futile, yesterday,Because one must be courteous. Of the masksThat figure in this little history,She only has a claim to my respect,And one-eyed, in her French phrase, rules the blind.Miranda hardly did his best with life:He might have opened eye, exerted brain,Attained conception as to right and lawIn certain points respecting intercourseOf man with woman—love, one likes to say;Which knowledge had dealt rudely with the claimOf Clara to play representativeAnd from perdition rescue soul, forsooth!Also, the sense of him should have sufficedFor building up some better theoryOf how God operates in heaven and earth,Than would establish Him participantIn doings yonder at The Ravissante.The heart was wise according to its lightsAnd limits; but the head refused more sun,And shrank into its mew, and craved less space.Clara, I hold the happier specimen,—It may be, through that artist-preferenceFor work complete, inferiorly proposed,To incompletion, though it aim aright.Morally, no! Aspire, break bounds! I say,Endeavor to be good, and better still,And best! Success is naught, endeavor 's all.But intellect adjusts the means to ends,Tries the low thing, and leaves it done, at least;No prejudice to high thing, intellectWould do and will do, only give the means.Miranda, in my picture-gallery,Presents a Blake; be Clara—Meissonnier!Merely considered so by artist, mind!For, break through Art and rise to poetry,Bring Art to tremble nearer, touch enoughThe verge of vastness to inform our soulWhat orb makes transit through the dark above,And there 's the triumph!—there the incomplete,More than completion, matches the immense,—Then, Michelagnolo against the world!With this proviso, let me study herApprovingly, the finished little piece!Born, bred, with just one instinct,—that of growth,—Her quality was, caterpillar-like,To all-unerringly select a leafAnd without intermission feed her fill,Become the Painted Peacock, or belikeThe Brimstone-wing, when time of year should suit;And 't is a sign (say entomologists)Of sickness, when the creature stops its mealOne minute, either to look up at heaven,Or turn aside for change of aliment.No doubt there was a certain uglinessIn the beginning, as the grub grew worm:She could not find the proper plant at once,But crawled and fumbled through a whole parterre.Husband Muhlhausen served for stuff not long:Then came confusion of the slimy trackFrom London, "where she gave the tone awhile,"To Paris: let the stalks start up again,Now she is off them, all the greener they!But, settled on Miranda, how she sucked,Assimilated juices, took the tint,Mimicked the form and texture of her food!Was he for pastime? Who so frolic-fondAs Clara? Had he a devotion-fit?Clara grew serious with like qualm, be sure!In health and strength he,—healthy too and strong,She danced, rode, drove, took pistol-practice, fished,Nay, "managed sea-skiff with consummate skill."In pain and weakness, he,—she patient watchedAnd whiled the slow drip-dropping hours away.She bound again the broken self-respect,She picked out the true meaning from mistake,Praised effort in each stumble, laughed "Well climbed!"When others groaned "None ever grovelled so!""Rise, you have gained experience!" was her word:"Lie satisfied, the ground is just your place!"They thought appropriate counsel. "Live, not die,And take my full life to eke out your own:That shall repay me and with interest!Write!—is your mouth not clever as my hand?Paint!—the last Exposition warrants me,Plenty of people must ply brush with toes.And as for music—look, what folk nicknameA lyre, those ancients played to ravishment,—Over the pendule, see, Apollo graspsA three-stringed gimcrack which no Liszt could coaxSuch music from as jew's-harp makes to-day!Do your endeavor like a man, and leaveThe rest to 'fortune who assists the bold'—Learn, you, the Latin which you taught me first,You clever creature—clever, yes, I say!"If he smiled "Let us love, love's wrong comes right,Shows reason last of all! NecessityMust meanwhile serve for plea—so, mind not muchOld Fricquot's menace!"—back she smiled "Who minds?"If he sighed "Ah, but She is strict, they say,For all Her mercy at The Ravissante,She scarce will be put off so!"—straight a sighReturned "My lace must go to trim Her gown!"I nowise doubt she inwardly believedSmiling and sighing had the same effectUpon the venerated image. WhatShe did believe in, I as little doubt,Was—Clara's self's own birthright to sustainExistence, grow from grub to butterfly,Upon unlimited Miranda-leaf;In which prime article of faith confirmed,According to capacity, she fedOn and on till the leaf was eaten up,That April morning. Even then, I praiseHer forethought which prevented leafless stalkBestowing any hoarded succulenceOn earwig and black-beetle squat beneath;—Clairvaux, that stalk whereto her hermitageShe tacked by golden throw of silk, so fine,So anything but feeble, that her sleepInside it, through last winter, two years long,Recked little of the storm and strife without."But—loved him?" Friend, I do not praise her love!True love works never for the loved one so,Nor spares skin-surface, smoothening truth away.Love bids touch truth, endure truth, and embraceTruth, though, embracing truth, love crush itself."Worship not me, but God!" the angels urge:That is love's grandeur: still, in pettier loveThe nice eye can distinguish grade and grade.Shall mine degrade the velvet green and puceOf caterpillar, palmer-worm—or what—Ball in and out of ball, each ball with brushOf Venus' eye-fringe round the turquoise eggThat nestles soft,—compare such paragonWith any scarabæus of the broodWhich, born to fly, keeps wing in wing-case, walksPersistently a-trundling dung on earth?Egypt may venerate such hierophants,Not I—the couple yonder, Father PriestAnd Mother Nun, who came and went and came,Beset this Clairvaux, trundled money-muckTo midden and the main heap oft enough,But never bade unshut from sheath the gauze,Nor showed that, who would fly, must let fall filth,And warn "Your jewel, brother, is a blotch:Sister, your lace trails ordure! Leave your sins,And so best gift with Crown and grace with Robe!"The superstition is extinct, you hope?It were, with my good will! Suppose it so,Bethink you likewise of the latest useWhereto a Night-cap is convertible,And draw your very thickest, thread and thrum,O'er such a decomposing face of things,Once so alive, it seemed immortal too!This happened two years since. The CousinryReturned to Paris, called in help from Law,And in due form proceeded to disputeMonsieur Léonce Miranda's competence,Being insane, to make a valid Will.Much testimony volunteered itself;The issue hardly could be doubtful—butFor that sad 'Seventy which must intervene,Provide poor France with other work to mindThan settling lawsuits, even for the sakeOf such a party as The Ravissante.It only was this Summer that the caseCould come and be disposed of, two weeks since,At Vire—Tribunal Civil—Chamber First.Here, issued with all regularity,I hold the judgment—just, inevitable,Nowise to be contested by what fewCan judge the judges; sum and substance, thus:—"Inasmuch as we find, the Cousinry,During that very period when they takeMonsieur Léonce Miranda for stark mad,Considered him to be quite sane enoughFor doing much important business with—Nor showed suspicion of his competenceUntil, by turning of the tables, lossInstead of gain accrued to them thereby,—Plea of incompetence we set aside.—"The rather, that the dispositions, soughtTo be impugned, are natural and right,Nor jar with any reasonable claimOf kindred, friendship, or acquaintance here.Nobody is despoiled, none overlooked;Since the testator leaves his propertyTo just that person whom, of all the world,He counted he was most indebted to.In mere discharge, then, of conspicuous debt,Madame Muhlhausen has priority,Enjoys the usufruct of Clairvaux."Next,Such debt discharged, such life determining,Such earthly interest provided for,Monsieur Léonce Miranda may bequeath,In absence of more fit recipient, fundAnd usufruct together to the ChurchWhereof he was a special devotee."—Which disposition, being consonantWith a long series of such acts and deedsNotorious in his lifetime, needs must stand,Unprejudiced by eccentricityNowise amounting to distemper: since,In every instance signalized as such,We recognize no overleaping bounds,No straying out of the permissible:Duty to the Religion of the Land,—Neither excessive nor inordinate."The minor accusations are dismissed;They prove mere freak and fancy, boyish moodIn age mature of simple kindly man.Exuberant in generositiesTo all the world: no fact confirms the fearHe meditated mischief to himselfThat morning when he met the accidentWhich ended fatally. The case is closed."How otherwise? So, when I grazed the skirts,And had the glimpse of who made, yesterday,—Woman and retinue of goats and sheep,—The sombre path one whiteness, vision-like,As out of gate, and in at gate again,They wavered,—she was lady there for life:And, after life—I hope, a white successOf some sort, wheresoever life resumeSchool interrupted by vacation—death;Seeing that home she goes with prize in hand,Confirmed the Châtelaine of Clairvaux.True,Such prize fades soon to insignificance.Though she have eaten her Miranda up,And spun a cradle-cone through, which she pricksHer passage, and proves peacock-butterfly,This Autumn—wait a little week of cold!Peacock and death's-head-moth end much the same.And could she still continue spinning,—sure,Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute,And o'er this life of hers distaste would dropRed-cotton-Nightcap-wise.How say you, friend?Have I redeemed my promise? Smile assentThrough the dark Winter-gloom between us both!Already, months ago and miles away,I just as good as told you, in a flash,The while we paced the sands before my house,All this poor story—truth and nothing else.Accept that moment's flashing, amplified,Impalpability reduced to speech,Conception proved by birth,—no other change!Can what Saint-Rambert flashed me in a thought,Good gloomy London make a poem of?Such ought to be whatever dares precede,Play ruddy herald-star to your white blazeAbout to bring us day. How fail imbibeSome foretaste of effulgence? Sun shall wax,And star shall wane: what matter, so star tellThe drowsy world to start awake, rub eyes,And stand all ready for morn's joy a-blush?
