Part 16

“You surely would not mean,” she ask’d and paused, “That you could throw aside your hopes? your vows? Your life-work?—seek enjoyment?” “Ah,” said I, “Enjoyment is the man’s most heartfelt praise To Him that fram’d his being. What should I, A child of God, do here but live God’s life?— Which is not now, nor then, but evermore. My soul must thrive the best, as best I make My now, eternal; my eternal, now. So when a storm comes, let me bar it out; And, braced against the present ill, grow strong; And when the sunshine, let me open wide To that which makes all nature grow more sweet. Thus, realizing in my earthly state The aim of heaven, why do I praise Him less Whose life is that of heaven, than those who wear The guises of that slattern of the soul, Asceticism, shuffling toward far good, Slipshod and snivelling?”— “Now, that goes too far!” Cried Grace. “Do I do this?—Ah, but I know A man so moody!—Own it. Were I you, I just would set to work. To work off whims, The best way, say they, is to work them out; One hand at work is worth ten heads that shirk.”

“You find me moody!” sigh’d I; “and complain; Deem moods not meet. Oh, no they prove we feel!— Nor pious they: they prove we think!”

L.

And yet, I could but blame myself; so fain to draw This gentler soul from her still streams of life Toward waves thus fiercely dash’d about my own! You know, though, how it is: our thought, like light, Opposed, will vaunt itself; and brightest play, Glanced off from things it does not penetrate. So, more to shock her than for sympathy, My thought play’d round the surface of her life: It had been shaped so—to so smooth a thing— I burn’d to warp it of complacency. Oft, though unconscious of the least mistruth, I feign’d a fall in fancied depths of ill, And mock’d that I might hear her call me thence; And learn’d therein to envy some the rake. For what a charm it were to hear—not so? That is, if one were vicious, through and through— Such pleas for love from lips that aye were pure? The very depth of one’s unworthiness Would whet such relish for a thing so strange!

LI.

But weeks and months went by, in which she fill’d A certain void in life; and, every eve, We parted for the night made better friends. Once, ending thus, the pleasures of the day, We chanced upon a path where, sauntering too, Lo, Elbert enter’d and encounter’d us.

At first scarce friendly, after divers tests, And in the new light of my life with her, His older love return’d with oldest warmth: “To think so thin a fancy,” he exclaim’d, “As last I found you folded in, should screen Our genuine hearts, a moment, each from each!”

LII.

The fancy thin!—I let him keep his word; I would not argue.—Still, with care not loath To guard some credit yet for having sense, I hinted at the truth,—how I had changed, And how had changed my thoughts about myself, About my life-work. “For that fancy, friend, That fancy thin my own true self reveal’d. If spray it were, it left a constant sea That heaves and heaves. With moods that move like mine, So madden’d by traditions, calm’d by dreams, Content scarce ever, till at hazard dash’d Through ways that lead to sheer uncertainty, Where fancy more may seek than matter shows In things that are but matter,—what am I For life-work such as priesthood, sure in creeds And sureties for the soul, whereon may lean All weaker faith, with warrant not to bend?”

LIII.

Then Elbert laugh’d. “Ah, were you but a bow, Your bending most would shoot most.—Not a priest? A man alone?—You yet a brother are To many a soul that sails the sea of life, Where oft the horizon trembles with the change Of wind and wave; and hope, too hale, oft mourns Fair promises, like skies that fade in fog. A man alone?—And yet the moods of man May make men love us for our manliness, Who draw them, Christ-like through our sympathy, Toward self,—God’s image here, and thus toward Him.”

“But draw them how?” I cried. “Woe me, I stand, A poet born, who deem’d his Muse had fled; That time and trouble had a stone roll’d up, Her sweet form sealing in their sepulchre. And yet one breath of love could rouse the dead. All day the subtle spirit haunts me now, Thrill’d through and through to sound her sweetness forth.”

“Then let it sound!” he said. “Rare rest it were, Were all one’s recreation freshen’d thus; And slumber serenaded by the Muse.”

“One’s recreation! slumber!” I exclaim’d; “Is mind a deep that wells with most of thought When void the most? I tell you none can draw A truthful inspiration save from truth. The poet’s ken may people heaven like clouds, All phantom shaped, and splendid as their sun; But all his fairest forms were vapors first That heaven drew, mist-like, from the earth beneath. Thought decks itself in holiday attire,— Turns fantasy,—to expend the inertia large Of large reserves of philosophic force, Forced into play, the night’s dream opening where The day’s work closes.” “Close work thus,” he said; “And all the measures of your verse may show How sweet can be the echoes waked anon By labor’s ringing anvil.” “Nay,” I sigh’d. “Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams. When born with souls like harps the Muse would play, What better can men do than toil to keep Their thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth? For this will tax them wholly. They, who try, With those few strings that fate has given to them, To play all parts of all the orchestra Will help the play of no part. We are men; And straight and narrow must our pathways be. If, Adam-like, we would be gods, we fall. Not given to mortal is the life supreme, In naught unbalanced, laden light in naught, Existence evermore at equipoise, Complete with that which on itself depends. Oft, who his worth would double, nothing does Except to break the back of worth that was, While doubled burdens fall to doubled waste. We men should humbler be, and pray to heaven To have horizons hanging nearer us. Our views too broad unfit us for the earth, Yet fit us not for loneliness divine,— The wide chill chaos, back behind the stars.”

