PART I.
Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door;
And pray to Him in secret: He will hear.
But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear
The numberless ascensions, more and more,
Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before
Thou comest to the Father's likeness near,
And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear
That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er.
Be thou content if on thy weary need
There falls a sense of showers and of the spring;
A hope that makes it possible to fling
Sickness aside, and go and do the deed;
For highest aspiration will not lead
Unto the calm beyond all questioning.
SCENE I.—A cell in a convent. JULIAN alone.
Julian.
Evening again slow creeping like a death!
And the red sunbeams fading from the wall,
On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars
Of the poor window-pane that let them in,
For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven!
Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come.
But what is light to me, while I am dark!
And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues,
Reflected flushes from the Evening's face,
Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched,
Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left
His chamber in the dim deserted east.
Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea!
The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light,
As the blue globe had by a blow been broken,
And the insphered glory bubbled forth!
Or the sun were a splendid water-bird,
That flying furrowed with its golden feet
A flashing wake over the waves, and home!
Lo there!—Alas, the dull blank wall!—High up,
The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night
Come on me like a thief!—Ah, well! the sun
Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray:
The terror of the night begins with prayer.
(Vesper bell.)
Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons;
My knees would not so pain me when I kneel,
If only at thy voice my prayer awoke.
I will not to the chapel. When I find Him,
Then will I praise him from the heights of peace;
But now my soul is as a speck of life
Cast on the deserts of eternity;
A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more.
I am as a child new-born, its mother dead,
Its father far away beyond the seas.
Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him:
He goeth by me, and I see him not.
I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes,
My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul.
(Choir and organ-music.)
I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting.
What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies
Have just departed in the sun's bright coach,
And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me,
Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness.
Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold!
How should my cell be filled with wavering forms!
Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher;
Trembling and hesitating to float off,
As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy
Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues,
Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die.
—Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves!
Is it for this that I have left the world?—
Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes
Of that night when the closing door fell dumb
On music and on voices, and I went
Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance,
Under the clear cope of the moonless night,
Wandering away without the city-walls,
Between the silent meadows and the stars,
Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit,
And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God;
When straight within my soul I felt as if
An eye was opened; but I knew not whether
'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me?
It closed again, and darkness fell; but not
To hide the memory; that, in many failings
Of spirit and of purpose, still returned;
And I came here at last to search for God.
Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content
Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free!
A knock at the door. Enter Brother ROBERT with a light.
Robert.
Head in your hands as usual! You will fret
Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.
Come, it is supper-time.
Julian.
I will not sup to-night.
Robert.
Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.
Julian.
A saint! The devil has me by the heel.
Robert.
So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,
Which ever struggles higher for his hold.
It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;—
He should let go his hold, and then he has you.
If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you.
Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.
Chorus. Always merry, and never drunk.
That's the life of the jolly monk.
SONG.
They say the first monks were lonely men,
Praying each in his lonely den,
Rising up to kneel again,
Each a skinny male Magdalene,
Peeping scared from out his hole
Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;
But years ring changes as they roll—
Cho. Now always merry, &c.
When the moon gets up with her big round face,
Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place,
Down to the village below we pace;—
We know a supper that wants a grace:
Past the curtsying women we go,
Past the smithy, all a glow,
To the snug little houses at top of the row—
Cho. For always merry, &c.
And there we find, among the ale,
The fragments of a floating tale:
To piece them together we never fail;
And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail.
And so we have them all in hand,
The lads and lasses throughout the land,
And we are the masters,—you understand?
Cho. So always merry, &c.
Last night we had such a game of play
With the nephews and nieces over the way,
All for the gold that belonged to the clay
That lies in lead till the judgment-day!
The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch,
But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.
How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!
Cho. Oh! always merry, and never drunk.
That's the life of the jolly monk!
Robert.
The song is hardly to your taste, I see!
Where shall I set the light?
Julian.
I do not need it.
Robert.
Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies.
I wish you were at table, were it only
To stop the talking of the men about you.
You in the dark are talked of in the light.
Julian.
Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me.
Robert.
No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say,
You would be thought a saint without the trouble;
You do no penance that they can discover.
You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart,
Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon.
You are a prince, say others, hiding here,
Till circumstance that bound you, set you free.
To-night, there are some whispers of a lady
That would refuse your love.
Julian.
Ay! What of her?
Robert.
I heard no more than so; and that you came
To seek the next best service you could find:
Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.
Julian.
One part at least is true: I knock at God's;
He has not yet been pleased to let me in.
As for the lady—that is—so far true,
But matters little. Had I less to think,
This talking might annoy me; as it is,
Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it;
I keep in-doors.
Robert.
Gloomy as usual, brother!
Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send
The light that all day long gladdened the earth,
Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire
Transformed the weathercock into a star,
That you should gloom within stone walls all day.
At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come:
We will salute the breezes, as they rise
And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours
Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss—
Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring
Lets forth in vapour through the genial air.
Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light
Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak,
And thence descend triumphant, step by step,
The stairway of the hills. Free air and action
Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.
Julian.
My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,
"There is your father's house: go in and rest;"
Through every open room the child would pass,
Timidly looking for the friendly eye;
Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder
At what he saw, until he found his sire;
But gathered to his bosom, straight he is
The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears.
And so with me: not having seen Him yet,
The light rests on me with a heaviness;
All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;
A voice is in the wind I do not know;
A meaning on the face of the high hills
Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.
A something is behind them: that is God.
These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;
These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;
And he is present, but I find him not.
I have not yet been held close to his heart.
Once in his inner room, and by his eyes
Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,
'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles,
And sounds that never lose love's mystery.
Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.
Robert
(pointing to the Crucifix in a recess). See, there
is God revealed in human form!
Julian (kneeling and crossing).