Here she looked up from her absorbing grief,And round her, crow-like grouped, the Cousinry,(She grew aware) sat witnesses at watch.For, two days had elapsed since fate befellThe courser in the meadow, stretched so stark.They did not cluster on the tree-tops, closeTheir sooty ranks, caw and confabulateFor nothing: but, like calm determined crows,They came to take possession of their corpse.And who shall blame them? Had not they the right?One spoke. "They would be gentle, not austere.They understood, and were compassionate.Madame Muhlhausen lay too abject nowFor aught but the sincerest pity; still,Since plain speech salves the wound it seems to make,They must speak plainly—circumstances spoke!Sin had conceived and brought forth death indeed.As the commencement, so the close of things:Just what might be expected all along!Monsieur Léonce Miranda launched his youthInto a cesspool of debauchery,And, if he thence emerged all dripping slime,—Where was the change except from thin to thick,One warm rich mud-bath, Madame?—you, in placeOf Paris-drainage and distilment, youHe never needed budge from, boiled to rags!True, some good instinct left the natural man,Some touch of that deep dye wherewith imbuedBy education, in his happier day,The hopeful offspring of high parentageWas fleece-marked moral and religious sheep,—Some ruddle, faint reminder (we admit),Stuck to Miranda, rubbed he ne'er so rudeAgainst the goatly coarseness: to the last,Moral he styled himself, religious too!Which means—what ineradicable goodYou found, you never left till good's self provedPerversion and distortion, nursed to growthSo monstrous, that the tree-stock, dead and dry,Were seemlier far than such a heap grotesqueOf fungous nourishing excrescence. Here,Sap-like affection, meant for family,Stole off to feed one sucker fat—yourself;While branchage, trained religiously aloftTo rear its head in reverence to the sun,Was pulled down earthward, pegged and picketed,By topiary contrivance, till the treeBecame an arbor where, at vulgar ease,Sat superstition grinning through the loops.Still, nature is too strong or else too weakFor cockney treatment: either, tree springs backTo pristine shape, or else degraded droops,And turns to touchwood at the heart. So here—Body and mind, at last the man gave way.His body—there it lies, what part was leftUnmutilated! for, the strife commencedTwo years ago, when, both hands burnt to ash,—A branch broke loose, by loss of what choice twigs!As for his mind—behold our registerOf all its moods, from the incipient mad,Nay, mere erratic, to the stark insane,Absolute idiocy or what is worse!All have we catalogued—extravaganceIn worldly matters, luxury absurd,And zeal as crazed in its expenditureOf nonsense called devotion. Don't we know—We Cousins, bound in duty to our kin,—What mummeries were practised by you twoAt Clairvaux? Not a servant got dischargeBut came and told his grievance, testifiedTo acts which turn religion to a farce.And as the private mock, so patent—see—The public scandal! Ask the neighborhood—Or rather, since we asked them long ago,Read what they answer, depositions down,Signed, sealed and sworn to! Brief, the man was mad.We are his heirs and claim our heritage.Madame Muhlhausen,—whom good taste forbidsWe qualify as do these documents,—Fear not lest justice stifle mercy's prayer!True, had you lent a willing ear at first,Had you obeyed our call two years ago,Restrained a certain insolence of eye,A volubility of tongue, that time,Your prospects had been none the worse, perhaps.Still, fear not but a decent competenceShall smooth the way for your declining age!What we propose, then" ...Clara dried her eyes,Sat up, surveyed the consistory, spokeAfter due pause, with something of a smile."Gentlemen, kinsfolk of my friend defunct,In thus addressing me—of all the world!—You much misapprehend what part I play.I claim no property you speak about.You might as well address the park-keeper,Harangue him on some plan advisableFor covering the park with cottage-plots.He is the servant, no proprietor,His business is to see the sward kept trim,Untrespassed over by the indiscreet:Beyond that, he refers you to myself—Another servant of another kind—Who again—quite as limited in act—Refer you, with your projects,—can I else?To who in mastery is ultimate,The Church. The Church is sole administrant,Since sole possessor of what worldly wealthMonsieur Léonce Miranda late possessed.Often enough has he attempted, nay,Forced me, wellnigh, to occupy the postYou seemingly suppose I fill,—receiveAs gift the wealth intrusted me as grace.This—for quite other reasons than appearSo cogent to your perspicacity—This I refused; and, firm as you could wish,Still was my answer, 'We two understandEach one the other. I am intimate—As how can be mere fools and knaves—or, say,Even your Cousins?—with your love to me,Devotion to the Church. Would ProvidenceAppoint, and make me certain of the same,That I survive you (which is little like,Seeing you hardly overpass my ageAnd more than match me in abundant health)In such case, certainly I would acceptYour bounty: better I than alien heartsShould execute your planned benevolenceTo man, your proposed largess to the Church,But though I be survivor,—weakly frame,With only woman's wit to make amends,—When I shall die, or while I am alive,Cannot you figure me an easy markFor hypocritical rapacity,Kith, kin and generation, crouching low,Ever on the alert to pounce on prey?Far be it I should say they profitedBy that first frenzy-fit themselves induced,—Cold-blooded scenical buffoons at sportWith horror and damnation o'er a grave:That were too shocking—I absolve them there!Nor did they seize the moment of your swoonTo rifle pocket, wring a paper thence,Their Cousinly dictation, and enrichThereby each mother's son as heart could wish,Had nobody supplied a codicil.But when the pain, poor friend! had prostratedYour body, though your soul was right once more,I fear they turned your weakness to account!Why else to me, who agonizing watched,Sneak, cap in hand, now bribe me to forsakeMy maimed Léonce, now bully, cap on head,The impudent pretension to assuageSuch sorrows as demanded Cousins' care?—For you rejected, hated, fled me, farIn foreign lands you laughed at me!—they judged.And, think you, will the unkind one hesitateTo try conclusions with my helplessness,—To pounce on and misuse your derelict,Helped by advantage that bereavement lendsFolk, who, while yet you lived, played tricks like these?You only have to die, and they detect,In all you said and did, insanity!Your faith was fetish-worship, your regardFor Christ's prime precept which endows the poorAnd strips the rich, a craze from first to last!They so would limn your likeness, paint your life,That if it ended by some accident,—For instance, if, attempting to arrangeThe plants below that dangerous BelvedereI cannot warn you from sufficiently,You lost your balance and fell headlong—fineOccasion, such, for cryingSuicide!Non compos mentis, naturally next,Hands over Clairvaux to a Cousin-tribeWho nor like me nor love The Ravissante:Therefore be ruled by both! Life-interestIn Clairvaux,—conservation, guardianshipOf earthly good for heavenly purpose,—giveSuch and no other proof of confidence!Let Clara represent The Ravissante!'—To whom accordingly, he then and thereBequeathed each stick and stone, by testamentIn holograph, mouth managing the quill:Go, see the same in Londres, if you doubt!"Then smile grew laugh, as sudden up she stoodAnd out she spoke: intemperate the speech!"And now, sirs, for your special courtesy,Your candle held up to the characterOf Lucie Steiner, whom you qualifyAs coming short of perfect womanhood.Yes, kindly critics, truth for once you tell!True is it that through childhood, poverty,Sloth, pressure of temptation, I succumbed,And, ere I found what honor meant, lost mine.So was the sheep lost, which the Shepherd foundAnd never lost again. My friend found me;Or better say, the Shepherd found us both—Since he, my friend, was much in the same mire,When first we made acquaintance. Each helped each,—A twofold extrication from the slough;And, saving me, he saved himself. Since then,Unsmirched we kept our cleanliness of coat.It is his perfect constancy, you callMy friend's main fault—he never left his love!While as for me, I dare your worst, imputeOne breach of loving bond, these twenty years.To me whom only cobwebs bound, you count!'He was religiously disposed in youth!'That may be, though we did not meet at church.Under my teaching did he, like you scamps,Become Voltairian—fools who mock his faith?'Infirm of body!' I am silent there:Even yourselves acknowledge service done,Whatever motive your own souls supplyAs inspiration. Love made labor light."Then laugh grew frown, and frown grew terrible.Do recollect what sort of person shrieked—"Such was I, saint or sinner, what you please:And who is it casts stone at me but you?By your own showing, sirs, you bought and sold,Took what advantage bargain promised bag,Abundantly did business, and with whom?The man whom you pronounce imbecile, pushIndignantly aside if he presumeTo settle his affairs like other folk!How is it you have stepped into his shoes,And stand there, bold as brass, 'Miranda, late;Now, Firm-Miranda'? Sane, he signed awayThat little birthright, did he? Hence to trade!I know and he knew who 't was dipped and ducked,Truckled and played the parasite in vain,As now one, now the other, here you cringed,Were feasted, took our presents, you—those drops,Just for your wife's adornment! you—that sprayExactly suiting, as most diamonds would,Your daughter on her marriage! No word thenOf somebody the wanton! Hence, I say,Subscribers to the 'Siècle,' every snob—For here the post brings me the 'Univers'!Home and make money in the Place Vendôme,Sully yourselves no longer by my sight,And, when next Schneider wants a newparure,Be careful lest you stick there by mischanceThat stone beyond compare intrusted youTo kindle faith with, when, Miranda's gift,Crowning the very crown, The RavissanteShall claim it! As to Clairvaux—talk to Her!She answers by the Chapter of Raimbaux!"Vituperative, truly! All this wrathBecause the man's relations thought him mad!Whereat, I hope you see the CousinryTurn each to other, blankly dolorous,Consult a moment, more by shrug and shrugThan mere man's language,—finally concludeTo leave the reprobate untroubled nowIn her unholy triumph, till the LawShall right the injured ones; for gentlemenAllow the female sex, this sort at least.Its privilege. So, simply "Cockatrice!"—"Jezebel!"—"Queen of the Camellias!"—criedCousin to cousin, as yon hinge a-creakShut out the party, and the gate returnedTo custody of Clairvaux. "Pretty place!What say you, when it proves our property,To trying a concurrence with La Roche,And laying down a rival oyster-bed?Where the park ends, the sea begins, you know."So took they comfort till they came to Vire.But I would linger, fain to snatch a lookAt Clara as she stands in pride of place,Somewhat more satisfying than my glanceSo furtive, so near futile, yesterday,Because one must be courteous. Of the masksThat figure in this little history,She only has a claim to my respect,And one-eyed, in her French phrase, rules the blind.Miranda hardly did his best with life:He might have opened eye, exerted brain,Attained conception as to right and lawIn certain points respecting intercourseOf man with woman—love, one likes to say;Which knowledge had dealt rudely with the claimOf Clara to play representativeAnd from perdition rescue soul, forsooth!Also, the sense of him should have sufficedFor building up some better theoryOf how God operates in heaven and earth,Than would establish Him participantIn doings yonder at The Ravissante.The heart was wise according to its lightsAnd limits; but the head refused more sun,And shrank into its mew, and craved less space.Clara, I hold the happier specimen,—It may be, through that artist-preferenceFor work complete, inferiorly proposed,To incompletion, though it aim aright.Morally, no! Aspire, break bounds! I say,Endeavor to be good, and better still,And best! Success is naught, endeavor 's all.But intellect adjusts the means to ends,Tries the low thing, and leaves it done, at least;No prejudice to high thing, intellectWould do and will do, only give the means.Miranda, in my picture-gallery,Presents a Blake; be Clara—Meissonnier!Merely considered so by artist, mind!For, break through Art and rise to poetry,Bring Art to tremble nearer, touch enoughThe verge of vastness to inform our soulWhat orb makes transit through the dark above,And there 's the triumph!—there the incomplete,More than completion, matches the immense,—Then, Michelagnolo against the world!With this proviso, let me study herApprovingly, the finished little piece!Born, bred, with just one instinct,—that of growth,—Her quality was, caterpillar-like,To all-unerringly select a leafAnd without intermission feed her fill,Become the Painted Peacock, or belikeThe Brimstone-wing, when time of year should suit;And 't is a sign (say entomologists)Of sickness, when the creature stops its mealOne minute, either to look up at heaven,Or turn aside for change of aliment.No doubt there was a certain uglinessIn the beginning, as the grub grew worm:She could not find the proper plant at once,But crawled and fumbled through a whole parterre.Husband Muhlhausen served for stuff not long:Then came confusion of the slimy trackFrom London, "where she gave the tone awhile,"To Paris: let the stalks start up again,Now she is off them, all the greener they!But, settled on Miranda, how she sucked,Assimilated juices, took the tint,Mimicked the form and texture of her food!Was he for pastime? Who so frolic-fondAs Clara? Had he a devotion-fit?Clara grew serious with like qualm, be sure!In health and strength he,—healthy too and strong,She danced, rode, drove, took pistol-practice, fished,Nay, "managed sea-skiff with consummate skill."In pain and weakness, he,—she patient watchedAnd whiled the slow drip-dropping hours away.She bound again the broken self-respect,She picked out the true meaning from mistake,Praised effort in each stumble, laughed "Well climbed!"When others groaned "None ever grovelled so!""Rise, you have gained experience!" was her word:"Lie satisfied, the ground is just your place!"They thought appropriate counsel. "Live, not die,And take my full life to eke out your own:That shall repay me and with interest!Write!—is your mouth not clever as my hand?Paint!—the last Exposition warrants me,Plenty of people must ply brush with toes.And as for music—look, what folk nicknameA lyre, those ancients played to ravishment,—Over the pendule, see, Apollo graspsA three-stringed gimcrack which no Liszt could coaxSuch music from as jew's-harp makes to-day!Do your endeavor like a man, and leaveThe rest to 'fortune who assists the bold'—Learn, you, the Latin which you taught me first,You clever creature—clever, yes, I say!"If he smiled "Let us love, love's wrong comes right,Shows reason last of all! NecessityMust meanwhile serve for plea—so, mind not muchOld Fricquot's menace!"—back she smiled "Who minds?"If he sighed "Ah, but She is strict, they say,For all Her mercy at The Ravissante,She scarce will be put off so!"—straight a sighReturned "My lace must go to trim Her gown!"I nowise doubt she inwardly believedSmiling and sighing had the same effectUpon the venerated image. WhatShe did believe in, I as little doubt,Was—Clara's self's own birthright to sustainExistence, grow from grub to butterfly,Upon unlimited Miranda-leaf;In which prime article of faith confirmed,According to capacity, she fedOn and on till the leaf was eaten up,That April morning. Even then, I praiseHer forethought which prevented leafless stalkBestowing any hoarded succulenceOn earwig and black-beetle squat beneath;—Clairvaux, that stalk whereto her hermitageShe tacked by golden throw of silk, so fine,So anything but feeble, that her sleepInside it, through last winter, two years long,Recked little of the storm and strife without."But—loved him?" Friend, I do not praise her love!True love works never for the loved one so,Nor spares skin-surface, smoothening truth away.Love bids touch truth, endure truth, and embraceTruth, though, embracing truth, love crush itself."Worship not me, but God!" the angels urge:That is love's grandeur: still, in pettier loveThe nice eye can distinguish grade and grade.Shall mine degrade the velvet green and puceOf caterpillar, palmer-worm—or what—Ball in and out of ball, each ball with brushOf Venus' eye-fringe round the turquoise eggThat nestles soft,—compare such paragonWith any scarabæus of the broodWhich, born to fly, keeps wing in wing-case, walksPersistently a-trundling dung on earth?Egypt may venerate such hierophants,Not I—the couple yonder, Father PriestAnd Mother Nun, who came and went and came,Beset this Clairvaux, trundled money-muckTo midden and the main heap oft enough,But never bade unshut from sheath the gauze,Nor showed that, who would fly, must let fall filth,And warn "Your jewel, brother, is a blotch:Sister, your lace trails ordure! Leave your sins,And so best gift with Crown and grace with Robe!"The superstition is extinct, you hope?It were, with my good will! Suppose it so,Bethink you likewise of the latest useWhereto a Night-cap is convertible,And draw your very thickest, thread and thrum,O'er such a decomposing face of things,Once so alive, it seemed immortal too!This happened two years since. The CousinryReturned to Paris, called in help from Law,And in due form proceeded to disputeMonsieur Léonce Miranda's competence,Being insane, to make a valid Will.Much testimony volunteered itself;The issue hardly could be doubtful—butFor that sad 'Seventy which must intervene,Provide poor France with other work to mindThan settling lawsuits, even for the sakeOf such a party as The Ravissante.It only was this Summer that the caseCould come and be disposed of, two weeks since,At Vire—Tribunal Civil—Chamber First.Here, issued with all regularity,I hold the judgment—just, inevitable,Nowise to be contested by what fewCan judge the judges; sum and substance, thus:—"Inasmuch as we find, the Cousinry,During that very period when they takeMonsieur Léonce Miranda for stark mad,Considered him to be quite sane enoughFor doing much important business with—Nor showed suspicion of his competenceUntil, by turning of the tables, lossInstead of gain accrued to them thereby,—Plea of incompetence we set aside.