LIV.

Thus would I talk, and trouble Elbert much, For he would rouse me in his rattling way: “Why, Norman, you are hedging all our hopes. Do not you pity moods that dote on you? If, man, your metaphysics be not yet Beyond all physics, pray you, cure yourself; Be more material; or material powers Will alienated grow, and so forget And count you out in all their reckonings; And you who are of earth, will earth own not; And you who would be heaven’s, will heaven own not. To own yourself and only own yourself, Is worse than serfdom that has earn’d a smile, Though but from wrinkling cheeks of sham good-will.”

LV.

Then, through my gloom exploring for its cause, His thought would light on Edith. He was right; Perhaps less right, grew garrulous of Grace. For deeming love’s return my only hope, And, seeking this, resolved, as well, to find it, My slightest flush could furnish him a glow As bright to light his pathway as the day.

Of course I could deny it; say I held No key to spring the latch of love like hers. Our lips, but parting e’en to speak of love, Infringe on Cupid; and, before they shut, Some tingling arrow of that jealous god Will make them drop all soberness. He laugh’d: “Now say you never saw the sea, for waves; Or stars, for twinkling; or the trees, for leaves; But tell me not, you never saw the heart That bosom heaves; nor ever saw the play Of faith and freak within that twinkling eye; Nor ever saw the spirit when the smile That breaks in laughter shakes the form aside. Come, friend, I know you better. Say you err; Or, by my soul, I never read you yet.”

“And more,” said I; “she is not my ideal.”

He laugh’d again: “Most men who court ideals Have first their idol; and, the false god fell’d, Hoard then the fringe that dangled on its train, And spend their lives in hunting other trains To match but forms and colors of the first. It strikes me, friend, that all things truthful grow. E’en love outgrows the fashion of its youth:— The world whirls on apace; and different hues Turn toward the noonday-sun. No dawn returns. What form or color robes the infinite?— Yet aught to worship matches that alone. So look you less for worship, than for worth. You need a mate, friend; not a mystery.”

“A mate,” I said, “but she for whims could waive The truth whereto was anchor’d all my soul.”

LVI.

Still Elbert parried me: “To hear you prate Of truth—with women!—Why, you tried that once, With Edith, not so?—and she liked it, eh? Herself had love for that same truth?—What then?— How very strange, when yesterday she pass’d, She craved no more of it.” “She pass’d?” I cried.

“Ay, ay,” said he; “while you, so wrapp’d in Grace, Walk’d near, and noted nothing. How she turn’d!— Then spoke of ‘haste, such haste, she could not stay’; And bade me ‘not to tell’ you.—Thus, you see, I keep my word; I promised nothing though.”

At this, I blush’d; it but encouraged him.

“This flame of sympathy you deem’d so bright Extinguish’d was—you may have thought by me. If so, I tell you, friend, ’twas lightly done. I but outblew you; and the moral is:— True flames, these women flicker with the wind. But use you breath enough, their natures yield. Yet blow for their sakes, not for your ideals. One seldom finds a sweetheart sweet enough To love her suitor’s pinings for mere whims. Nay, they alone our all-in-all would be; And so are jealous of our male ideals. Then, too, they are creative less than we, And cling more to the creature, love and serve Embodied life that may be seen and felt. You doubt me?—Test it.—Read that rhyme you wrote, Inspired by fancy.—Say so;—still they hint. ‘Ah, this was she, or she, whom once he loved.’ It may be, Grace does waive your love of truth. If so, ’tis better; more you seem her own.”

“More likely,” cried I, “I and all my truth Seem like champagne,—a thing that pops and shocks, But yet enlivens when the hour is dull.”

“She likes the shocking,” said he. “Know you not Most maids love mastery? and the closest cling To those who show the strength to hold them fast? Full many a suitor, when he wins his love, Will treat her merely like some petted puss, Caress, then cuff her, till she yield at last, Won solely through his wondrous wilfulness. If one defer to her, she pities him; And names him friend, because she feels him frail. Her favorite cavalier seems less a friend, At first, than foe who stays the brunt in time To seem to save her when she seems to fall.”