Alas, my friend!—revealed—but as in nature:
I see the man; I cannot find the God.
I know his voice is in the wind, his presence
Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth;
And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,
Not here, not here!
(Pointing to his bosom.)
[Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone—]
You do not understand me.
Without my need, you cannot know my want.
You will all night be puzzling to determine
With which of the old heretics to class me.
But you are honest; will not rouse the cry
Against me. I am honest. For the proof,
Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!
Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!
Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?
I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show
Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,
And cannot bear but you should think me true.
Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk
Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,
And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,
Let out one stray beam of its living light,
Or humbled that proud I that knows not God!
You are my friend:—if you should find this cell
Empty some morning, do not be afraid
That any ill has happened.
Robert.]
Well, perhaps
'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,
But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [Goes.
Julian.
Amen.—A good man; but he has not waked,
And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him.
God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;
And so he does, as possible for him.
How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!
He thinks me an enthusiast, because
I seek to know God, and to hear his voice
Talk to my heart in silence; as of old
The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,
He lay communing with his heart; and God
With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until
In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.
My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,
And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;
And let me know the living Father cares
For me, even me; for this one of his children.—
Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.
God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,
And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.
See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou
Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.
I am a child, a fool before thee, God;
But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.
I am an emptiness for thee to fill;
My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie
Diffused, abandoning myself to thee….
—I will look up, if life should fail in looking.
Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!
Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!
SCENE II.—The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation. ROBERT enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in.
Stephen
(speaking across the table).
You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic;
Or, if you like it better, stand to reason;
For in this doctrine is involved a cause
Which for its very being doth depend
Upon its own effect. For, don't you see,
He tells me to have faith and I shall live!
Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall
Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven;
What is salvation else? If I believe,
Then he will save me! But, so, this his will
Has no existence till that I believe;
And there is nothing for my faith to rest on,
No object for belief. How can I trust
In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo.
Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence;
To all intents save one, most plenary—
And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.
Monk.
'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.
And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling
At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one
Should find it poison. I have no pique at him—
But there's that Julian!—
Stephen.
Hush! speak lower, friend.
Two Monks farther down the table—in a low tone.
1st Monk.
Where did you find her?
2nd Monk.
She was taken ill
At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way,
And so they called me in. I found her dying.
But ere she would confess and make her peace,
She begged to know if I had ever seen,
About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man,
Moody and silent, with a little stoop
As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders,
And a strange look of mingled youth and age,—
1st Monk.
Julian, by—
2nd Monk.
'St—no names! I had not seen him.
I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes,
And urged her to proceed; and she began;
But went not far before delirium came,
With endless repetitions, hurryings forward,
Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past
Was running riot in her conquered brain;
And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group
Held carnival; went freely out and in,
Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed
As some confused tragedy went on;
Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant
Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain
Lay desolate and silent. I can gather
So much, and little more:—This Julian
Is one of some distinction; probably rich,
And titled Count. He had a love-affair,
In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.—
Give me the woman; love is troublesome!—
She loved him too, but falsehood came between,
And used this woman for her minister;
Who never would have peached, but for a witness
Hidden behind some curtain in her heart—
An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience,
Who has appeared and blabbed—but must conclude
His story to some double-ghostly father,
For she is ghostly penitent by this.
Our consciences will play us no such tricks;
They are the Church's, not our own. We must
Keep this small matter secret. If it should
Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye—
A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns!
And so the world will have the benefit
Of the said wealth of his, if such there be.
I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else
Until our Abbot comes.
1st Monk.
That is to-morrow.
Another group near the bottom of the table, in which
is ROBERT.
1st Monk.
'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him.
Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity,
Which passes like a thought across his face,
When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen,
A while to our discourse?—he never joins.
2nd Monk.
I know quite well. I stood beside him once,
Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking:
He chanced to say the words, Our Holy Faith.
"Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips,
Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words
Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure
He is an atheist at the least.
3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed).
And I
Fear he is something worse. I had a trance
In which the devil tempted me: the shape
Was Julian's to the very finger-nails.
Non nobis, Domine! I overcame.
I am sure of one thing—music tortures him:
I saw him once, amid the Gloria Patri,
When the whole chapel trembled in the sound,
Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain,
And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands,
Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees.
2nd Monk.
He does not know his rubric; stands when others
Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice
With his missal upside down.
4th Monk (plethoric and husky).
He blew his nose
Quite loud on last Annunciation-day,
And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat.
Robert.
When he returns, we must complain; and beg
He'll take such measures as the case requires.
SCENE III.—Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, its candle nearly burnt out. JULIAN lying on his bed, looking at the light.
Julian.
And so all growth that is not toward God
Is growing to decay. All increase gained
Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth.
'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires,
Towering above the light it overcomes,
But ever sinking with the dying flame.
O let me live, if but a daisy's life!
No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence!
Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me?
Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none
That springs from me, but much that springs from thee.
Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me?
I have done naught for thee, am but a want;
But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims;
And this same need of thee which thou hast given,
Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself,
And makes me bold to rise and come to thee.
Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled
This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead
For thee with me, and for thy child with thee.
Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him;
Or was it but my heart that spoke for him?
"Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give;
My longing is thy promise, O my God!
If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim,
Why doth the longing yet remain with me,
And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?"
Methought I heard for answer: "Question on.
Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds
Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee,
A hungering and a fainting and a pain,
Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead
While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it.
Better to live in pain than die that death."
So I will live, and nourish this my pain;
For oft it giveth birth unto a hope
That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too.
Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his,
Not mine to revel in. Content I wait.
A still small voice I cannot but believe,
Says on within: God will reveal himself.
I must go from this place. I cannot rest.
It boots not staying. A desire like thirst
Awakes within me, or a new child-heart,
To be abroad on the mysterious earth,
Out with the moon in all the blowing winds.