—"The rather, that the dispositions, soughtTo be impugned, are natural and right,Nor jar with any reasonable claimOf kindred, friendship, or acquaintance here.Nobody is despoiled, none overlooked;Since the testator leaves his propertyTo just that person whom, of all the world,He counted he was most indebted to.In mere discharge, then, of conspicuous debt,Madame Muhlhausen has priority,Enjoys the usufruct of Clairvaux."Next,Such debt discharged, such life determining,Such earthly interest provided for,Monsieur Léonce Miranda may bequeath,In absence of more fit recipient, fundAnd usufruct together to the ChurchWhereof he was a special devotee."—Which disposition, being consonantWith a long series of such acts and deedsNotorious in his lifetime, needs must stand,Unprejudiced by eccentricityNowise amounting to distemper: since,In every instance signalized as such,We recognize no overleaping bounds,No straying out of the permissible:Duty to the Religion of the Land,—Neither excessive nor inordinate."The minor accusations are dismissed;They prove mere freak and fancy, boyish moodIn age mature of simple kindly man.Exuberant in generositiesTo all the world: no fact confirms the fearHe meditated mischief to himselfThat morning when he met the accidentWhich ended fatally. The case is closed."How otherwise? So, when I grazed the skirts,And had the glimpse of who made, yesterday,—Woman and retinue of goats and sheep,—The sombre path one whiteness, vision-like,As out of gate, and in at gate again,They wavered,—she was lady there for life:And, after life—I hope, a white successOf some sort, wheresoever life resumeSchool interrupted by vacation—death;Seeing that home she goes with prize in hand,Confirmed the Châtelaine of Clairvaux.True,Such prize fades soon to insignificance.Though she have eaten her Miranda up,And spun a cradle-cone through, which she pricksHer passage, and proves peacock-butterfly,This Autumn—wait a little week of cold!Peacock and death's-head-moth end much the same.And could she still continue spinning,—sure,Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute,And o'er this life of hers distaste would dropRed-cotton-Nightcap-wise.How say you, friend?Have I redeemed my promise? Smile assentThrough the dark Winter-gloom between us both!Already, months ago and miles away,I just as good as told you, in a flash,The while we paced the sands before my house,All this poor story—truth and nothing else.Accept that moment's flashing, amplified,Impalpability reduced to speech,Conception proved by birth,—no other change!Can what Saint-Rambert flashed me in a thought,Good gloomy London make a poem of?Such ought to be whatever dares precede,Play ruddy herald-star to your white blazeAbout to bring us day. How fail imbibeSome foretaste of effulgence? Sun shall wax,And star shall wane: what matter, so star tellThe drowsy world to start awake, rub eyes,And stand all ready for morn's joy a-blush?
Here she looked up from her absorbing grief,And round her, crow-like grouped, the Cousinry,(She grew aware) sat witnesses at watch.For, two days had elapsed since fate befellThe courser in the meadow, stretched so stark.They did not cluster on the tree-tops, closeTheir sooty ranks, caw and confabulateFor nothing: but, like calm determined crows,They came to take possession of their corpse.And who shall blame them? Had not they the right?One spoke. "They would be gentle, not austere.They understood, and were compassionate.Madame Muhlhausen lay too abject nowFor aught but the sincerest pity; still,Since plain speech salves the wound it seems to make,They must speak plainly—circumstances spoke!Sin had conceived and brought forth death indeed.As the commencement, so the close of things:Just what might be expected all along!Monsieur Léonce Miranda launched his youthInto a cesspool of debauchery,And, if he thence emerged all dripping slime,—Where was the change except from thin to thick,One warm rich mud-bath, Madame?—you, in placeOf Paris-drainage and distilment, youHe never needed budge from, boiled to rags!True, some good instinct left the natural man,Some touch of that deep dye wherewith imbuedBy education, in his happier day,The hopeful offspring of high parentageWas fleece-marked moral and religious sheep,—Some ruddle, faint reminder (we admit),Stuck to Miranda, rubbed he ne'er so rudeAgainst the goatly coarseness: to the last,Moral he styled himself, religious too!Which means—what ineradicable goodYou found, you never left till good's self provedPerversion and distortion, nursed to growthSo monstrous, that the tree-stock, dead and dry,Were seemlier far than such a heap grotesqueOf fungous nourishing excrescence. Here,Sap-like affection, meant for family,Stole off to feed one sucker fat—yourself;While branchage, trained religiously aloftTo rear its head in reverence to the sun,Was pulled down earthward, pegged and picketed,By topiary contrivance, till the treeBecame an arbor where, at vulgar ease,Sat superstition grinning through the loops.Still, nature is too strong or else too weakFor cockney treatment: either, tree springs backTo pristine shape, or else degraded droops,And turns to touchwood at the heart. So here—Body and mind, at last the man gave way.His body—there it lies, what part was leftUnmutilated! for, the strife commencedTwo years ago, when, both hands burnt to ash,—A branch broke loose, by loss of what choice twigs!As for his mind—behold our registerOf all its moods, from the incipient mad,Nay, mere erratic, to the stark insane,Absolute idiocy or what is worse!All have we catalogued—extravaganceIn worldly matters, luxury absurd,And zeal as crazed in its expenditureOf nonsense called devotion. Don't we know—We Cousins, bound in duty to our kin,—What mummeries were practised by you twoAt Clairvaux? Not a servant got dischargeBut came and told his grievance, testifiedTo acts which turn religion to a farce.And as the private mock, so patent—see—The public scandal! Ask the neighborhood—Or rather, since we asked them long ago,Read what they answer, depositions down,Signed, sealed and sworn to! Brief, the man was mad.We are his heirs and claim our heritage.Madame Muhlhausen,—whom good taste forbidsWe qualify as do these documents,—Fear not lest justice stifle mercy's prayer!True, had you lent a willing ear at first,Had you obeyed our call two years ago,Restrained a certain insolence of eye,A volubility of tongue, that time,Your prospects had been none the worse, perhaps.Still, fear not but a decent competenceShall smooth the way for your declining age!What we propose, then" ...
Here she looked up from her absorbing grief,
And round her, crow-like grouped, the Cousinry,
(She grew aware) sat witnesses at watch.
For, two days had elapsed since fate befell
The courser in the meadow, stretched so stark.
They did not cluster on the tree-tops, close
Their sooty ranks, caw and confabulate
For nothing: but, like calm determined crows,
They came to take possession of their corpse.
And who shall blame them? Had not they the right?
One spoke. "They would be gentle, not austere.
They understood, and were compassionate.
Madame Muhlhausen lay too abject now
For aught but the sincerest pity; still,
Since plain speech salves the wound it seems to make,
They must speak plainly—circumstances spoke!
Sin had conceived and brought forth death indeed.
As the commencement, so the close of things:
Just what might be expected all along!
Monsieur Léonce Miranda launched his youth
Into a cesspool of debauchery,
And, if he thence emerged all dripping slime,
—Where was the change except from thin to thick,
One warm rich mud-bath, Madame?—you, in place
Of Paris-drainage and distilment, you
He never needed budge from, boiled to rags!
True, some good instinct left the natural man,
Some touch of that deep dye wherewith imbued
By education, in his happier day,
The hopeful offspring of high parentage
Was fleece-marked moral and religious sheep,—
Some ruddle, faint reminder (we admit),
Stuck to Miranda, rubbed he ne'er so rude
Against the goatly coarseness: to the last,
Moral he styled himself, religious too!
Which means—what ineradicable good
You found, you never left till good's self proved
Perversion and distortion, nursed to growth
So monstrous, that the tree-stock, dead and dry,
Were seemlier far than such a heap grotesque
Of fungous nourishing excrescence. Here,
Sap-like affection, meant for family,
Stole off to feed one sucker fat—yourself;
While branchage, trained religiously aloft
To rear its head in reverence to the sun,
Was pulled down earthward, pegged and picketed,
By topiary contrivance, till the tree
Became an arbor where, at vulgar ease,
Sat superstition grinning through the loops.
Still, nature is too strong or else too weak
For cockney treatment: either, tree springs back
To pristine shape, or else degraded droops,
And turns to touchwood at the heart. So here—
Body and mind, at last the man gave way.