“And should make him fall,” cried I. “’Tis not strange Such onsets numb her senses! Heaven preserve The world from women rear’d to feel but weak, Whose whole experience, nurtur’d not to think, Unfolds in passions pert of wishes dwarf’d, Afraid of truth and dodging to deceit! Let loose from home, their thing that ought to think Is dry and hollow as a sounding-board Behind a tongue that, like a weather vane, Creaks with the windy scandal of the town Till endless malice make one’s ear-drum ache, At one spot hammer’d sore, and o’er and o’er, With humdrum gossip of surrounding naught. Small gain are they, to crown our courtships grand, Prinked out with flowers and flattery! Wise man; Flowers draw the bee, and flattery the fool. One stings; the other—Laugh not, Elbert, nay, You know it well, what friendship craves; and these Light, simpering women, testing manhood’s woof By worthless nap that tickles their vanity,— O I shall wait some coming woman, I, Who needs no suing since in soul we suit; Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”

“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!— But all maids grow to us, when wedded once; For practical, they are, far more than men, And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish, Through bait they crave not ere men tender it, They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn, Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth— To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus, Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there. Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals, Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,— Despite your protest, your true mate; and love In maids like her is limitless when won. You like her, too; now, now”—

LVII.

And so we talk’d. I never thought it meant much; for we talk’d Of all things, almost; and, in play, at times, Would I indulge in hopes that he was right. Once too, far up in clouds, my fancy feign’d To question if her friends, or she, would wish My calling to be hers. I scarce had dream’d Of Elbert’s giving weight to whims like this. Yet after that I mark’d him much with Grace; But naught surmised until, one time, he said:

“All right, my Norman; I have talk’d with her; All but to tell her why I talk’d with her; And with her parents talk’d, and now they all Agree in praising plans of life like yours; These latter actually sighing oft, ‘Would we but had a son for work like that!’ So, friend, your way is clear.”

LVIII.

But was it clear?— So sure was it, that I could pluck this fruit? If sure, so sure the Eden open’d not To tempt, as well as bless me?—Could it be That love could yet be mine?—The hope seem’d sweet; Yet strange!—Why strange?—The change?— Seem’d all change so?— Yet marriage?—Why did mortals marry then?— For love, they said, for love. And what was love? What more than liking well?—Whom liked I so; And all in all, and always?—Edith?—What?— And liked her calling?—If I liked not that, I liked not her, not wholly. If not her, Then liked I no one wholly; and my will In love, as in all other earthly states, A choice must make,—take one of different boons, And all imperfect. Why should not my love Serve thus my judgment? Grace could stand this test, And life with one like her so sweet could be!

LIX.

I thought; but all my thinking stirr’d but thought Until, one time, I mused of other days; How once, and at the merest hint of love, My younger blood, like some just conquering host That trembling hope bears on, would bound through veins That thrill’d and thrill’d while shook each trodden pulse; How, hot as deserts parch’d by swift simoons, And wild as forests fell’d by sudden blasts, My frame would glow and bend at every breath That tidings bore me of the soul I loved. Love Grace did I?—How then had love been tamed! Mere self-control was it, that now, grown strong, Had broken in, at last, that bounding blood, And held the rein to joy?—Ah, self-control, The rest rheumatic of a zest grown old, It came with time; but mine had come from care. Cold self-control, the curse of northern climes, The artful despot of the Arctic heart,— Before my summer scarce had warm’d me yet, Was it to freeze me with its wintry clutch Of colorless indifference? chill and check The springs of love till still’d in ice-like death?

Woe me! I sigh’d; but then, with nobler cause, More nobly moved, I mourn’d that older love. It aye had come from regions far and pure, From sacred heights of dream-land and desire, And trailing light like Moses from the mount, With one hand clasping mine, one pointing up To something earthly, yet more near the sky. It aye had thrill’d the throbbing veins it near’d And made my brow flush proudly as the boor’s When king’s hands knight him, and he bears away Ennobled blood forever.—My mood though— This lax-limb’d, loitering, sisterly regard, So cold, so calm, so cautious,—what was this?— To call it love my spirit could have swoon’d, Shrunk like some parent’s when he first has found His fair babe’s brain to be a gibbering blank.— And then, down underneath my deep despair, Where heaved a sigh that loosen’d all my soul, Like some sweet kiss of sudden death that draws To sudden bliss, when men to heaven are snatch’d From all the roar and rage of war, there came One hope for Edith;—and my shaken powers Lost hold of Grace forever!

LX.

Still would doubt Survive, and question if, when off my guard, In fancy rampant, I had Grace deceived As I had Elbert? Could it be, indeed, That I, who wish’d it not, had won her love? And if so, what?—The problem wore me thin. My very wits, indeed, seem’d whittled off To point and probe it. Strangely was it solved. I dropp’d a vague surmise,—how two “should act, In case one loved, and love were not return’d.”