'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again.
For many months I had not seen her form,
Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past,
Until I laid me down an hour ago;
When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes,
The memory passed, reclothed in verity:
Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze
Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon;
The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind,
"Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep,
All save the poplar: it was full of joy,
So that it could not sleep, but trembled on.
Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea,
She issued radiant from the pearly night.
It took me half with fear—the glimmer and gleam
Of her white festal garments, haloed round
With denser moonbeams. On she came—and there
I am bewildered. Something I remember
Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound,
Hurrying forth without their pilot-words;
Of agony, as when a spirit seeks
In vain to hold communion with a man;
A hand that would and would not stay in mine;
A gleaming of white garments far away;
And then I know not what. The moon was low,
When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet,
Dripping with dew—
Enter ROBERT cautiously.
Why, how now, Robert?
[Rising on his elbow.] Robert (glancing at the chest). I see; that's well. Are you nearly ready?
Julian.
Why? What's the matter?
Robert.
You must go this night,
If you would go at all.
Julian.
Why must I go?
[Rises.]
Robert (turning over the things in the chest).
Here, put
this coat on. Ah! take that thing too.
No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat,
[Going to the chest again.]
Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub
Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow.
Julian.
Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.
Robert.
No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you.
Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar
The outer doors; and then—good-bye, poor Julian!
[JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes.]
Julian.
Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend.
Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again.
Robert.
Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this.
[Goes.]
[JULIAN follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, and closes the door behind him.]
SCENE IV.—Night. The court of a country-inn. The Abbot, while his horse is brought out.
Abbot.
Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna,
Within the holiest of the holy place!
I'll have it made in fashion as a stable,
With porphyry pillars to a marble stall;
And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay,
Shall fill the silver manger for a bed,
Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved
By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem.
And over him shall bend the Mother mild,
In silken white and coroneted gems.
Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now—
The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant;
Nor know I any nests of money-bees
That could yield half-contentment to my need.
Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet
In journeying through this vale of tears have I
Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.
SCENE V.—After midnight. JULIAN seated under a tree by the roadside.
Julian.
So lies my journey—on into the dark!
Without my will I find myself alive,
And must go forward. Is it God that draws
Magnetic all the souls unto their home,
Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?
It matters little what may come to me
Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst,
Social condition, yea, or love or hate;
But what shall I be, fifty summers hence?
My life, my being, all that meaneth me,
Goes darkling forward into something—what?
O God, thou knowest. It is not my care.
If thou wert less than truth, or less than love,
It were a fearful thing to be and grow
We know not what. My God, take care of me;
Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love,
Pervading and inspiring me, thy child.
And let thy own design in me work on,
Unfolding the ideal man in me;
Which being greater far than I have grown,
I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine.
One day, completed unto thine intent,
I shall be able to discourse with thee;
For thy Idea, gifted with a self,
Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,
And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts.
Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand;
I ask not whither, for it must be on.
This road will lead me to the hills, I think;
And there I am in safety and at home.
SCENE VI.—The Abbot's room. The Abbot and one of the Monks.
Abbot.
Did she say Julian? Did she say the name?
Monk.
She did.
Abbot.
What did she call the lady? What?
Monk.
I could not hear.
Abbot.
Nor where she lived?
Monk.
Nor that.
She was too wild for leading where I would.
Abbot.
So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask:
You have kept this matter secret?
Monk.
Yes, my lord.
Abbot.
Well, go and send him hither.
[Monk goes.]
Said I well,
That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?
That God would hear his own elect who cried?
Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means
That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!
So tender in conceit, that it shall draw
The heart by very strength of delicateness,
And move proud thought to worship!
I must act
With caution now; must win his confidence;
Question him of the secret enemies
That fight against his soul; and lead him thus
To tell me, by degrees, his history.
So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation
For future acts, as circumstance requires.
For if the tale be true that he is rich,
And if——
_Re-enter _Monk in haste and terror.
Monk.
He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.
Abbot (starting up).
What! You are crazy! Gone?
His cell is empty?
Monk.
'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!
Abbot.
Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear!
There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied!
Some one is in his confidence!—who is it?
Go rouse the convent.
[Monk goes.]
He must be followed, found.
Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!
But by and by your horns, and then your side!
'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating.
I'll go and sift this business to the bran.
Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!—God's
curse! it shall fare ill with any man
That has connived at this, if I detect him.
SCENE VII.—Afternoon. The mountains. JULIAN.
Julian.
Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven!
I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak
Is miles away, and high amid the clouds.
Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit,
With the fantastic rock upon its side,
Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window
Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze
With wondering awe upon the mighty thing,
Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied,
The hitherto of my child-thoughts. Beyond,
A sea might roar around its base. Beyond,
Might be the depths of the unfathomed space,
This the earth's bulwark over the abyss.
Upon its very point I have watched a star
For a few moments crown it with a fire,
As of an incense-offering that blazed
Upon this mighty altar high uplift,
And then float up the pathless waste of heaven.
From the next window I could look abroad
Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted
With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river,
Where boats went to and fro like water-flies,
In white and green; but still I turned to look
At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows:
All here I saw—I knew not what was there.
O love of knowledge and of mystery,
Striving together in the heart of man!
"Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."—
Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round:
"Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!"
But I must hasten; else the sun will set
Before I reach the smoother valley-road.
I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has
Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think,
Four years of wandering since I left my home,
In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell,
Must have worn changes in this face of mine
Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.
SCENE VIII.—A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the floor. ROBERT.
Robert.
One comfort is, he's far away by this.
Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin.
Where shall I find a daysman in this strife
Between my heart and holy Church's words?
Is not the law of kindness from God's finger,
Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must
Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield,
Be subject to the written law of words;
Impulses made, made strong, that we might have
Within the temple's court live things to bring
And slay upon his altar; that we may,
By this hard penance of the heart and soul,
Become the slaves of Christ.—I have done wrong;
I ought not to have let poor Julian go.
And yet that light upon the floor says, yes—
Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good,
Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life
That he might be in peace. Still up and down
The balance goes, a good in either scale;
Two angels giving each to each the lie,
And none to part them or decide the question.
But still the words come down the heaviest
Upon my conscience as that scale descends;
But that may be because they hurt me more,
Being rough strangers in the feelings' home.
Would God forbid us to do what is right,
Even for his sake? But then Julian's life
Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases!
I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God
Commanded different things in different tones.
Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest
God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind,
Like Mary singing to her mangered child;
The other like a self-restrained tempest;
Like—ah, alas!—the trumpet on Mount Sinai,
Louder and louder, and the voice of words.
O for some light! Would they would kill me! then
I would go up, close up, to God's own throne,
And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth;
And he would slay this ghastly contradiction.
I should not fear, for he would comfort me,
Because I am perplexed, and long to know.
But this perplexity may be my sin,
And come of pride that will not yield to him!
O for one word from God! his own, and fresh
From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!
PART II.
Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!
It is thy Duty waiting thee without.
Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt;
A hand doth pull thee—it is Providence;
Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence;
Go forth into the tumult and the shout;
Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about:
Of noise alone is born the inward sense
Of silence; and from action springs alone
The inward knowledge of true love and faith.
Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan:
One day upon His bosom, all thine own,
Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.
SCENE I.—A room in Julian's castle. JULIAN and the old Nurse.
Julian.
Nembroni? Count Nembroni?—I remember:
A man about my height, but stronger built?
I have seen him at her father's. There was something
I did not like about him:—ah! I know:
He had a way of darting looks at you,
As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.
Nurse.
The same, my lord. He is the creditor.
The common story is, he sought the daughter,
But sought in vain: the lady would not wed.
'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble,
Which caused much wonder, for the family
Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni
Contrived to be the only creditor,
And so imprisoned him.
Julian.
Where is the lady?
Nurse.
Down in the town.
Julian.
But where?
Nurse.
If you turn left,
When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house
Upon this side the way. An honest couple,
Who once were almost pensioners of hers,
Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home
With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis
A wretched change for her.
Julian.
Hm! ah! I see.
What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse?
Nurse.
Here he is little known. His title comes
From an estate, they say, beyond the hills.
He looks ungracious: I have seen the children
Run to the doors when he came up the street.
Julian.
Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay—one thing more:
Have any of my people seen me?
Nurse. None
But me, my lord.
Julian.
And can you keep it secret?—
know you will for my sake. I will trust you.
Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.]
Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid
His plans for nothing further! I will watch him.
Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake.
Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father,
Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame;
My love had no claim on like love from thee.—How
the old tide comes rushing to my heart!
I know not what I can do yet but watch.
I have no hold on him. I cannot go,
Say, I suspect; and, Is it so or not?
I should but injure them by doing so.
True, I might pay her father's debts; and will,
If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well
During my absence. I have not spent much.
But still she'd be in danger from this man,
If not permitted to betray himself;
And I, discovered, could no more protect.
Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt
Her footsteps like an angel, not for long
Should I remain unseen of other eyes,
That peer from under cowls—not angel-eyes—
Hunting me out, over the stormy earth.
No; I must watch. I can do nothing better.
SCENE II.—A poor cottage. An old Man and Woman sitting together.
Man.
How's the poor lady now?
Woman.
She's poorly still.
I fancy every day she's growing thinner.
I am sure she's wasting steadily.
Man.
Has the count
Been here again to-day?
Woman.
No. And I think
He will not come again. She was so proud
The last time he was here, you would have thought
She was a queen at least.
Man.
Remember, wife,
What she has been. Trouble like that throws down
The common folk like us all of a heap:
With folks like her, that are high bred and blood,
It sets the mettle up.
Woman.
All very right;
But take her as she was, she might do worse
Than wed the Count Nembroni.
Man.
Possible.
But are you sure there is no other man
Stands in his way?
Woman.
How can I tell? So be,
He should be here to help her. What she'll do
I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her.
And for her work, she does it far too well
To earn a living by it. Her times are changed—
She should not give herself such prideful airs.
Man.
Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard
On one another! You speak fair for men,
And make allowances; but when a woman
Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her.
But where is this you're going then to-night?
Do they want me to go as well as you?
Woman.
Yes, you must go, or else it is no use.
They cannot give the money to me, except
My husband go with me. He told me so.
Man.
Well, wife, it's worth the going—but to see:
I don't expect a groat to come of it.
SCENE III.—Kitchen of a small inn. Host and Hostess.
Host.
That's a queer customer you've got upstairs!
What the deuce is he?
Hostess.
What is that to us?
He always pays his way, and handsomely.
I wish there were more like him.
Host.
Has he been
At home all day?
Hostess.
He has not stirred a foot
Across the threshold. That's his only fault—
He's always in the way.
Host.
What does he do?
Hostess.
Paces about the room, or sits at the window.
I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,
To see what he's about: he looks annoyed,
But does not speak a word.
Host.
He must be crazed,
Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.
Hostess.
He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;
But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,
If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;
And though he does not say much, when he speaks
A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.
Host.
Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?
SCENE IV.—The inn; a room upstairs. JULIAN at the window, half hidden by the curtain.
Julian.
With what profusion her white fingers spend
Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!
It was so late this morning ere she came!
I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!
Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.
Do I not love he? more than when that beauty
Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond
The confines of her wondrous face and form,
And animated with a present power
Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!
Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest
In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,
As for her husband. Something will follow this.
And here he comes, all in his best like her.
They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,
With short steps down the street. Now I must wake
The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!