His body—there it lies, what part was left
Unmutilated! for, the strife commenced
Two years ago, when, both hands burnt to ash,
—A branch broke loose, by loss of what choice twigs!
As for his mind—behold our register
Of all its moods, from the incipient mad,
Nay, mere erratic, to the stark insane,
Absolute idiocy or what is worse!
All have we catalogued—extravagance
In worldly matters, luxury absurd,
And zeal as crazed in its expenditure
Of nonsense called devotion. Don't we know
—We Cousins, bound in duty to our kin,—
What mummeries were practised by you two
At Clairvaux? Not a servant got discharge
But came and told his grievance, testified
To acts which turn religion to a farce.
And as the private mock, so patent—see—
The public scandal! Ask the neighborhood—
Or rather, since we asked them long ago,
Read what they answer, depositions down,
Signed, sealed and sworn to! Brief, the man was mad.
We are his heirs and claim our heritage.
Madame Muhlhausen,—whom good taste forbids
We qualify as do these documents,—
Fear not lest justice stifle mercy's prayer!
True, had you lent a willing ear at first,
Had you obeyed our call two years ago,
Restrained a certain insolence of eye,
A volubility of tongue, that time,
Your prospects had been none the worse, perhaps.
Still, fear not but a decent competence
Shall smooth the way for your declining age!
What we propose, then" ...
Clara dried her eyes,Sat up, surveyed the consistory, spokeAfter due pause, with something of a smile.
Clara dried her eyes,
Sat up, surveyed the consistory, spoke
After due pause, with something of a smile.
"Gentlemen, kinsfolk of my friend defunct,In thus addressing me—of all the world!—You much misapprehend what part I play.I claim no property you speak about.You might as well address the park-keeper,Harangue him on some plan advisableFor covering the park with cottage-plots.He is the servant, no proprietor,His business is to see the sward kept trim,Untrespassed over by the indiscreet:Beyond that, he refers you to myself—Another servant of another kind—Who again—quite as limited in act—Refer you, with your projects,—can I else?To who in mastery is ultimate,The Church. The Church is sole administrant,Since sole possessor of what worldly wealthMonsieur Léonce Miranda late possessed.Often enough has he attempted, nay,Forced me, wellnigh, to occupy the postYou seemingly suppose I fill,—receiveAs gift the wealth intrusted me as grace.This—for quite other reasons than appearSo cogent to your perspicacity—This I refused; and, firm as you could wish,Still was my answer, 'We two understandEach one the other. I am intimate—As how can be mere fools and knaves—or, say,Even your Cousins?—with your love to me,Devotion to the Church. Would ProvidenceAppoint, and make me certain of the same,That I survive you (which is little like,Seeing you hardly overpass my ageAnd more than match me in abundant health)In such case, certainly I would acceptYour bounty: better I than alien heartsShould execute your planned benevolenceTo man, your proposed largess to the Church,But though I be survivor,—weakly frame,With only woman's wit to make amends,—When I shall die, or while I am alive,Cannot you figure me an easy markFor hypocritical rapacity,Kith, kin and generation, crouching low,Ever on the alert to pounce on prey?Far be it I should say they profitedBy that first frenzy-fit themselves induced,—Cold-blooded scenical buffoons at sportWith horror and damnation o'er a grave:That were too shocking—I absolve them there!Nor did they seize the moment of your swoonTo rifle pocket, wring a paper thence,Their Cousinly dictation, and enrichThereby each mother's son as heart could wish,Had nobody supplied a codicil.But when the pain, poor friend! had prostratedYour body, though your soul was right once more,I fear they turned your weakness to account!Why else to me, who agonizing watched,Sneak, cap in hand, now bribe me to forsakeMy maimed Léonce, now bully, cap on head,The impudent pretension to assuageSuch sorrows as demanded Cousins' care?—For you rejected, hated, fled me, farIn foreign lands you laughed at me!—they judged.And, think you, will the unkind one hesitateTo try conclusions with my helplessness,—To pounce on and misuse your derelict,Helped by advantage that bereavement lendsFolk, who, while yet you lived, played tricks like these?You only have to die, and they detect,In all you said and did, insanity!Your faith was fetish-worship, your regardFor Christ's prime precept which endows the poorAnd strips the rich, a craze from first to last!They so would limn your likeness, paint your life,That if it ended by some accident,—For instance, if, attempting to arrangeThe plants below that dangerous BelvedereI cannot warn you from sufficiently,You lost your balance and fell headlong—fineOccasion, such, for cryingSuicide!Non compos mentis, naturally next,Hands over Clairvaux to a Cousin-tribeWho nor like me nor love The Ravissante:Therefore be ruled by both! Life-interestIn Clairvaux,—conservation, guardianshipOf earthly good for heavenly purpose,—giveSuch and no other proof of confidence!Let Clara represent The Ravissante!'—To whom accordingly, he then and thereBequeathed each stick and stone, by testamentIn holograph, mouth managing the quill:Go, see the same in Londres, if you doubt!"
"Gentlemen, kinsfolk of my friend defunct,
In thus addressing me—of all the world!—
You much misapprehend what part I play.
I claim no property you speak about.
You might as well address the park-keeper,
Harangue him on some plan advisable
For covering the park with cottage-plots.
He is the servant, no proprietor,
His business is to see the sward kept trim,
Untrespassed over by the indiscreet:
Beyond that, he refers you to myself—
Another servant of another kind—
Who again—quite as limited in act—
Refer you, with your projects,—can I else?
To who in mastery is ultimate,
The Church. The Church is sole administrant,
Since sole possessor of what worldly wealth
Monsieur Léonce Miranda late possessed.
Often enough has he attempted, nay,
Forced me, wellnigh, to occupy the post
You seemingly suppose I fill,—receive
As gift the wealth intrusted me as grace.
This—for quite other reasons than appear
So cogent to your perspicacity—
This I refused; and, firm as you could wish,
Still was my answer, 'We two understand
Each one the other. I am intimate
—As how can be mere fools and knaves—or, say,
Even your Cousins?—with your love to me,
Devotion to the Church. Would Providence
Appoint, and make me certain of the same,
That I survive you (which is little like,
Seeing you hardly overpass my age
And more than match me in abundant health)
In such case, certainly I would accept
Your bounty: better I than alien hearts
Should execute your planned benevolence
To man, your proposed largess to the Church,
But though I be survivor,—weakly frame,
With only woman's wit to make amends,—
When I shall die, or while I am alive,
Cannot you figure me an easy mark
For hypocritical rapacity,
Kith, kin and generation, crouching low,
Ever on the alert to pounce on prey?
Far be it I should say they profited
By that first frenzy-fit themselves induced,—
Cold-blooded scenical buffoons at sport
With horror and damnation o'er a grave:
That were too shocking—I absolve them there!
Nor did they seize the moment of your swoon
To rifle pocket, wring a paper thence,
Their Cousinly dictation, and enrich
Thereby each mother's son as heart could wish,
Had nobody supplied a codicil.
But when the pain, poor friend! had prostrated
Your body, though your soul was right once more,
I fear they turned your weakness to account!
Why else to me, who agonizing watched,
Sneak, cap in hand, now bribe me to forsake
My maimed Léonce, now bully, cap on head,
The impudent pretension to assuage
Such sorrows as demanded Cousins' care?—
For you rejected, hated, fled me, far
In foreign lands you laughed at me!—they judged.
And, think you, will the unkind one hesitate
To try conclusions with my helplessness,—
To pounce on and misuse your derelict,
Helped by advantage that bereavement lends
Folk, who, while yet you lived, played tricks like these?
You only have to die, and they detect,
In all you said and did, insanity!
Your faith was fetish-worship, your regard
For Christ's prime precept which endows the poor
And strips the rich, a craze from first to last!
They so would limn your likeness, paint your life,
That if it ended by some accident,—
For instance, if, attempting to arrange
The plants below that dangerous Belvedere
I cannot warn you from sufficiently,
You lost your balance and fell headlong—fine
Occasion, such, for cryingSuicide!
Non compos mentis, naturally next,
Hands over Clairvaux to a Cousin-tribe
Who nor like me nor love The Ravissante:
Therefore be ruled by both! Life-interest
In Clairvaux,—conservation, guardianship
Of earthly good for heavenly purpose,—give
Such and no other proof of confidence!
Let Clara represent The Ravissante!'
—To whom accordingly, he then and there
Bequeathed each stick and stone, by testament
In holograph, mouth managing the quill:
Go, see the same in Londres, if you doubt!"
Then smile grew laugh, as sudden up she stoodAnd out she spoke: intemperate the speech!
Then smile grew laugh, as sudden up she stood
And out she spoke: intemperate the speech!
