Tom had been growing silent and moody of late—a change for which I could find no cause. He would answer my questions at random, pause in his work to gaze long and intently on the ceiling, and altogether behave in ways unaccountable and strange. The play had been written at white-hot speed: the corrections proceeded at a snail's pace. The author had also fallen into a habit of bolting his meals in silence, and, when rebuked, of slowly bringing his eyes to bear upon me as a person whose presence was until the moment unsuspected. All this I saw in mild wonder, but I reflected on certain moods of my own of late, and held my peace.
The explanation came without my seeking. We were seated together one evening, he over his everlasting corrections, and I in some especially herbaceous nook of the Materia Medica, when Tom looked up and said—
"Jasper, I want your opinion on a passage. Listen to this."
Sick of my flowery solitude, I gave him my attention while he read:—
"She is no violet to veil and hide
Before the lusty sun, but as the flower,
His best-named bride, that leaneth to the light
And images his look of lordly love—
Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queen
Than he a king; and whoso looks must kneel
And worship, conscious of a Sovranty
Undreamt in nature, save it be the Heaven
That minist'ring to all is queen of all,
And wears the proud sun's self but as a gem
To grace her girdle, one among the stars.
Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.
Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,
And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,
Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes—"
"She is no violet to veil and hide
Before the lusty sun, but as the flower,
His best-named bride, that leaneth to the light
And images his look of lordly love—
Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queen
Than he a king; and whoso looks must kneel
And worship, conscious of a Sovranty
Undreamt in nature, save it be the Heaven
That minist'ring to all is queen of all,
And wears the proud sun's self but as a gem
To grace her girdle, one among the stars.
Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven.
Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,
And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,
Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes—"
"Stay," I interrupted, "unless I am mistaken her eyes are like the Pleiads, a simile to which I have more than once objected."
"If you would only listen you would find those lines cut out," said Tom, pettishly.
"In that case I apologise: nevertheless, if that is your idea of a Francesca, I confess she seems to me a trifle—shall we say?— massive."
"Your Claire, I suppose, is stumpy?"