Part 6
“All the world in such haste to die!” he cried. “All the world gone mad with the craze of movement! Up in the air, down on the earth--all turned to whirling, flying, tossing atoms of dust in a storm, and lo, the End! Be patient now, for ye shall never wander again--be silent now, for prayer and cursing, laughter and tears are done--let the hoarded gold drop from your grasp--it can purchase nothing yonder! Was it worth while, think you,--this rush headlong, to be cast into silence? Was it worth while to leave the sunshine for this dark?--beauty for this decay?--sweet sounds of love and tenderness for this still glow of the eternal flame which is not quenched--this gnawing of the eternal worm whose appetite is never satisfied? Lo, ye have burnt up a world to light Hell with its flame!--but the world shall blossom again like a flower springing from the dust, and ye whose soulless lives have been a curse and an outrage on its fairness, shall pace its pleasant paths no more! Rejoice, O earth!--rejoice, O sea!--to be freed of the burden of mankind! Rejoice, O birds, that the hand of the spoiler shall no longer wound or slay!--rejoice, O trees, that the axe of the destroyer shall no more cast ye down!--rejoice, O all ye living creatures of the field and forest, that Treachery no longer stalks the world in man’s disguise! Take back thy planet, O great God, cleansed of a pigmy race! Create a new Humanity!--for this is past!”
On--on,--along the black ridge jutting darkly over silent Immensity, with a whirl of fire and roar of thunder the Car flew,--and then--as if for one brief breathing part of a second it paused! Like a vast Shadow between earth and heaven the Demon stood--his bony hand on the steering-wheel--and every point in his flaming crown scintillating with the sparkle of a million stars. Round about him soared and stooped countless terrific Phantom-shapes--some like wrecked ships--some like torn flags of honour--some like mounted warriors--some like throned kings--some like fair women veiled in a mist of tears,--and beneath his bat-like pinions, outstretched to north and south, there glimmered a pale crowd of white faces, upturned wild eyes and imploring hands--all crushed together in a writhing mass of agony! But no sound came from those dumb mouths agape with terror,--all were silent as Death itself, and only the thunderous roar of the Car echoed through space, as, after that infinitely brief pause, it dashed furiously onward and down!--down,--down sheer over the edge of that mystic precipice into the fathomless abyss of the Unseen and Unknown!
A thousand lightnings leaped after it--a thousand crashing echoes vibrated through the Universe with its fall,--one frightful human cry shuddered up to Heaven--and then--silence! Gradually, gently, and by faint degrees, a purpling fire crimsoned the wavering rise of dawn--a cool wind parted the air into sweet breadths of fragrance--and in the centre of the awful stillness a scarlet sun rose slowly in a clear sky, fixing the red seal of God on the closed history of a World!
GOD AND SATAN
GOD said--“I will create A world in the air!” Satan heard and answered-- “I too will be there!”
God said--“I will make of Man A creature supreme!”-- Satan answered--“I will destroy Thy splendid Dream!”
God said--“I will ordain That Thou shalt no longer be!” Satan answered--“Thou canst not, Lord, For I am a part of Thee!”
“IMAGINARY” LOVE
“My love Is as the very centre of the earth Drawing all things to it.”
_Troilus and Cressida._
THERE is perhaps no emotion more elevating or more deceptive than that sudden uplifting of the heart and yearning of the senses which may be called “imaginary” Love. It resembles the stirring of the sap in the roots of flowers, thrilling the very ground with hints and promises of spring,--it is the unspeakable out-coming of human emotion and sympathy too great to be contained within itself,--the tremulous desire,--half vague and wholly innocent,--of the human soul for its mate. The lower grades of passion have not as yet ruffled the quivering white wings of this divinely sweet emotion, and the being who is happy enough to experience it in all its intensity, is, for the time, the most enviable on earth. Youth or maiden, whichever it be, the world is a fairyland for this chosen dreamer. Nothing appears base or mean,--God’s smile is reflected in every ray of sunshine, and Nature offers no prospect that is not pleasing. It is the season of glamour and grammarye,--a look over the distant hills is sufficient to engage the mind of the dreaming girl with brilliant fancies of gallant knights riding from far-off countries, with their lady’s colours pinned to their breasts “to do or die” for the sake of love and glory,--and the young boy, half in love with a pretty face he has seen on his way home from school or college, begins to think with all the poets, of eyes blue as skies, of loves and doves, and hearts and darts, in happy unconsciousness that his thoughts are not in the least original. Yet with all its ethereal beauty and gossamer-sense of pleasure, this “imaginary” love is often the most pathetic experience we have or ever shall have in life. It is answerable for numberless griefs,--for bitter disillusions,--occasionally, too, for broken hearts. It glitters before us, a brilliant chimera, during our very young days,--and on our entrance into society it vanishes, leaving us to pursue it through many phases of existence, and always in vain. The poet is perhaps the happiest of all who join in this persistent chase after the impossible,--for he frequently continues to imagine “imaginary” love with ecstasy and fervour to the very end of his days. Next in order comes the musician, who in the composition of a melancholy nocturne or tender ballad, or in the still greater work of a romantic opera, imagines “imaginary” love in strains of perfect sound, which waken in the hearts of his hearers all the old feverish longings, all the dear youthful dreams, all the delicious romances which accompanied the lovely white-winged Sentiment in days past and dead for ever. Strange to say, it often happens that the musician, while thus appeasing his own insatiable thirst for “imaginary” love, is frequently aware that he is arousing it in others; and, could he probe to the very fibres of his thinking soul, he would confess to a certain keen satisfaction in the fact of his being able to revivify the old restless yearning of a pain which is sweeter to the lonely soul than pleasure.
Now this expression of the “lonely soul” is used advisedly, because, in sad truth, every human soul is lonely. Lonely at birth,--still more lonely at death. During its progress through life it gathers around it what it can in the way of crumbs of love, grains of affection, taking them tenderly and with tears of gratefulness. But it is always conscious of solitude,--an awful yet Divine solitude, over which the Infinite broods, watchful yet silent. Why it is brought into conscious being, to live within a material frame and there perform certain duties and labours, and from thence depart again, it cannot tell. All is a mystery,--a strange Necessity, in which it cannot truly recognize its part or place. Yet it is,--and one of the strongest proofs of its separate identity from the body is this “imaginary” love for which it yearns, and which it never obtains. “Imaginary” love is not earthly,--neither is it heavenly,--it is something between both, a vague and inchoate feeling, which, though incapable of being reduced to any sort of reason or logic, is the foundation of perhaps all the greatest art, music, and poetry in the world. If we had to do merely with men as they are and women as they are, Art would perish utterly from the face of the earth. It is because we make for ourselves “ideal” men, “ideal” women, and endow these fair creations with the sentiment of “imaginary” love, that we still are able to communicate with the gods. Not yet have we lowered ourselves to the level of the beasts,--nor shall we do so, though things sometimes seem tending that way. Realism and Atheism have darkened the world, as they darken it now, long before the present time, and as defacements on the grandeur of the Universe they have not been permitted to remain. Nor will they be permitted now,--the reaction will, and must inevitably set in. The repulsive materialism of Zola, and others of his school,--the loose theories of the “smart” set, and the moral degradation of those who have no greater God than self,--these things are the merest ephemera, destined to leave no more mark on human history than the trail of a slug on one leaf of an oak. The ideal must always be triumphant,--the soul can only hope to make way by climbing towards it. Thus it is with “imaginary” or ideal Love,--it must hold fast to its ideal, or be content to perish on the plane of sensual passion, which exhausts itself rapidly, and once dead is dead forever and aye.
With all its folly, sweetness, piteousness, and pathos, “imaginary” love is the keynote of Art,--its fool-musings take shape in exquisite verse, in tales of romance and adventure, in pictures that bring the nations together to stand and marvel, in music that makes the strong man weep. It is the most supersensual of all delicate sensations,--as fine as a hair, as easily destroyed as the gnat’s wing;--a rough touch will wound it,--a coarse word will kill it,--the sneer of the Realist shuts it in a coffin of lead and sinks it fathoms deep in the waters of despair. Strange and cruel as the fact may seem, Marriage appears to put an end to it altogether.
“Think you if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife he would have written sonnets to her all his life?”
inquires Lord Byron. He certainly would not. The “imaginary” love of Petrarch was the source of his poetic inspiration; if he had ever dragged it down to the level of the commonplace Actual, he would have killed his Muse. In a similar way the love of Dante for Beatrice was of the “imaginary” quality. Those who read the “Vita Nuova” will scarcely fail to see how the great poet hugs his love-fancies and feeds himself with delicious extravagances in the way of idealized and sublimated soul-passion. He dissects every fine hair of a stray emotion, and writes a sonnet on every passing heart-beat. Dante’s wife never became so transfigured in her husband’s love. Why? Alas, who can say! No reason can be given save that perchance “familiarity breeds contempt,” and that the unattainable seems always more beautiful than the attained. The delight of possession would appear to be as brief as the flowering of a rose. Lovers are in haste to wed,--but when the knot is once irrevocably tied, in nine cases out of ten they wish it could be untied again. They no longer imagine “imaginary” love. The glamour is gone. Illusions are all over. The woman is no longer the removed, the fair, the chaste, the unreachable,--the man ceases to be the proud, the strong,--the hero endowed with the attributes of the gods. “Imaginary” love then resolves itself into one of two things,--a firm, every-day close and tender _friendship_, or else a sick disappointment often ending in utter disgust. But the divine emotion of “imaginary” love has fled,--the Soul is no longer enamoured of its Ideal--and the delicate psychic passion which inspires the poet, the painter, the musician, turns at once to fresh objects of admiration and pursuit. For it is never exhausted,--unlike any purely earthly sense, it knows no satiety. Deceived in one direction, it flies in another. Dissatisfied with worldly things, it extends its longing heavenwards,--there at least it shall find what it seeks,--not now, but hereafter! Age does not blunt this fine emotion, for, as may often be remarked with some beautiful souls in the decline of bodily life, the resigning of earthly enjoyments gives them no pain,--and the sweet placidity of expectation, rather than the dull apathy of regret, is their chief characteristic. “Imaginary” love still beckons them on;--what has not been found Here will be found There!
Happy, and always to be envied, are those who treasure this aerial sentiment of the spiritual brain! It is the dearest possession of every true artist. In every thought, in every creative work or plan, “imaginary” love goes before, pointing out wonders unseen by less enlightened eyes,--hiding things unsightly, disclosing things lovely, and making the world fair to the mind in all seasons, whether of storm or calm. Intensifying every enjoyment, adding a double thrill to the notes of a sweet song, lending an extra glow to the sunshine, an added radiance to the witchery of the moonlight, a more varied and exquisite colouring to the trees and flowers, a charm to every book, a delight to every new scene, “imaginary” love, a very sprite of enchantment, helps us to believe persistently in good, when those who love not at all, neither in reality nor in idealization, are drowning in the black waters of suicidal despair.
So it is well for us--those who can--to imagine “imaginary” love. We shall never grasp the Dream in this world--nevertheless let us fly after it as though it were a Reality! Its path is one of sweetness more than pain,--its ways are devious, yet even in sadness still entrancing. Better than rank, better than wealth is this talisman, which with a touch brings us into close communication with the Higher worlds. Let us “imagine” our friends are true; let us “imagine” we are loved for our own sakes alone,--let us “imagine,” as we welcome our acquaintances into our homes, that their smiles and greetings are sincere--let us imagine “imaginary” love as the poets do,--a passion tender, strong, and changeless--and pursue it always, even if the objects, which for a moment its passing wings have brushed, crumble into dust beneath that touch of fire! So shall our lives retain the charm of constant Youth and Hope,--so shall the world seem always beautiful to us,--so shall the Unimaginable glory of the future Real-in-Love shine nearer every day in our faithful, fond pursuit of its flying Shadow!
A FORGIVENESS
“_That curse shall be Forgiveness_!”
BYRON’S _Childe Harold_
FORGIVE? Yes,--but I cannot forget, For the deathless Soul is strong, And God himself can never efface Its memory of a Wrong; And though you are dead and laid in your grave And the evil you wrought is done, Though your lips are cold in the covering mould, Yet your dastard Lie lives on!
Forgive? Yes,--but I cannot forget The merciless, murderous thrust Of your treacherous hand with its backward blow When you killed my whole life’s trust; Craving my pity, you broke my heart And slandered my name and fame,-- By the Christian creed, I forgive you, coward! Let the pardon be your shame!
Forgive? Yes,--as the Christ forgave When the Judas kiss was given, And Hell suck’d down the traitor’s soul While his curse was pronounc’d in Heaven! Nothing so low, and nothing so base As a stab in the back of a friend, And those who saw you handle the knife Scarce wonder’d at your end!
Forgive? Yes,--my forgiveness shall burn On your grave in “coals of fire,”-- It shall kindle into a flame and leap To the height of my life’s desire, It shall reach straight up to the gates of God, And there like a Sword shall stay, And, lest you come sneaking out of Hell It shall bar your heavenward way!
It shall warn you off with the lightning flash Of an honest faith betray’d-- It shall shut you out from the garden of God, And hold you back afraid,-- Like a torch of terror adown your dark Its endless flare shall shine, And spread like a widening gulf of fire Between your spirit and mine.
Forgive? Yes--but I shall not forget! I shall keep your name in my prayers, That God may remember as well as I The infamous taint it bears! I forgive--I forgive! But I shall not forget;-- And as long as the great worlds roll, My forgiveness shall be as the seal of doom Fired down upon your soul!
“CARE-TAKERS”
A WARNING TO HOUSE-OWNERS
THE word “care-taker” conveys, or would seem to convey, an impression that is both Christian and consolatory. To “take care” of things or persons is eminently proper and virtuous,--to accept care, another way of “taking” it,--namely, to willingly undergo a certain amount of trouble and vexation in order to spare others, is really almost sublime. But in these degenerate days of ours it does not always do to give literal significations to words in common use. They often, with strange and unaccountable capriciousness, mean the exact reverse of what they seem. “Care-taker” is a notable example of this fact,--for in the modern acceptance of the term it really signifies an individual who, so far as material and mundane needs go, is totally free from care, and who, moreover, has no intention of “taking care” of anything or anybody. “Care-taker” means a person, sometimes masculine, but more often feminine, who lives rent-free and pays no taxes,--who has a small stock of generally useful second-hand furniture which is moved at his or her command from house to house wherever best convenience calls, and who is paid for eating, drinking, sleeping, and doing nothing in “desirable mansions” whose owners are out of town, or who, for some dark reason connected with the funds, are wishful “To Let Immediately.” Care-takers are not at all like the rest of humanity; they are a race apart, with peculiar manners and customs of their own. Many of them have a fondness for the “cup that cheers;” many more exhibit a decided partiality for the glass which “inebriates.” Some of them would even appear to use whisky as a general and agreeable perfume, to judge from the odours which are diffused from their hair and clothes, when they open front doors to belated inquirers after absent friends, or any seekers after unfurnished houses. Whosoever is in the latter category of sufferers and martyrs deserves and shall have our sincerest sympathy. We know what he is going through! We know what the “agents” will do to him! He will be told that there is a “Charming Residence” on the “delightful elevation” of Campden Hill, for instance, and he will find out that it is nothing but a small and paltry “semi-detached” in the depressing depths of the Holland Villas Road, with the bath-tap broken and the water coming through. He will wander hopefully into Mayfair, decoyed by the prospect of living “off Park Lane” in a “bijou” establishment--
Stop! I really must break off here to deliver a solemn warning against this word “bijou.” Beware of it!--all good patient folk who go house-hunting, beware of it! Fly from that fatal expression as you would from the plague! “Bijou” has a delightful meaning in ordinary French parlance; it signifies a “jewel” and, when used as a term of endearment, a “darling.” Charming!--oh, yes!--quite soothing to the mind is this pretty word in _French_. But in plain, downright, house-agenty English it means “den,”--“hole,”--or “rather dark cellarage.” It has nothing to do with jewels or darlings. It implies a want of room and a bad smell. It does indeed. It is like the frequently advertised “Artistic Residence,”--which means dark corners and small windows,--namely, very little air and no light. Once understand these things, and you will not be twice deceived. And this brings me round to the subject I started with--“care-takers,” because it was at a “bijou” place I came into collision with the first example of that species. The “bijou” in question was near the Park; a small house squeezed in between two monster ones. The street-door looked like a narrow slit in the wall, and the windows were black with soot that had accumulated surely for several years,--months could hardly have done it. I rang the cracked bell, and waited some ten minutes,--finally a shuffling step was heard inside (care-takers always walk with a shuffle like a certain _genus_ of baboon), and a female appeared, hastily pulling her dress over a somewhat _décolletée_ bosom. Her hair was wildly negligent,--her eye bloodshot and severe,--one tooth projected over her underlip,--the rest of the dental arrangement was missing. She surveyed me with a malign and discouraging aspect, apparently scorning to open the conversation. So I began:
“This house is to let, I believe? Can I see it?”
“Where’s yer order?” demanded the lady.
I produced it.
She sniffed at the paper suspiciously, and then preceded me into a sort of square pantry called by courtesy a “hall,” and flung wide open two doors, one of the dining-room, the other of the drawing-room, out of which apartments rushed a fine aroma like that which arises from the canals of Venice on a very hot day.
“Are these all the reception rooms?” I inquired.
“Hall?” she echoed, staring at me--“hall? Yes, hall!”
I said, “Thanks! I will not trouble you further.”
But she made no movement, either to let me pass or to show me out.
“I’ve bin ’ere,” she stated,--“these two years, and my darter’s baby was born in the kitching.”
“Indeed!” I murmured, politely endeavouring to edge my way to the door. But she stuck her stout arms akimbo and proceeded:
“They wants a premium for this place, and I sez to them, sez I, ‘You’ll never get it.’ I sez that. No more they won’t. There’s a view of the Park from the back.”
This last observation was thrown in, as it were, casually.
“I am aware of that,” I said--“But I am not particular about the Park. Good-morning!”
“Well, that’s what I sez,” she went on morosely--“I sez ‘there’s those that doesn’t care for the Park and there’s those that does. But a premium you’ll not get.’ Why, when my darter’s baby was born in that kitching, we was afraid he would be eat up by the rats, there’s such a many of them. _And_ beetles. There’s a many of them too. Lord bless yer, half them premiums goes into the hagents’ pockets! The old lady as was here last drunk herself to death--and there won’t be a penny spent on repairs!”
By this time I had found out how to open the street-door for myself,--and I made my exit thankfully, the Venetian-canal odour being somewhat overpowering. _En passant_ I may mention that for this house, dirty, undecorated, and in the worst possible repair, a rent was asked of £250 per annum, and Four Thousand Pounds premium!
My next experience in the way of “care-takers” was of an excitable lady who was too far gone in her cups to be aware of her duties. She was placed in charge of a rather handsome house,--handsome as far as its exterior went. Of the interior I am unable to speak, as the convival “care-taker” had not the vaguest idea of admitting me. She opened the door about the width of half a yard, and peered at me with her rolling, restless eyes, her blotched and inflamed face producing quite a heating effect on the immediate atmosphere.
“It’s a good ’ouse,”--she observed, lurching to and fro like a landsman at sea in a heavy storm--“A good ’ouse! Yes, _I_ say it--a good ’ouse,--and we wants to let it--hic--hic!--to good tenants! Yaah--yaah!”
This wild ejaculation was addressed to a poor thin cat who came feebly trying to make its way in at the door.
“Git out, you beast! Nasty, dirty brute! Gives me more trouble than the whitewashers, it do! It’s a good house!” and here she nearly fell forward--“for good tenants,--I’ve lived here myself for a twelvemonth!”
With that she banged the door full in my face, and I straightway fled, wondering whether the owner of the “good ’ouse” had any notion as to the way in which his property was “taken care” of. I suppose not,--for day after day I see it still “To Let,” and I fancy it will not easily find a tenant so long as its present “care-taker” finds her lodgment comfortable.