"And now, sirs, for your special courtesy,Your candle held up to the characterOf Lucie Steiner, whom you qualifyAs coming short of perfect womanhood.Yes, kindly critics, truth for once you tell!True is it that through childhood, poverty,Sloth, pressure of temptation, I succumbed,And, ere I found what honor meant, lost mine.So was the sheep lost, which the Shepherd foundAnd never lost again. My friend found me;Or better say, the Shepherd found us both—Since he, my friend, was much in the same mire,When first we made acquaintance. Each helped each,—A twofold extrication from the slough;And, saving me, he saved himself. Since then,Unsmirched we kept our cleanliness of coat.It is his perfect constancy, you callMy friend's main fault—he never left his love!While as for me, I dare your worst, imputeOne breach of loving bond, these twenty years.To me whom only cobwebs bound, you count!'He was religiously disposed in youth!'That may be, though we did not meet at church.Under my teaching did he, like you scamps,Become Voltairian—fools who mock his faith?'Infirm of body!' I am silent there:Even yourselves acknowledge service done,Whatever motive your own souls supplyAs inspiration. Love made labor light."
"And now, sirs, for your special courtesy,
Your candle held up to the character
Of Lucie Steiner, whom you qualify
As coming short of perfect womanhood.
Yes, kindly critics, truth for once you tell!
True is it that through childhood, poverty,
Sloth, pressure of temptation, I succumbed,
And, ere I found what honor meant, lost mine.
So was the sheep lost, which the Shepherd found
And never lost again. My friend found me;
Or better say, the Shepherd found us both—
Since he, my friend, was much in the same mire,
When first we made acquaintance. Each helped each,—
A twofold extrication from the slough;
And, saving me, he saved himself. Since then,
Unsmirched we kept our cleanliness of coat.
It is his perfect constancy, you call
My friend's main fault—he never left his love!
While as for me, I dare your worst, impute
One breach of loving bond, these twenty years.
To me whom only cobwebs bound, you count!
'He was religiously disposed in youth!'
That may be, though we did not meet at church.
Under my teaching did he, like you scamps,
Become Voltairian—fools who mock his faith?
'Infirm of body!' I am silent there:
Even yourselves acknowledge service done,
Whatever motive your own souls supply
As inspiration. Love made labor light."
Then laugh grew frown, and frown grew terrible.Do recollect what sort of person shrieked—"Such was I, saint or sinner, what you please:And who is it casts stone at me but you?By your own showing, sirs, you bought and sold,Took what advantage bargain promised bag,Abundantly did business, and with whom?The man whom you pronounce imbecile, pushIndignantly aside if he presumeTo settle his affairs like other folk!How is it you have stepped into his shoes,And stand there, bold as brass, 'Miranda, late;Now, Firm-Miranda'? Sane, he signed awayThat little birthright, did he? Hence to trade!I know and he knew who 't was dipped and ducked,Truckled and played the parasite in vain,As now one, now the other, here you cringed,Were feasted, took our presents, you—those drops,Just for your wife's adornment! you—that sprayExactly suiting, as most diamonds would,Your daughter on her marriage! No word thenOf somebody the wanton! Hence, I say,Subscribers to the 'Siècle,' every snob—For here the post brings me the 'Univers'!Home and make money in the Place Vendôme,Sully yourselves no longer by my sight,And, when next Schneider wants a newparure,Be careful lest you stick there by mischanceThat stone beyond compare intrusted youTo kindle faith with, when, Miranda's gift,Crowning the very crown, The RavissanteShall claim it! As to Clairvaux—talk to Her!She answers by the Chapter of Raimbaux!"Vituperative, truly! All this wrathBecause the man's relations thought him mad!Whereat, I hope you see the CousinryTurn each to other, blankly dolorous,Consult a moment, more by shrug and shrugThan mere man's language,—finally concludeTo leave the reprobate untroubled nowIn her unholy triumph, till the LawShall right the injured ones; for gentlemenAllow the female sex, this sort at least.Its privilege. So, simply "Cockatrice!"—"Jezebel!"—"Queen of the Camellias!"—criedCousin to cousin, as yon hinge a-creakShut out the party, and the gate returnedTo custody of Clairvaux. "Pretty place!What say you, when it proves our property,To trying a concurrence with La Roche,And laying down a rival oyster-bed?Where the park ends, the sea begins, you know."So took they comfort till they came to Vire.
Then laugh grew frown, and frown grew terrible.
Do recollect what sort of person shrieked—
"Such was I, saint or sinner, what you please:
And who is it casts stone at me but you?
By your own showing, sirs, you bought and sold,
Took what advantage bargain promised bag,
Abundantly did business, and with whom?
The man whom you pronounce imbecile, push
Indignantly aside if he presume
To settle his affairs like other folk!
How is it you have stepped into his shoes,
And stand there, bold as brass, 'Miranda, late;
Now, Firm-Miranda'? Sane, he signed away
That little birthright, did he? Hence to trade!
I know and he knew who 't was dipped and ducked,
Truckled and played the parasite in vain,
As now one, now the other, here you cringed,
Were feasted, took our presents, you—those drops,
Just for your wife's adornment! you—that spray
Exactly suiting, as most diamonds would,
Your daughter on her marriage! No word then
Of somebody the wanton! Hence, I say,
Subscribers to the 'Siècle,' every snob—
For here the post brings me the 'Univers'!
Home and make money in the Place Vendôme,
Sully yourselves no longer by my sight,
And, when next Schneider wants a newparure,
Be careful lest you stick there by mischance
That stone beyond compare intrusted you
To kindle faith with, when, Miranda's gift,
Crowning the very crown, The Ravissante
Shall claim it! As to Clairvaux—talk to Her!
She answers by the Chapter of Raimbaux!"
Vituperative, truly! All this wrath
Because the man's relations thought him mad!
Whereat, I hope you see the Cousinry
Turn each to other, blankly dolorous,
Consult a moment, more by shrug and shrug
Than mere man's language,—finally conclude
To leave the reprobate untroubled now
In her unholy triumph, till the Law
Shall right the injured ones; for gentlemen
Allow the female sex, this sort at least.
Its privilege. So, simply "Cockatrice!"—
"Jezebel!"—"Queen of the Camellias!"—cried
Cousin to cousin, as yon hinge a-creak
Shut out the party, and the gate returned
To custody of Clairvaux. "Pretty place!
What say you, when it proves our property,
To trying a concurrence with La Roche,
And laying down a rival oyster-bed?
Where the park ends, the sea begins, you know."
So took they comfort till they came to Vire.
But I would linger, fain to snatch a lookAt Clara as she stands in pride of place,Somewhat more satisfying than my glanceSo furtive, so near futile, yesterday,Because one must be courteous. Of the masksThat figure in this little history,She only has a claim to my respect,And one-eyed, in her French phrase, rules the blind.Miranda hardly did his best with life:He might have opened eye, exerted brain,Attained conception as to right and lawIn certain points respecting intercourseOf man with woman—love, one likes to say;Which knowledge had dealt rudely with the claimOf Clara to play representativeAnd from perdition rescue soul, forsooth!Also, the sense of him should have sufficedFor building up some better theoryOf how God operates in heaven and earth,Than would establish Him participantIn doings yonder at The Ravissante.The heart was wise according to its lightsAnd limits; but the head refused more sun,And shrank into its mew, and craved less space.Clara, I hold the happier specimen,—It may be, through that artist-preferenceFor work complete, inferiorly proposed,To incompletion, though it aim aright.Morally, no! Aspire, break bounds! I say,Endeavor to be good, and better still,And best! Success is naught, endeavor 's all.But intellect adjusts the means to ends,Tries the low thing, and leaves it done, at least;No prejudice to high thing, intellectWould do and will do, only give the means.Miranda, in my picture-gallery,Presents a Blake; be Clara—Meissonnier!Merely considered so by artist, mind!For, break through Art and rise to poetry,Bring Art to tremble nearer, touch enoughThe verge of vastness to inform our soulWhat orb makes transit through the dark above,And there 's the triumph!—there the incomplete,More than completion, matches the immense,—Then, Michelagnolo against the world!With this proviso, let me study herApprovingly, the finished little piece!Born, bred, with just one instinct,—that of growth,—Her quality was, caterpillar-like,To all-unerringly select a leafAnd without intermission feed her fill,Become the Painted Peacock, or belikeThe Brimstone-wing, when time of year should suit;And 't is a sign (say entomologists)Of sickness, when the creature stops its mealOne minute, either to look up at heaven,Or turn aside for change of aliment.No doubt there was a certain uglinessIn the beginning, as the grub grew worm:She could not find the proper plant at once,But crawled and fumbled through a whole parterre.Husband Muhlhausen served for stuff not long:Then came confusion of the slimy trackFrom London, "where she gave the tone awhile,"To Paris: let the stalks start up again,Now she is off them, all the greener they!But, settled on Miranda, how she sucked,Assimilated juices, took the tint,Mimicked the form and texture of her food!Was he for pastime? Who so frolic-fondAs Clara? Had he a devotion-fit?Clara grew serious with like qualm, be sure!In health and strength he,—healthy too and strong,She danced, rode, drove, took pistol-practice, fished,Nay, "managed sea-skiff with consummate skill."In pain and weakness, he,—she patient watchedAnd whiled the slow drip-dropping hours away.She bound again the broken self-respect,She picked out the true meaning from mistake,Praised effort in each stumble, laughed "Well climbed!"When others groaned "None ever grovelled so!""Rise, you have gained experience!" was her word:"Lie satisfied, the ground is just your place!"They thought appropriate counsel. "Live, not die,And take my full life to eke out your own:That shall repay me and with interest!Write!—is your mouth not clever as my hand?Paint!—the last Exposition warrants me,Plenty of people must ply brush with toes.And as for music—look, what folk nicknameA lyre, those ancients played to ravishment,—Over the pendule, see, Apollo graspsA three-stringed gimcrack which no Liszt could coaxSuch music from as jew's-harp makes to-day!Do your endeavor like a man, and leaveThe rest to 'fortune who assists the bold'—Learn, you, the Latin which you taught me first,You clever creature—clever, yes, I say!"
