But only his mother—when she had him at home lying in that pomp of death with which we all shall impress beholders—could have pronounced the true oration over him. Through her dumb tragedy she wanted to make deaf-mute signs to some intelligence that here lay one of Nature’s poets, with a gift virgin and untarnished.
He had never hunted a public. His public was the woods and sky, and his critic one fond woman. Not a line of unsatisfied ambition marked his placid face. He had lived an humble, happy life, and sung for the sake of expression, not for the sake of praise. He had, after all, only gone to find the best publisher, and his mother could always hear him “singing in the dark.”
T’FÉRGORE
A PASTORAL IN THREE PARTS
Time, 1883
PART I
HE THREATENS TO ARRIVE
“We will not endeavor to modify the motions of the elements, or fix the destiny of kingdoms. It is our business to consider what beings like us may perform: each laboring for his own happiness by promoting within his circle, however narrow, the happiness of others.”—Rasselas.
“Come into the painting-room,” said Julian, “and let’s talk it over.”
“How excited you are!” I said.
“Well, after balancing one way and another for years, my mind’s made up. We’re going.”