SCENE V.—A back street. Two Servants with a carriage and pair.
1st Serv.
Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!
That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,
I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;
We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten.
2nd Serv.
Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare
She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,
As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were
Under some roof or other. I fear this business
Is not of the right sort.
1st Serv.
He looked as black
As if he too had lightning in his bosom.
There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!
SCENE VI.—Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without.
Julian.
Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone—no, there it flares!
I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.
Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm
Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind!
That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he
Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear
This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain
Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.
'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,
And take my stand in the corner by the door.
But if he comes while I go down the stairs,
And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently
Up the stair to the landing by her door.
[He goes quickly toward the door.]
Hostess (opening the door and looking in). If you please, sir—
[He hurries past]
The devil's in the man!
SCENE VII.—The landing.
Voice within.
If you scream, I must muffle you.
Julian (rushing up the stair).
He is there!
His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream!
[Flinging the door open, as NEMBRONI springs forward on the other side.]
Back!
Nembroni. What the devil!—Beggar!
[Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at JULIAN, which
he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he
springs within NEMBRONI'S guard.]
Julian (taking him by the throat).
I have faced worse
storms than you.
[They struggle.]
Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force,
[He stabs him.]
Your ribs will not mail your heart!
[NEMBRONI falls dead. JULIAN wipes his dagger on the
dead man's coat.]
If men will be devils,
They are better in hell than here.
[Lightning flashes on the blade.]
What a night
For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven!
[Approaches the lady within.]
Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope
It will not pass too soon. It is not far
To the half-hidden door in my own fence,
And that is well. If I step carefully,
Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.
What! blood? He does not bleed much, I should think!
Oh, I see! it is mine—he has wounded me.
That's awkward now.
[Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window.]
Pardon me, dear lady;
[Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm.]
'Tis not to save my blood I would defile
Even your handkerchief.
[Coming towards the door, carrying her.]
I am pleased to think
Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.
[Looking out of the window on the landing.]
For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.
[He goes down the stair]
SCENE VIII.—A room in the castle. JULIAN and the Nurse.
Julian.
Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.
You have put your charge to bed?
Nurse.
Yes, my dear lord.
Julian.
And has she spoken yet?
Nurse.
After you left,
Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:
Where am I, mother?—then she looked at me,
And her eyes wandered over all my face,
Till half in comfort, half in weariness,
They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is
As feeble as a child.
Julian.
Under your care
She'll soon be well again. Let no one know
She is in the house:—blood has been shed for her.
Nurse.
Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.
Julian.
That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.
Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.
Nurse.
Leave?
Julian.
Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again
Over the earth and sea. She must not know
I have been here. You must contrive to keep
My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke
When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.
She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;
Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.
Let her on no pretense guess where she is,
Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.
When she is well and wishes to be gone,
Then write to this address—but under cover
[Writing.]
To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
Will see to all the rest. But let her know
Her father is set free; assuredly,
Ere you can say it is, it will be so.
Nurse.
How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?
Julian.
I have thought of that. There's a deserted room
In the old west wing, at the further end
Of the oak gallery.
Nurse.
Not deserted quite.
I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,
Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.
Julian.
You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:
I found a sliding panel, and a door
Into a room behind. I'll show it you.
You'll find some musty traces of me yet,
When you go in. Now take her to your room,
But get the other ready. Light a fire,
And keep it burning well for several days.
Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,
Take everything to make it comfortable;
Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,
Bind her to be as secret as yourself.
Then put her there. I'll let her father know
She is in safety.—I must change attire,
And be far off or ever morning break.
[Nurse goes.]
My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
A treasure unto which I dared not come.
Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—
But not with even a heavenly gift would I
Go begging love; that should be free as light,
Cleaving unto myself even for myself.
I have enough to brood on, joy to turn
Over and over in my secret heart:—
She lives, and is the better that I live!
Re-enter Nurse.
Nurse.
My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;
She's in a dreadful fever. We must send
To Arli for the doctor, else her life
Will be in danger.
Julian
(rising disturbed).
Go and fetch your daughter.
Between you, take her to my room, yours now.
I'll see her there. I think you can together!
Nurse.
O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!
[Nurse goes.]
Julian.
I ought to know the way to treat a fever,
If it be one of twenty. Hers has come
Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.
I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!
SCENE IX.—The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot.
Abbot.
'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.
One hope remains: that fellow has a head!
Enter STEPHEN.
Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.
Stephen.
I did, my lord.
Abbot.
How would you do it, Stephen?
Stephen.
Try one plan till it failed; then try another;
Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes
And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:
Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.
I have no plan; but, give me time and money,
I'll find him out.
Abbot.
Stephen, you're just the man
I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.
SCENE X.—Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LILIA in bed. JULIAN watching.
Julian.
I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then
She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!
My heart is beating as if it would spend
Its life in this one night, and beat it out.
And well it may, for there is more of life
In one such moment than in many years!
Pure life is measured by intensity,
Not by the how much of the crawling clock.
Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across
The window-blind? or is it but a band
Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed
Upon the other?—'Tis the moon herself,
Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this—
Lilia
(half-asleep, wildly).
If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!—
Julian! Julian!
[Half-rising.]
Julian
(forgetting his caution, and going up to her).
I am here, my Lilia.
Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,
A terrible dream. Gone now—is it not?
[She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on
the pillow. He leaves her.]
How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!
But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long
She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead
In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,
And leave her to console my solitude.
Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it!
And what a grief! I will not think of that!
Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own!
O God, I did not know thou wast so rich
In making and in giving; did not know
The gathered glory of this earth of thine.
What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy?
Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take
Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born
In thee, and send it home to dwell with me?
[He leans on the wall.]
Lilia
(softly).
Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad,
As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am.
I see the flashing of ten thousand glories;
I hear the trembling of a thousand wings,
That vibrate music on the murmuring air!
Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool
Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!—
What is it, though, that makes me glad like this?
I knew, but cannot find it—I forget.
It must be here—what was it?—Hark! the fall,
The endless going of the stream of life!—
Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,—I am so thirsty!
[Querulously.]
[JULIAN gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him again, with large wondering eyes.]
Ah! now I know—I was so very thirsty!
[He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window.]
Julian.
The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;
With its obtrusive I am written large
Upon its face!
[Approaches the bed, and gazes on LILIA silently with
clasped hands; then returns to the window.]
She sleeps so peacefully!
O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.
Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.
Enter Nurse.
Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep.
You must be near her when she wakes again.
I think she'll be herself. But do be careful—
Right cautious how you tell her I am here.
Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep!
[JULIAN goes.]
Nurse.
Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,
That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,
And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!—
Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life
From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see
Your shutters open, for I then should know
Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,
To peep at morning from her own bright windows.
Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,
To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams
Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!
Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!
SCENE XI.—A hilly road. STEPHEN, trudging alone, pauses to look around him.
Stephen.
Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound
would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged
good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length—mind
thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not
hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not.
Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.—It is a poor man
that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not
follow thee.
[Sings.]
Oh, many a hound is stretching out
His two legs or his four,
And the saddled horses stand about
The court and the castle door,
Till out come the baron, jolly and stout,
To hunt the bristly boar!
The emperor, he doth keep a pack
In his antechambers standing,
And up and down the stairs, good lack!
And eke upon the landing:
A straining leash, and a quivering back,
And nostrils and chest expanding!
The devil a hunter long hath been,
Though Doctor Luther said it:
Of his canon-pack he was the dean,
And merrily he led it:
The old one kept them swift and lean
On faith—that's devil's credit!
Each man is a hunter to his trade,
And they follow one another;
But such a hunter never was made
As the monk that hunted his brother!
And the runaway pig, ere its game be played,
Shall be eaten by its mother!
Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and precipices! But the flea may be caught, and so shall the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave his plaything, and wants it back!—I wonder whereabouts I am.
SCENE XII.—The Nurse's room. LILIA sitting up in bed. JULIAN seated by her; an open note in his hand.
Lilia.
Tear it up, Julian.
Julian.
No; I'll treasure it
As the remembrance of a by-gone grief:
I love it well, because it is not yours.
Lilia.
Where have you been these long, long years away?
You look much older. You have suffered, Julian!
Julian.
Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much,
Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself,
I'll tell you all you want to know about me.
Lilia.
Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong;
It will not hurt me.
Julian.
Wait a day or two.
Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all.
Lilia.
And I have much to tell you, Julian. I
Have suffered too—not all for my own sake.
[Recalling something.]
Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!—
I don't know when it was. It must have been
Before you brought me here! I am sure it was.
Julian.
Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards.
You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must.
Lilia.
I will obey you, will not speak a word.
Enter Nurse.
Nurse.
Blessings upon her! she's near well already.
Who would have thought, three days ago, to see
You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders.
Julian.
My art has helped a little, I thank God.—
To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while.
[JULIAN goes.]
Lilia.
Why does he always wear that curious cap?
Nurse.
I don't know. You must sleep.
Lilia.
Yes. I forgot.
SCENE XIII.—The Steward's room. JULIAN and the Steward. Papers on the table, which JULIAN has just finished examining.
Julian.
Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me.
You sent that note privately to my friend?
Steward.
I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money,
Putting all things in train for his release,
Without appearing in it personally,
Or giving any clue to other hands.
He sent this message by my messenger:
His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it.
He will be secret. For his daughter, she
Is safe with you as with himself; and so
God bless you both! He will expect to hear
From both of you from England.
Julian.
Well, again.
What money is remaining in your hands?
Steward.
Two bags, three hundred each; that's all.
I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more.
Julian.
One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance
Befall us, though I do not fear it much—
have been very secret—is that boat
I had before I left, in sailing trim?
Steward.
I knew it was a favorite with my lord;
I've taken care of it. A month ago,
With my own hands I painted it all fresh,
Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail
I'll have replaced immediately; and then
'Twill be as good as new.
Julian.
That's excellent.
Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast
To the stone steps behind my garden study.
Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put
The money in the old desk in the study.
Steward.
I will, my lord. It will be safe enough.
SCENE XIV.—A road near the town. A Waggoner. STEPHEN, in lay dress, coming up to him.
Stephen.
Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow?
Waggoner.
Its present owner's of the Uglii;
They call him Lorenzino.
Stephen.
Whose is that
Down in the valley?
Waggoner.
That is Count Lamballa's.
Stephen.
What is his Christian name?
Waggoner.
Omfredo. No,
That was his father's; his is Julian.
Stephen.
Is he at home?
Waggoner.
No, not for many a day.
His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful
Whether he be alive; and yet his land
Is better farmed than any in the country.
Stephen.
He is not married, then?
Waggoner.
No. There's a gossip
Amongst the women—but who would heed their talk!—
That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors,
To wander here and there, like a bad ghost,
Because a silly wench refused him:—fudge!
Stephen.
Most probably. I quite agree with you.
Where do you stop?
Waggoner.
At the first inn we come to;
You'll see it from the bottom of the hill.
There is a better at the other end,
But here the stabling is by far the best.
Stephen.
I must push on. Four legs can never go
Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend.
Waggoner.
Good morning, sir.
Stephen (aside)
I take the further house.
SCENE XV.—The Nurse's room. JULIAN and LILIA standing near the window.
Julian.
But do you really love me, Lilia?
Lilia.
Why do you make me say it so often, Julian?
You make me say I love you, oftener far
Than you say you love me.
Julian.
To love you seems
So much a thing of mere necessity!