But I would linger, fain to snatch a look
At Clara as she stands in pride of place,
Somewhat more satisfying than my glance
So furtive, so near futile, yesterday,
Because one must be courteous. Of the masks
That figure in this little history,
She only has a claim to my respect,
And one-eyed, in her French phrase, rules the blind.
Miranda hardly did his best with life:
He might have opened eye, exerted brain,
Attained conception as to right and law
In certain points respecting intercourse
Of man with woman—love, one likes to say;
Which knowledge had dealt rudely with the claim
Of Clara to play representative
And from perdition rescue soul, forsooth!
Also, the sense of him should have sufficed
For building up some better theory
Of how God operates in heaven and earth,
Than would establish Him participant
In doings yonder at The Ravissante.
The heart was wise according to its lights
And limits; but the head refused more sun,
And shrank into its mew, and craved less space.
Clara, I hold the happier specimen,—
It may be, through that artist-preference
For work complete, inferiorly proposed,
To incompletion, though it aim aright.
Morally, no! Aspire, break bounds! I say,
Endeavor to be good, and better still,
And best! Success is naught, endeavor 's all.
But intellect adjusts the means to ends,
Tries the low thing, and leaves it done, at least;
No prejudice to high thing, intellect
Would do and will do, only give the means.
Miranda, in my picture-gallery,
Presents a Blake; be Clara—Meissonnier!
Merely considered so by artist, mind!
For, break through Art and rise to poetry,
Bring Art to tremble nearer, touch enough
The verge of vastness to inform our soul
What orb makes transit through the dark above,
And there 's the triumph!—there the incomplete,
More than completion, matches the immense,—
Then, Michelagnolo against the world!
With this proviso, let me study her
Approvingly, the finished little piece!
Born, bred, with just one instinct,—that of growth,—
Her quality was, caterpillar-like,
To all-unerringly select a leaf
And without intermission feed her fill,
Become the Painted Peacock, or belike
The Brimstone-wing, when time of year should suit;
And 't is a sign (say entomologists)
Of sickness, when the creature stops its meal
One minute, either to look up at heaven,
Or turn aside for change of aliment.
No doubt there was a certain ugliness
In the beginning, as the grub grew worm:
She could not find the proper plant at once,
But crawled and fumbled through a whole parterre.
Husband Muhlhausen served for stuff not long:
Then came confusion of the slimy track
From London, "where she gave the tone awhile,"
To Paris: let the stalks start up again,
Now she is off them, all the greener they!
But, settled on Miranda, how she sucked,
Assimilated juices, took the tint,
Mimicked the form and texture of her food!
Was he for pastime? Who so frolic-fond
As Clara? Had he a devotion-fit?
Clara grew serious with like qualm, be sure!
In health and strength he,—healthy too and strong,
She danced, rode, drove, took pistol-practice, fished,
Nay, "managed sea-skiff with consummate skill."
In pain and weakness, he,—she patient watched
And whiled the slow drip-dropping hours away.
She bound again the broken self-respect,
She picked out the true meaning from mistake,
Praised effort in each stumble, laughed "Well climbed!"
When others groaned "None ever grovelled so!"
"Rise, you have gained experience!" was her word:
"Lie satisfied, the ground is just your place!"
They thought appropriate counsel. "Live, not die,
And take my full life to eke out your own:
That shall repay me and with interest!
Write!—is your mouth not clever as my hand?
Paint!—the last Exposition warrants me,
Plenty of people must ply brush with toes.
And as for music—look, what folk nickname
A lyre, those ancients played to ravishment,—
Over the pendule, see, Apollo grasps
A three-stringed gimcrack which no Liszt could coax
Such music from as jew's-harp makes to-day!
Do your endeavor like a man, and leave
The rest to 'fortune who assists the bold'—
Learn, you, the Latin which you taught me first,
You clever creature—clever, yes, I say!"
If he smiled "Let us love, love's wrong comes right,Shows reason last of all! NecessityMust meanwhile serve for plea—so, mind not muchOld Fricquot's menace!"—back she smiled "Who minds?"If he sighed "Ah, but She is strict, they say,For all Her mercy at The Ravissante,She scarce will be put off so!"—straight a sighReturned "My lace must go to trim Her gown!"I nowise doubt she inwardly believedSmiling and sighing had the same effectUpon the venerated image. WhatShe did believe in, I as little doubt,Was—Clara's self's own birthright to sustainExistence, grow from grub to butterfly,Upon unlimited Miranda-leaf;In which prime article of faith confirmed,According to capacity, she fedOn and on till the leaf was eaten up,That April morning. Even then, I praiseHer forethought which prevented leafless stalkBestowing any hoarded succulenceOn earwig and black-beetle squat beneath;—Clairvaux, that stalk whereto her hermitageShe tacked by golden throw of silk, so fine,So anything but feeble, that her sleepInside it, through last winter, two years long,Recked little of the storm and strife without."But—loved him?" Friend, I do not praise her love!True love works never for the loved one so,Nor spares skin-surface, smoothening truth away.Love bids touch truth, endure truth, and embraceTruth, though, embracing truth, love crush itself."Worship not me, but God!" the angels urge:That is love's grandeur: still, in pettier loveThe nice eye can distinguish grade and grade.Shall mine degrade the velvet green and puceOf caterpillar, palmer-worm—or what—Ball in and out of ball, each ball with brushOf Venus' eye-fringe round the turquoise eggThat nestles soft,—compare such paragonWith any scarabæus of the broodWhich, born to fly, keeps wing in wing-case, walksPersistently a-trundling dung on earth?
If he smiled "Let us love, love's wrong comes right,
Shows reason last of all! Necessity
Must meanwhile serve for plea—so, mind not much
Old Fricquot's menace!"—back she smiled "Who minds?"
If he sighed "Ah, but She is strict, they say,
For all Her mercy at The Ravissante,
She scarce will be put off so!"—straight a sigh
Returned "My lace must go to trim Her gown!"
I nowise doubt she inwardly believed
Smiling and sighing had the same effect
Upon the venerated image. What
She did believe in, I as little doubt,
Was—Clara's self's own birthright to sustain
Existence, grow from grub to butterfly,
Upon unlimited Miranda-leaf;
In which prime article of faith confirmed,
According to capacity, she fed
On and on till the leaf was eaten up,
That April morning. Even then, I praise
Her forethought which prevented leafless stalk
Bestowing any hoarded succulence
On earwig and black-beetle squat beneath;—
Clairvaux, that stalk whereto her hermitage
She tacked by golden throw of silk, so fine,
So anything but feeble, that her sleep
Inside it, through last winter, two years long,
Recked little of the storm and strife without.
"But—loved him?" Friend, I do not praise her love!
True love works never for the loved one so,
Nor spares skin-surface, smoothening truth away.
Love bids touch truth, endure truth, and embrace
Truth, though, embracing truth, love crush itself.
"Worship not me, but God!" the angels urge:
That is love's grandeur: still, in pettier love
The nice eye can distinguish grade and grade.
Shall mine degrade the velvet green and puce
Of caterpillar, palmer-worm—or what—
Ball in and out of ball, each ball with brush
Of Venus' eye-fringe round the turquoise egg
That nestles soft,—compare such paragon
With any scarabæus of the brood
Which, born to fly, keeps wing in wing-case, walks
Persistently a-trundling dung on earth?