She arch’d her answer with so rare a blush, That all my doubts dissolved; and, catching truth From hers contagious, like a boy confused, All fused in frankness bubbling o’er the brim, I blurted out about my older love; To root it out would root out love itself, And not to do so, leave none else a place.

“I love not you!” she cried, with look so changed, My weight of shame had sunk me through the floor. But, driven to words, like one some startle shocks, I stammer’d “Elbert!”—and stood shock’d in truth; For had I wrench’d it from her bodily, Scarce redder had her flushing brow repell’d My wresting rudely such a secret thence. At one bound then my honor had return’d. A bandit had I been, to force the spring That lock’d her secret—but had spied her soul!— And back to right it brought me. “Pardon, Grace,” I breathed, then hush’d: With strange and holy power, New-welling love seem’d fountain’d in my heart, And shower’d and stream’d through all my thrilling veins; And then I check’d it. She was not for me, Alas, unworthy! She was Elbert’s—all!

“Grace,” breathed I, “you are doubly now my friend, And doubly dear, since Elbert’s dearest friend; Thank Heaven that you have loved so true a man. I go to him.” “Nay not to him,” she urged.

But I, though yielding to her, as it seem’d, Made loose the letter for the sake of spirit; Nor promised aught, unless he loved her not.

LXI.

But Elbert, found, the whole sweet truth confess’d, With all his love for her so satisfied, And all the sacrifice for me so clear, I honor’d God the more from this, the hour I found His honor so encased in man. “Nay, thank me not,” he said. “You brought me her. Nor did I dream I loved her, ere I sought Your cause to plead; and, aim’d for what it wills, My will is wilful. There, you know the whole.” And soon, as if he fear’d our former strife Were not yet still’d, “And you, perhaps, were right With Edith, too,” he said; “at least, were safe. Hold still to truth. It yet may save us both.”

LXII.

And then I learn’d—as many a friend has learn’d— Who with them strove my joy for them to share, How much more joy was theirs, when theirs alone. But this could scarcely turn my thought aside From self, left lonelier now than e’er before. I strove to drown my grief in work. The work Was but a worm’s that eats from day to day The morrow’s bed, at morning dragging on A soulless trunk, through troubles void of hope.

My soul to startled sighs was roused alone When Edith cross’d my vision. Then my mood, As gloom would gather round again, would grieve To think, in sorting souls, fate bungled so, And let our traits be judged of by our trades,— The dusty imprint of the things we touch. “As well,” cried I, “to judge of winds of heaven, By bogs they brush, or fogs they bear away! We two that so could trust each other’s hearts, Why should we not join hearts, and leave to them The hands? If wiser than the world we were, Why should we act, forsooth, in worldly ways? What need that all should don the uniform That fits men for the social march of fools? What need?—Ah me,” I thought, “all need, indeed, If one wish influence in the world or church.— Or church!—Must it then crucify the soul To save appearances? the body? form? The Christ gave up all these to save the soul. ’Tis treason when His churches join the world, And courting smiles from bigotry appeased, And grinning hell that holds the whole its own, Preach up the crucifixion of the soul To save the body, save the outward form. A church is His no more, whose rites or creeds Keep souls untrue to truth within that shows God’s tempering there, the touch that makes man man.”

LXIII.

I swore it should not be, it could not be; No life could so be cleansed,—by wringing thence The blood that warms the heart; no face made pure By turning pale the blush of beauty cast By shadows where sweet love goes in and out. Love, love should never be a slave, but free.— “Come, Edith!”—Then I question’d, Would she come?— Nay, not to my life. Mine must go to hers. But this, mine could not,—could do nothing there;— And would not!—Whence then sprang my call to her?— If not from reason, from my wish, forsooth.— My wish for what?—for her?—as now she was?— Not so; but rather might be.—Whence then sprang This ‘might be’?—whence, alas, but from myself, As I kept moulding it within my soul? Why rail’d I, then, against the church and world?— Not these alone, but I would have her changed. These all but echoed back my own soul’s voice; And yet, augmented by the voice of all, In heeding them, I heeded not myself, But something greater, grander than myself. For if a single man may image God, Then many men who join their partial gifts And parted wisdom,—till the whole become Not merely human but humanity’s,— May watch our ways and keep them circumspect With eyes that often wellnigh stand for His Who still more fully in mankind than man Rules over truth in each through truth in all. Why term me slave, then, when I serve my kind?— Through serving it, I best may serve, as well, My godlier self!—Let general thought take shape; What better can incarnate sovereignty? What stir to nobler dreams or grander deeds? The soul in reverence may kneel to it, Yield all to it.—So may my neighbors reign, And I may be their slave, yet own myself; And deify, while I defy my pride!

LXIV.