I can refrain from loving you no more
Than keep from waking when the sun shines full
Upon my face.
Lilia.
And yet I love to say
How, how I love you, Julian!
[Leans her head on his arm. JULIAN winces a little. She
raises her head and looks at him.]
Did I hurt you?
Would you not have me lean my head on you?
Julian.
Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt
Not yet quite healed.
Lilia.
Ah, my poor Julian! How—
I am so sorry!—Oh, I do remember!
I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream!
I saw you fighting!—Surely you did not kill him?
Julian
(calmly, but drawing himself up).
I killed him as I would a dog that bit you.
Lilia
(turning pale, and covering her face with her
hands.)
Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you!
Julian.
Shall I go, Lilia?
Lilia.
Oh no, no, no, do not.—
I shall be better presently.
Julian.
You shrink
As from a murderer!
Lilia.
Oh no, I love you—
Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian;
But blood is terrible.
Julian
(drawing her close to him).
My own sweet Lilia,
'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine,
As it had been a tiger that I killed.
He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling;
His blood lies not on me, but on himself;
I do not feel its stain upon my conscience.
[A tap at the door.]
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. My lord, the steward waits on you below.
[JULIAN goes.]
You have been standing till you're faint, my lady!
Lie down a little. There!—I'll fetch you something.
SCENE XVI.—The Steward's room. JULIAN. The Steward.
Julian.
Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect
To hear from you soon after my arrival.
Is the boat ready?
Steward.
Yes, my lord; afloat
Where you directed.
Julian.
A strange feeling haunts me,
As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast
The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.
Steward.
I will, directly.
[Goes.]
Julian.
How shall I manage it?
I have her father's leave, but have not dared
To tell her all; and she must know it first!
She fears me half, even now: what will she think
To see my shaven head? My heart is free—
I know that God absolves mistaken vows.
I looked for help in the high search from those
Who knew the secret place of the Most High.
If I had known, would I have bound myself
Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds
Never a lark springs to salute the day?
The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best
Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!
It cannot be God's will I should be such.
But there was more: they virtually condemned
Me in my quest; would have had me content
To kneel with them around a wayside post,
Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?
It was the dull abode of foolishness:
Not such the house where God would train his children!
My very birth into a world of men
Shows me the school where he would have me learn;
Shows me the place of penance; shows the field
Where I must fight and die victorious,
Or yield and perish. True, I know not how
This will fall out: he must direct my way!
But then for her—she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.—
It may be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.
She loves me—not as I love her. But always
—There's Robert for an instance—I have loved
A life for what it might become, far more
Than for its present: there's a germ in her
Of something noble, much beyond her now:
Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.
This evening must decide it, come what will.
SCENE XVII.—The inn; the room which had been JULIAN'S. STEPHEN, Host, and Hostess. Wine on the table.
Stephen.
Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass;
Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.
Hostess.
I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine;
My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say
I am a judge myself.
Host.
I'm confident
It needs but to be tasted.
Stephen
(tasting critically, then nodding).
That is wine!
Let me congratulate you, my good sir,
Upon your exquisite judgment!
Host.
Thank you, sir.
Stephen
(to the Hostess).
And so this man, you say, was here until
The night the count was murdered: did he leave
Before or after that?
Hostess.
I cannot tell;
He left, I know, before it was discovered.
In the middle of the storm, like one possessed,
He rushed into the street, half tumbling me
Headlong down stairs, and never came again.
He had paid his bill that morning, luckily;
So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!
Stephen.
What was he like, fair Hostess?
Hostess.
Tall and dark,
And with a lowering look about his brows.
He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil.
One queer thing was, he always wore his hat,
Indoors as well as out. I dare not say
He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange
He always sat at that same window there,
And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if
There were much traffic in the village now;
These are changed times; but I have seen the day—
Stephen.
Excuse me; you were saying that the man
Sat at the window—
Hostess.
Yes; even after dark
He would sit on, and never call for lights.
The first night, I brought candles, as of course;
He let me set them on the table, true;
But soon's my back was turned, he put them out.
Stephen.
Where is the lady?
Hostess.
That's the strangest thing
Of all the story: she has disappeared,
As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,
White as my apron. The whole house was empty,
Just as I told you.
Stephen.
Has no search been made?
Host.
The closest search; a thousand pieces offered
For any information that should lead
To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother,
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,
Seeking in vain for some intelligence.
Stephen.
'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;
I have to write some letters.
Hostess (rising).
Thank you, sir,
For your kind entertainment.
[Exeunt Host and Hostess.]
Stephen.
We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw
him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not
be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and
corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a
wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother
Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away
with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll
be for marrying her on the sly, and away!—I know the
old fox!—for her conscience-sake, probably not for his!
Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve.
The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old
mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her
children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her
dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's
nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to
marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is
displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable
progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the
cloven foot. Keep back thy servant, &c.—Purgatory
couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the
chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll
go find the new count. The Church shall have the
castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new
count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well
have the thousand pieces as not.
SCENE XVIII.—Night. The Nurse's room. LILIA; to her JULIAN.
Lilia. How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.
Enter JULIAN.
Julian.
My Lilia, will you go to England with me?
Lilia.
Julian, my father!
Julian.
Not without his leave.
He says, God bless us both.
Lilia.
Leave him in prison?
Julian.
No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe,
And far from this ere now.
Lilia.
You have done this,
My noble Julian! I will go with you
To sunset, if you will. My father gone!
Julian, there's none to love me now but you.
You will love me, Julian?—always?
Julian.
I but fear
That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough
To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it.
Lilia.
I know why you think that; and I deserve it.
But try me, Julian. I was very silly.
I could not help it. I was ill, you know;
Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian,
How your arm is to-day?
Julian.
Almost well, child.
Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid.
Lilia.
Never mind that, if it be well again.
Julian.
I do not mind it; but when I remember
That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch
Or stain should be upon me—soul, body, yours.
And there are more scars on me now than I
Should like to make you own, without confession.
Lilia.
My poor, poor Julian! never think of it;
[Putting her arms round him.]
I will but love you more. I thought you had
Already told me suffering enough;
But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.
You have been a soldier!
Julian.
I have fought, my Lilia.
I have been down among the horses' feet;
But strange to tell, and harder to believe,
Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood
Save what I lifted from the gory ground.
[Sighing.]
My wounds are not of such.
[LILIA, loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a
kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation.]
No. Penance, Lilia;
Such penance as the saints of old inflicted
Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;
As a lord would exalt himself, by making
His willing servants into trembling slaves!
Yet I have borne it.
Lilia
(laying her hand on his arm).
Ah, alas, my Julian,
You have been guilty!
Julian.
Not what men call guilty,
Save it be now; now you will think I sin.
Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.—
Lilia, I have been a monk.
Lilia.
A monk?
[Turningpale.]
I thought—
[Faltering.]
Julian,—I thought you said…. did you not say…?
[Very pale, brokenly.]
I thought you said …
[With an effort.]
I was to be your wife!
[Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.]
Julian
(speaking low and in pain).
And so I did.
Lilia
(hopefully, and looking up).
Then you've had dispensation?
Julian.
God has absolved me, though the Church will not.
He knows it was in ignorance I did it.
Rather would he have men to do his will,
Than keep a weight of words upon their souls,
Which they laid there, not graven by his finger.
The vow was made to him—to him I break it.
Lilia
(weeping bitterly).
I would … your words were true … but I do know …
It never can … be right to break a vow;
If so, men might be liars every day;
You'd do the same by me, if we were married.
Julian
(in anguish).
'Tis ever so. Words are the living things!
There is no spirit—save what's born of words!
Words are the bonds that of two souls make one!
Words the security of heart to heart!
God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God!
Lilia
(not heeding him).
Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon
Gave late repentance; I should weep away
My life within a convent.
Julian.
Come to England,
To England, Lilia.
Lilia.
Men would point, and say:
There go the monk and his wife; if they, in truth,
Called me not by a harder name than that.
Julian.
There are no monks in England.
Lilia.
But will that
Make right what's wrong?
Julian.
Did I say so, my Lilia?
I answered but your last objections thus;
I had a different answer for the first.
Lilia.
No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it.
Julian.
Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot.
—I would have told you all before, but thought,
Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;—
I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more;
I would not hurt your body, less your soul,
For all the blessedness your love can give:
For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say.
Think not that must be right which you have heard
From infancy—it may——
[Enter the Steward in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding.]
Steward.
My lord, there's such an uproar in the town!
They call you murderer and heretic.
The officers of justice, with a monk,
And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied
By a fierce mob with torches, howling out
For justice on you, madly cursing you!
They caught a glimpse of me as I returned,
And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm;
But I escaped them, old man as I am,
And was in time to bar the castle-gates.—
Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut
The river from the moat!
[Distant yells and cries.]
Escape, my lord!
Julian
(calmly).
Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph?
Steward.
A little while, my lord; but those damned torches!
Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls!
Julian.
Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window,
And tell us of their progress.
[JOSEPH goes. Sounds approach.]
Farewell, Lilia!
[Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone.]
Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me.
My presence would but bring down evil on you,
My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear,
The terrible things that you have imaged out
If you fled with me. They will not hurt you,
If you be not polluted by my presence.
[Light from without flares on the wall.]
They've fired the gate.
[An outburst of mingled cries.]
Steward (entering). They've fired the gate, my lord!
Julian.
Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph.
You and old Agata tell all the truth,
And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me;
I shall be safe—you know me—never fear.
Steward.
God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord!
[Is going.]
Julian.
But add, it was in vain; the signorina
Would not consent; therefore I fled alone.
[LILIA stands as before.]
Steward. Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master!
[Goes.]
Julian.
Put your arms round me once, my Lilia.
Not once?—not once at parting?
[Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries.]
O God! farewell!
[He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both behind him. LILIA starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, and flies after him, but forgets to close the panel.]
Lilia. Julian! Julian!
[The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of the mob.]
1st.
I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still!
2nd.
Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his
own. Look under the bed, Gian.
3rd.
Nothing there.
4th.
Another door! another door! He's in a trap
now, and will soon be in hell! (Opening the door with
difficulty.) The devil had better leave him, and make up
the fire at home—he'll be cold by and by. (Rushes into
the inner room.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.]
Voices from within.
I have him! I have him! Curse
your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You
won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you.
Bring the light there, will you? (One runs out for the
light.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall!
The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles!
[Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with torches and follow.]
* * * * *
SCENE XIX.—The river-side. LILIA seated in the boat; JULIAN handing her the bags.
Julian.
There! One at a time!—Take care, love; it
is heavy.—
Put them right in the middle, of the boat:
Gold makes good ballast.
[A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose,
then pushes gently off.]
Look how the torches gleam
Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped!
[He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with
cries of search.]
(In a low tone.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length
In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white,
And would return the torches' glare. I fear
The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this.
[Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her.]
Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars!
The water mutters Spanish in its sleep.
My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife!
God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults,
Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!—
Once round the headland, I will set the sail;
The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream.
Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all,
White angel lying in my little boat!
Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm,
Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks,
Should make me rich with womanhood and life!
[The boat rounds the headland, JULIAN singing.]
SONG.
Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife,
Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled;
Unresting yet, though folded up from life;
Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind,
O cover me with kisses of her mouth;
Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind;
To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing
From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea;
Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing,
Us to a new love-lit futurity:
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.