Egypt may venerate such hierophants,Not I—the couple yonder, Father PriestAnd Mother Nun, who came and went and came,Beset this Clairvaux, trundled money-muckTo midden and the main heap oft enough,But never bade unshut from sheath the gauze,Nor showed that, who would fly, must let fall filth,And warn "Your jewel, brother, is a blotch:Sister, your lace trails ordure! Leave your sins,And so best gift with Crown and grace with Robe!"
Egypt may venerate such hierophants,
Not I—the couple yonder, Father Priest
And Mother Nun, who came and went and came,
Beset this Clairvaux, trundled money-muck
To midden and the main heap oft enough,
But never bade unshut from sheath the gauze,
Nor showed that, who would fly, must let fall filth,
And warn "Your jewel, brother, is a blotch:
Sister, your lace trails ordure! Leave your sins,
And so best gift with Crown and grace with Robe!"
The superstition is extinct, you hope?It were, with my good will! Suppose it so,Bethink you likewise of the latest useWhereto a Night-cap is convertible,And draw your very thickest, thread and thrum,O'er such a decomposing face of things,Once so alive, it seemed immortal too!
The superstition is extinct, you hope?
It were, with my good will! Suppose it so,
Bethink you likewise of the latest use
Whereto a Night-cap is convertible,
And draw your very thickest, thread and thrum,
O'er such a decomposing face of things,
Once so alive, it seemed immortal too!
This happened two years since. The CousinryReturned to Paris, called in help from Law,And in due form proceeded to disputeMonsieur Léonce Miranda's competence,Being insane, to make a valid Will.
This happened two years since. The Cousinry
Returned to Paris, called in help from Law,
And in due form proceeded to dispute
Monsieur Léonce Miranda's competence,
Being insane, to make a valid Will.
Much testimony volunteered itself;The issue hardly could be doubtful—butFor that sad 'Seventy which must intervene,Provide poor France with other work to mindThan settling lawsuits, even for the sakeOf such a party as The Ravissante.It only was this Summer that the caseCould come and be disposed of, two weeks since,At Vire—Tribunal Civil—Chamber First.
Much testimony volunteered itself;
The issue hardly could be doubtful—but
For that sad 'Seventy which must intervene,
Provide poor France with other work to mind
Than settling lawsuits, even for the sake
Of such a party as The Ravissante.
It only was this Summer that the case
Could come and be disposed of, two weeks since,
At Vire—Tribunal Civil—Chamber First.
Here, issued with all regularity,I hold the judgment—just, inevitable,Nowise to be contested by what fewCan judge the judges; sum and substance, thus:—
Here, issued with all regularity,
I hold the judgment—just, inevitable,
Nowise to be contested by what few
Can judge the judges; sum and substance, thus:—
"Inasmuch as we find, the Cousinry,During that very period when they takeMonsieur Léonce Miranda for stark mad,Considered him to be quite sane enoughFor doing much important business with—Nor showed suspicion of his competenceUntil, by turning of the tables, lossInstead of gain accrued to them thereby,—Plea of incompetence we set aside.
"Inasmuch as we find, the Cousinry,
During that very period when they take
Monsieur Léonce Miranda for stark mad,
Considered him to be quite sane enough
For doing much important business with—
Nor showed suspicion of his competence
Until, by turning of the tables, loss
Instead of gain accrued to them thereby,—
Plea of incompetence we set aside.
—"The rather, that the dispositions, soughtTo be impugned, are natural and right,Nor jar with any reasonable claimOf kindred, friendship, or acquaintance here.Nobody is despoiled, none overlooked;Since the testator leaves his propertyTo just that person whom, of all the world,He counted he was most indebted to.In mere discharge, then, of conspicuous debt,Madame Muhlhausen has priority,Enjoys the usufruct of Clairvaux.
—"The rather, that the dispositions, sought
To be impugned, are natural and right,
Nor jar with any reasonable claim
Of kindred, friendship, or acquaintance here.
Nobody is despoiled, none overlooked;
Since the testator leaves his property
To just that person whom, of all the world,
He counted he was most indebted to.
In mere discharge, then, of conspicuous debt,
Madame Muhlhausen has priority,
Enjoys the usufruct of Clairvaux.
"Next,Such debt discharged, such life determining,Such earthly interest provided for,Monsieur Léonce Miranda may bequeath,In absence of more fit recipient, fundAnd usufruct together to the ChurchWhereof he was a special devotee.
"Next,
Such debt discharged, such life determining,
Such earthly interest provided for,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda may bequeath,
In absence of more fit recipient, fund
And usufruct together to the Church
Whereof he was a special devotee.
"—Which disposition, being consonantWith a long series of such acts and deedsNotorious in his lifetime, needs must stand,Unprejudiced by eccentricityNowise amounting to distemper: since,In every instance signalized as such,We recognize no overleaping bounds,No straying out of the permissible:Duty to the Religion of the Land,—Neither excessive nor inordinate.
"—Which disposition, being consonant
With a long series of such acts and deeds
Notorious in his lifetime, needs must stand,
Unprejudiced by eccentricity
Nowise amounting to distemper: since,
In every instance signalized as such,
We recognize no overleaping bounds,
No straying out of the permissible:
Duty to the Religion of the Land,—
Neither excessive nor inordinate.
"The minor accusations are dismissed;They prove mere freak and fancy, boyish moodIn age mature of simple kindly man.Exuberant in generositiesTo all the world: no fact confirms the fearHe meditated mischief to himselfThat morning when he met the accidentWhich ended fatally. The case is closed."
"The minor accusations are dismissed;
They prove mere freak and fancy, boyish mood
In age mature of simple kindly man.
Exuberant in generosities
To all the world: no fact confirms the fear
He meditated mischief to himself
That morning when he met the accident
Which ended fatally. The case is closed."
How otherwise? So, when I grazed the skirts,And had the glimpse of who made, yesterday,—Woman and retinue of goats and sheep,—The sombre path one whiteness, vision-like,As out of gate, and in at gate again,They wavered,—she was lady there for life:And, after life—I hope, a white successOf some sort, wheresoever life resumeSchool interrupted by vacation—death;Seeing that home she goes with prize in hand,Confirmed the Châtelaine of Clairvaux.
How otherwise? So, when I grazed the skirts,
And had the glimpse of who made, yesterday,—
Woman and retinue of goats and sheep,—
The sombre path one whiteness, vision-like,
As out of gate, and in at gate again,
They wavered,—she was lady there for life:
And, after life—I hope, a white success
Of some sort, wheresoever life resume
School interrupted by vacation—death;
Seeing that home she goes with prize in hand,
Confirmed the Châtelaine of Clairvaux.
True,Such prize fades soon to insignificance.Though she have eaten her Miranda up,And spun a cradle-cone through, which she pricksHer passage, and proves peacock-butterfly,This Autumn—wait a little week of cold!Peacock and death's-head-moth end much the same.And could she still continue spinning,—sure,Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute,And o'er this life of hers distaste would dropRed-cotton-Nightcap-wise.
True,
Such prize fades soon to insignificance.
Though she have eaten her Miranda up,
And spun a cradle-cone through, which she pricks
Her passage, and proves peacock-butterfly,
This Autumn—wait a little week of cold!
Peacock and death's-head-moth end much the same.
And could she still continue spinning,—sure,
Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute,
And o'er this life of hers distaste would drop
Red-cotton-Nightcap-wise.
How say you, friend?Have I redeemed my promise? Smile assentThrough the dark Winter-gloom between us both!Already, months ago and miles away,I just as good as told you, in a flash,The while we paced the sands before my house,All this poor story—truth and nothing else.Accept that moment's flashing, amplified,Impalpability reduced to speech,Conception proved by birth,—no other change!Can what Saint-Rambert flashed me in a thought,Good gloomy London make a poem of?Such ought to be whatever dares precede,Play ruddy herald-star to your white blazeAbout to bring us day. How fail imbibeSome foretaste of effulgence? Sun shall wax,And star shall wane: what matter, so star tellThe drowsy world to start awake, rub eyes,And stand all ready for morn's joy a-blush?
How say you, friend?
Have I redeemed my promise? Smile assent
Through the dark Winter-gloom between us both!
Already, months ago and miles away,
I just as good as told you, in a flash,
The while we paced the sands before my house,
All this poor story—truth and nothing else.
Accept that moment's flashing, amplified,
Impalpability reduced to speech,
Conception proved by birth,—no other change!
Can what Saint-Rambert flashed me in a thought,
Good gloomy London make a poem of?
Such ought to be whatever dares precede,
Play ruddy herald-star to your white blaze
About to bring us day. How fail imbibe
Some foretaste of effulgence? Sun shall wax,
And star shall wane: what matter, so star tell
The drowsy world to start awake, rub eyes,
And stand all ready for morn's joy a-blush?