Once in a London theatre I saw an actress walk across the stage. She did not utter a word, she never looked at the audience, she was apparently unconscious of everything but what she had in her own mind; yet before she was half across the stage the people rose to their feet with a roar. Ideala's coming amongst us had produced some such startling effect; but her power was altogether occult. The audience knew what the actress meant, but we did not understand Ideala, and yet we applauded by laying our best before her, and acknowledged the charm of her presence in every word. She spoke very little, however. Indeed, I remember nothing she said until we went to the drawing-room. On the way thither Claudia had picked up a crumpled paper, and, glancing at it, had exclaimed—"Why, Ideala, here are some of your verses! Do you still write verses?"
It was curious that we all spoke as if she had been away for years.
"Yes," she answered, tranquilly; and Claudia coolly proceeded to read the verses aloud, a difficult task, as they were scribbled in pencil on half a sheet of note-paper, and were scarcely decipherable. Ideala, meanwhile, listened, with calm eyes fixed on vacancy, like one trying to be polite, but finding it hard for lack of interest.
"By Arno, when the tale was o'er,
At sunset, as in days of yore,
I wandered forth and dreamed.
The sky above, the town below.
The solemn river's silent flow,
The ancient story-haunts I know,
In varied colours gleamed.
By Arno calm my steps I stayed,
Just where the river's bank displayed
A tangled growth of weeds;
Tall houses near, and on the right
An arched bridge upreared its height,
And boats drew near, and passed from sight—
I heard the tramp of steeds.
I heard, and saw, but heeded not;
My feet were rooted to the spot,
A fancy checked my breath.
'Twas here that Tito lay, I knew.
His fair face upward to the blue,
His velvet tunic soaking through,
Most beautiful in death.
But Baldassarre was not there,
'Twas I that stooped to kiss the hair,
Besprent with ooze and dew.
Ah, God! light gold the locks caressed—
I saw no Greek in velvet dressed—
But wildly to my bosom pressed—
Not Tito, love, but you!
The massive, godlike head and throat
Belonged not to those days remote,
The fine grey eye—the limb;
It was the soul I know so well,
So full of earth, and heaven, and hell,
That came from out that time to dwell
In you and make you him.
And I, the victim of your smiles,
And I, the victim of your wiles,
My vengeance shall prevail.
The river Time shall float you nigh,
And earth and hell your soul shall fly.
And only heaven remain when I
The deed triumphant hail!"
It surprised me to find that Claudia could read those verses to the end, their import—to me, at least—was so obvious. But Ideala continued unmoved; and when the little buzz of friendly criticism had subsided, she remarked, with unimpassioned directness: