Part 15

Ah, Edith, so I mused, an artist thou, Thou art indeed! but not an actress, no, Whatever may have train’d thee, save to tread The stage of truth! and Elbert’s every act Against my flinty confidence in her Struck fire and flash’d, each time I met him now; The more so, that each time I met him now, In earnest, or to stir me to distrust, He flutter’d like her fan at Edith’s beck, Her silence fill’d with subtlest flattery, Her vacant hours invaded with himself; Till all my life, at last, appear’d a plot To steal upon his absence, and then pluck Love’s fruit which once his presence only brought.

XXXIII.

And so, henceforth, I less could welcome him. How could I do it,—with his views of her, Yet wooing her?—He wellnigh made me doubt If I might not mistake her,—doubt I check’d, Flush’d fiercely soon that Elbert’s deeds could hint Thought so unworthy. When I spoke to him, He laugh’d me off. “Why, man, I like your friend, And she likes me; and with the other sex The more we like, sometimes, the less we love— Or think we love. Do I deceive her, then, In showing friendliness?—Why think you so?— Forsooth, if beauty pleases me, I smile; If gracefulness beguile me, gaze at it; If wisdom awe me, offer my respect. Good art I laud; with fancy, am a poet; And with emotion, an enthusiast. What then?—Am I a hypocrite?—How so?— Must all our sympathy be personal? Must one appropriate all that he would praise? Is beauty such a flower, or is a man So much a beast, that, having taste for it, He needs must go and gorge it down?—Go to!— I watch the fair thing; of its fragrance quaff; Then leave for others. Edith knows this well; For that, trust her.”

XXXIV.

But was it, as he claim’d? Were both of them so wise?—Or would he now By sheer sharp practice cut us two apart? This more seem’d like him, and more anger’d me. Was I a boy that he should foil me thus?

Yet what to do?—The more I question’d this, The more I saw but only one true course. Our aims—my own and Edith’s—differ’d much. Yet knew I more than this. Our hearts were one In all desires that had inspired these aims. And if our lives and hearts could be but join’d, Could not my love and hers, together put, Outweigh such aims as would be hers alone? Why not have faith in love, mine join’d with hers? What power was mightier in the universe? Why not have faith to trust this only soul That ever I had met, to whom my moods Could be unroll’d, assured of insight there To read them rightly? Why, ’twas all decreed: Her power to read my soul gave her the right To know its love, whatever might be hers. And were I but to speak the truth to her, So tell her all, why fear the simple truth? For I would say I loved her, not her aims. If then she should prefer her aims to me, It would be proof that she could love me not. But if she should prefer me to her aims, Then surely she could yield her wish to mine.

XXXV.

So, near the sunset of a summer’s day, While walking by the lake within the park, “I mean,” I breathed out cautiously, “to write A tale of love; and I have plann’d the tale To open here. In after time, perchance, Those minds to whom it proves of interest May love to linger here, recalling it. Look now—this lake. To gain the full effect Of palace, park, and yonder heaven unveil’d, One, gazing downward in the water’s depth Should note them wash’d of gross reality, And—as in art—reflected. With this view This tale of mine shall open. First of all, Here, in the sunshine near us—at our feet— Ay, in the water; ay, friend, here I mean— Just underneath us,—mark you, mark you, there, The hero, and, beside him, his ideal!”

XXXVI.

And when she saw us two there, “What?” she cried; And then stood speechless; whereat I sped on, Detailing all my plans and all my hopes: How she, with soul so true and aim so high, Might meet in them the mission meant for her,— How all the wrongs of earth might be redeem’d Through sacrificial deeds of such as we.

Still stood she silent. Then I spoke again: “But think not, Edith, for my plans alone I plead with you. I plead, too, for myself; And tell my plans that you may know myself; Not holding that I stand above you, friend. Nay, nay; I oft feel worthy scarce to touch Your fingers’ tips, or stand erect and taint The level of the air you breathe in; nay, I would not judge your life; would only crave, When we have so much else in sympathy, That holy state where two souls, else at one, Would both be God’s.—Ah, could you thus be mine?”

XXXVII.

Her silence then was broken. “Well might I Be proud to be thus yours. Who could not find All meet for manhood, in your manliness? But no, for you forget our different aims. You never told me of these plans before. And, Norman, now—no, no; for, through your church, That fann’d some whim of his, left smouldering, Some spark of doubt to ardent heresy, My father suffer’d, lost his honor’d name, His living, all; nor struggled, scrimpt, and starved To leave his daughter ignorant of the cause. And I?—no, no; it courses through my blood; And you would hate my tastes, which cannot be Like yours religious; no, for I was made To be the minister of only art.”

“But, Edith,” urged I, “truth far more includes Than most men deem who would deem all things theirs.— Your tastes are not religious?—Mine are not, If by religion you mean piety,— Religion’s brew, froth’d bubbling to be seen. But how is it beneath the surface, friend? Down deep within?—is not the substance there? I never seem’d religious half so much As when at one with you.” She but replied To tell me how “her father’s legacy Had been her sister, whom she must not leave. For her sake, seeking means of livelihood, She first rejected, then accepted what Her spirit, spurning once, had learn’d to love; As had her sister; and for both of them Each hope, and joy, and all they thought of now, Was bounded by the music of the stage. Nor could my logic change this; nay,” she said, “Not logic leads the artist on, but light.”

XXXVIII.

I heard in vain—I could not give her up. I urged her still, still hoping her to swerve. My slight of music, rousing her defence, But proved my love too weak to rival it.

“My father oft,” she said, “would quote your Book; Say ‘music marshall’d all the better life. What else could sway the soul, yet leave love free To think and choose and do?’—What different moods,” She added, while before us play’d the band, “These chords, we hear, arouse in different minds! That maid may smile amid sweet dreams of love; Her dark attendant dream of but her wealth; That matron plan some fresh self-sacrifice; And that spare fellow, twirling near her side The soft mustache that downs his pursing lips, Plan only how to hide their stingy look. And thus all listen, musing different things; And all, with conscious freedom, muse of them; And yet one harmony controls them all, Aroused or calm to match its changing flow. What else but music frees the mind it rules? ‘Good-will to man,’ was first proclaim’d in song.”

“Good-will,” I said, “but follows will for good.”

“And will for good will come,” she answer’d back. “As in the older advent, so to-day, Would I believe in power behind sweet song To hold the universe in harmony, Expelling evil and impelling good Through all the limits of created life,— A spirit’s power!—What though we mortals here With eyes material cannot see the hosts That issue forth in forms that while they move Awake around us echoes everywhere! We spring to spy them, but we only hear Their rustle in the trees by which they pass; Or where, with dash of water o’er the rocks, They leave the sea or linger in the rill. At times they rest a moment on the earth, When twilight hides them, sighing gently then, And lull to dreams, with tones in sympathy, The lowly insect and the lowing herd. At times, amid the winds that rise at morn, They sweep across the land and startle sleep From nervous birds that twitter in their track; And, now and then, in clouds that close the sky, They bound adown the rift the lightning cleaves Till sunlight overhead pours through again. A spirit’s power has music; and must rule Unrivall’d still as far as ear can heed, Or reason hark behind it. All the chords Of all things true are tuned by hands divine, And thrill to feel the touch!— But sounds may rise In souls untuned, like harp-strings when they snap, Or, though more soft than dreamland breezes are, May fright like forests when the dark leaves blow About the solitary murderer— And sweetest airs to sweetest moods may bring But foretastes vague of harmonies on high. The school-girl hears her comrade’s ringing laugh,— ’Tis but the key-note trill’d before the tune. The maiden heeds her lover’s mellow plea,— ’Tis but the gamut rill’d ere surge the chords. The dame is moved by tones that cheer her home,— And they perchance prelude the theme of heaven. For even blows of toil and battle-guns May be the drum-rolls of the martial strains That rise to greet the glory yet to come. Ay, wait we long enough, we all may hear In all things music; far above, at last, May hear the treble thrilling down from heaven, And e’en from hell no discord in the jar That only thunders back a trembling bass.”

Thus Edith spake; while I, left lonely all, Beheld her, ardent for her art, a cloud, Aglow by dawn, then drawn away, away.

XXXIX.

I said, I know not what; but far too proud, Intoxicated though I was by love, To let her view the folly of my fall, I said not all I felt; but what I felt, Beneath the first fierce humbling of the storm, Floods o’er my memory yet with half the woe That overwhelm’d me then. Am I, I thought, So strong in love, and waiting long for it, And always true to it, to be outweigh’d By mere brute chaff of manhood, on the stage Or in the pit? I swore ’twas ever so With all her sex. Worth never weigh’d a straw. A very satyr could outwoo a sage.— Weak woman!—yet she must be weak—in brain Or body. Better to be weak in brain! She then, perchance, might serve a husband’s thought, And wisdom’s voice might rule the family! But were her moods too strong to serve his thought, She might serve that in him which could not think.— To wed she-brains, a man should seek to be Commended as a fool!

XL.

And then I stopp’d:— Here raved I, jealous of this fool alone, This coming clown.—To think of him I blush’d— But what of her?—of Edith?—She would live, With faintest smile, to fascinate—ah—crowds! The rabble would be ravish’d but, forsooth, To clap with crazy hands the rarer air Wherein she moved. For them, her voice would sound, With every trill so swaying all who heard That thronging cheers would thunder in response!— Her form, so sweet, would plead till foulest lives Would feel how pure were joys beyond their reach, And long for things their touch could never taint! My sweet, sweet love!— But, moving at her side, Should I be aught?—Alas, I could but seem— Beside the gilded glory of the stage, Beside the loud-mouthed suitors of the show, An unwhipt cur, to wait at some backdoor, And jar with signalling bark the echo sweet Of all-the-town’s applause. She mine would be But as the sun, whose flaming brow has touch’d The morning sea that flushes far and near, Is thine, O trembling globulet of spray, Because, forsooth, his image, glass’d in all The sea and world, is glass’d, as well, in thee!— Fool, fool! yet dear, dear folly! These my thoughts; My words—all I recall now—came at last When slowly sauntering back we reach’d her home. “Would God,” I sigh’d, “the time might come for us, When, looking toward the future now so lone, We two should need no more to say good-night.”

“Good-bye,” she said, and left me in the gloom.

XLI.

Then was it, as I turn’d about, by chance, I came on Elbert; and my whole soul rose To dash at him its briny bitterness. Is he here, thought I,—he to whom, alas, The very potion, poisoning all my hopes, Will prove the sparkling nectar of success, And bring good cheer, though bringing death to me?— Then let him share it!—Still, my wiser pride The purpose check’d, and balancing rash hate With hateful prudence, closed his opening smile But with a frown that would not welcome him.

With any truth to self, so argued I, I could do nothing else; nor could abide A town that held him. So I left the town; And so these friends of mine, so prized of old, And I had parted,—not as friends would part, With love’s high zenith fever’d like the skies Where eve has rent from them a fervid sun, Then cool’d and calm’d in starlight sprinkled thick Until the sun come back. We crack’d apart, Like icebergs drifting southward, join’d no more, And sunn’d alone the while they melt away.

XLII.

No need is there that here I should recall— I would not if I could—my suffering. From Elbert, best of friends, my nobler self, My soul of virtue and my heart of love, What cause could rightly tear me?—Asking this, My heart rose up from reason to rebel; Indignant to have found a theory That dared to hold an innate impulse down; While will, caught there, betwixt the heart and head, Each charge would bear, and yet forbear to act. And Edith, peerless Edith! how my soul Would struggle to forget her! Struggling thus, How fair her form, conjured by raving thought, Would rise, a Venus o’er my sea of sighs, Till I would bend, and seem to plead anon To be forgiven for forgetting her! And then, how would I tear her traits apart; And pluck the petals from each budding grace And hope its naked stem some trace would show, Too void of beauty, to suggest again The bloom and sweetness of the life I loved. Alas, but while I wrought for this alone, How would her virtues but the more unfold!— Like God’s own glory flowering in the skies, That those detect who would not find it there, But, when they test the stars, have dealt with light.

XLIII.

I wrought and rested; it was all in vain. My highest consolation was the hope That hard-earn’d sleep might hold me long in dreams Where evermore my soul might with her dwell, Though every morn I seem’d yet more alone. Awake, asleep, throned constant o’er my heart, I served this image all intangible, This photographic fantasy of truth, This fairy nothingness of vanish’d fact, A shape to love, minute yet mighty still, To senses nothing, but to spirit all.

XLIV.

Thus lived I, triumph’d over; as are clouds Whereon the sun sits throned; all bright are they, And bright beneath them is the sunset sea. In splendid serfdom to its love, my soul, That shone with kindling glory, thence beheld A kindling glory shine from all about.

No whim of mine was this; it fills my creed; The graft of all true love regenerates. Those in whom love is born are born anew, And all their family of fancies then Bear family traits; those loving, and those not, Being wide apart as rainbows and the rain. I might be superstitious, but to me The temple of my life’s experience Had been less sacred, had it held no shrine Whereon to heap sweet tokens of my love. And all that loom’d around seem’d holier now, Illumed by holy lights of memory.

Nor long was it ere I had grown to share In all the love of all with whom I met; And oft, too, thus invoking sympathy, My wishes wrought like witches, and conjured The thing they wish’d for: sympathy would come.

XLV.

And so my moods, thus moving on, at last Found special pleasure in a friendship form’d Upon a day of tramping through the Alps. Her name was Grace, and gracious was her mien; And graces everywhere attended her Through jars and joys of journeys afterward. So splendid never as my Edith; never So striking, so alluring, or so shunn’d; Her brilliance would not dim a rival’s eyes, Nor beauty shade another’s face with frowns. One saw in her a modest, model maid, A woman loved by women; and with men A presence, mellow-lighting like the moon; Yet could she shed no light when came my storms, As now they came full often. Then it seem’d Her very mildness made her moods too dull To penetrate the clouds that cover’d mine.

XLVI.

“It must be lonesome here for one like you, A stranger-land, indeed, here,” would she sigh. “Why could we not, church people, day by day, Have converse here, and thus live more at one?”

When hearts hold secrets, even love that comes, And comes in crowds, will bring the prying soul Full drive to spring them open. How I shrank To meet with those with whom my soul could find No source of sympathy beneath the sound Produced when tongue and teeth and lips combine To mouth one shibboleth! A fate like this Foretoken’d only, made me well nigh faint As feels a soldier, falling at his post, With heart shell’d out and emptied of the soul. I could but find excuses, partly real And partly feign’d, the fringe of ready whims.

XLVII.

She startled echoes from my inmost soul By words that named my “life-work.” “Yes,” I said; “We all should sympathize. All own one lord; All wait beside one shore; all watch one tide.— So too do snipes and snails! and so do souls That yet shall rule in heaven ten towns and one. Souls differ, Grace; and John from James, as well As both from Judas.—Judas lingers too.”

“So many,” sigh’d she, “sell their Christ, and think Souls rich, that but receive suggestions rich From art or——” Had regard for Edith, now, Made me, at last, a champion of art?— “However or wherever plied,” I said, “Real power for good owns good enough to claim Some courtesy from Christian charity. If I but fling a stone in yonder pond, Wherever it may fall, it stirs the whole. So if I throw out thought for mind or heart, Through art or through religion, each may move The whole man thus, and move him for his good.”

“Ah, but,” she breathed, with slight dogmatic stress, “A simple woman, I would move his heart, Through love, as Christ too did; not so?” “Do this,” I said, “you do but what is woman’s right; And none about you will dispute the right. But ask me not to limit thus the Christ. How dare I?—if our churches teach the truth, If He incarnated the sum of life And spirit of all good,—his holiness His wholeness, and His perfectness, the proof Of what He was? Nor dare I limit those Who follow Him.—Why may they not live His, Not aiming here nor there, but everywhere To make the most of all God meant them for. And things there are that art can do for man To make him manlier. Not the senseless rock Is all it fashions into forms of sense; But senseless manhood, natures hard and harsh, Great classes crush’d, and races driven to crawl Till all their souls are stain’d with smut and soil,— More human seem these when the hands of art Have grasp’d their better traits and hold them forth. And men who see these better traits, and see The tender touch of art that holds them forth, Behold a beauty never else beheld; And all their hearts beat more humanely while They heed the plea of these humanities. And so, I think, although the wilderness, At times, a John in camel’s hair may need, There open too, in ways of life less wild, More ways, where love may plead in guise more soft. In short, as long as one may choose his course, ’Tis best we do what each can do the best.”

XLVIII.

“Oh, you perplexing!” cried she; “not for me, For _your_ brain! Tell, pray, where it rummaged last, To catch these cobwebs?—I have seen them, yes; These halls are full of them, and libraries, Old musty things!—But, Norman, soberly, This German text is bad for eyesight, yes; And half I doubt—Come, tell me, tell the truth, Do _you_ see clearly aught that you can do?” “Why so?” I ask’d; “do you?” “Why not,” she said, All serious now, “do what shall yield life’s day The most of glory at its evening hour?— The sun sets brightest after days of storm.”

“What, always?” ask’d I; “are you sure of this? I know true faith that mainly aims to rid Our present life from fears of future ill. To it what need of storms, if sunshine here May best prepare one for the future calm? That future is eternal; even so How can we gauge th’ eternal save by time? How can we judge of joy that will not end, Save by our own, if ours would only last? What is it to be blessèd, if not this,— To find our process of becoming blest Made permanent, our young weak wings of faith Full fledged and flying by habit?—and if so, Heaven’s habits are form’d here. Suppose a youth, That, by and by, he may enjoy much wealth, Act miserly,—what gains he by and by?— Much wealth, perhaps; but, holding with it, too, The miser’s moods, establish’d now as traits, Incorporated modes of all his life, He with them holds what most unfits the soul To use wealth, or enjoy it. So on earth When avarice, aim’d for heaven, makes man a monk, What can he gain thereby, save monkish moods, Become establish’d in him now as traits. Incorporated modes of all his life? But, holding these, the soul must with them hold What most unfits it to enjoy—not here, In any sphere at all,—a life of love.”

XLIX.