Part 9

“What strange, what thoughtless deed is this?” he ask’d. “You take a vow, one not to be recall’d, That you will thwart our hopes, our plans for you?— And shut away, away from all of us, This face, this form, so cherish’d all these years?— True?—Is it true?—I would not frighten you: Poor girl, God knows that you will have enough To shudder for.—Yet, it bewilders me: How could you, you who had been wont to be So trustful and considerate and calm, How could you do a thing so rash, so wrong, Nor once consult me?—Tell me this, my child: What false inducement could have tempted you?”

“Woe me!” I sobb’d, “I marvell’d when you said I could do so, the time I told you here That I would rather be a nun than be That rich man’s wife.” “You dear, poor girl,” he sigh’d, “Those words were but a whiff, whiff light as breath One blows at flies that come to trouble him. And can it be that they?—I half believe (My words have conjured cursèd deeds before) The very atoms of the air, like pools, Hold spawn-strown vermin-eggs! If one but speak, But break the silence; if his breath but bear One faintest puff from passionate heat within, Lo, breaking open some accursèd shell, It hatches forth foul broods of venomous life That come, blown backward by the changing wind, To haunt him who provok’d their devilish birth! By day they sting our eyes, and make us weep; By night steal through unguarded gates of sense, And sting our souls in dreams!—My heart! and you?— How could you deem my thoughtless words to be The voice of so deform’d a wish as this?”

“But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,— At least, it seem’d—so thought.” “The priest!” he cried, “Has he been meddling with your malady?— My friend?—My friend is he no more.” “Nay, I,” I said, “had sought his counsel; even then He said but little.” “Little!” he rejoin’d; “That little was too much! Nay, never more— Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power— Yes, now I think of it, it need not all Be darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there is May clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,— He shall an absolution get; yes, yes, An absolution, that shall make us right.”

And then my father, in his hopeful way, Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me. “I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes. Why, here you stand a woman when I thought You only were my pet, my little girl.— But do not cry: no, no; I honor you, My little woman!—There, forgive me now; Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child, The absolution, then, we then shall see, If your old father can be kind or not.” With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept; Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain. I scarce could think myself that they were vain.

XXXVII.

From this time onward no one check’d me more, Attending Haydn. All the household heard My sire “could trust his child to be discreet”; And e’en Doretta too had something learn’d That made her caution more than half relax.

Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly by In which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start, E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars, My lips would check him, saying, gently, then, “But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.”

And thus a habit grew that our two lives Dwelt there like friends, made separate by war, Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand, And now a kerchief, but who never speak. And yet I cannot say love never spoke.— We did not mean it; but I think that love May tell its tales, unconscious of the fact, For who is conscious when God touches him?— But littlest acts there were; yet spirits read From signs too fine for measurements of space; Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were; And yet what words of love yield more than these? They hit the sense of love, but fail of sense Where nothing loving waits to take the hint.

This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how. And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth, We told our secrets, and none knew of them.

XXXVIII.

How swiftly sped the hours in happy nights When, after work, he rested there at home! Such winning ways he had to lure my trust! Such sweet pet names would call me, till I felt So fondly small, he well might be my lord! Would tease me so, anon to comfort me! Or rouse my temper that he mild might seem; Or tell such tales, that in my dreams I laugh’d At wit reflecting, though distorting, his; Or better still, would play for me,—such strains! The very thought of them would seem like sleep, While half the night I linger’d still awake, Half-conscious of the call of early birds And sparkling spray of light dash’d o’er the dews.

XXXIX.

At last, one night, when no one else was by, Some new impatience moved him; and he spoke: “Pauline, my friend, allow me only once;— And say not, now, say not we still can wait: Have I not waited long? Pauline, my own, What forms the substance of this mystery Whose dark shade rests about you? Surely, friend, The slightest will on your part would have power To bid it off.” “Not so,” I answer’d him (I felt that I should tell him all at last); “Not if the shade that so you speak of fall From something you and I could not remove.”

“That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be? Of old your father would not brook our love; But lately much has done to forward it.”

“And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?”

“His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?”

“Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and paths Where conscientiousness and love may cross?”

“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!— Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend, Does not our conscience come from consciousness? And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell: Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed: A sound man lives unconscious of its flow. And so a morbid train of foul ideas Will vex a soul diseased. But if in health, Its aims all true to God and self,—what call For conscience, which we wear but as the curb Whereby God reins the thought that love reins not?— If right I be, then nothing needs to cross Pure love. It may have freedom.— “Or at most Our conscience is the leaven of character; And just enough of it may sweeten life, But too much keeps in ferment moods that work, Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment: The froth flies up and off to vex our friends; The rest sinks down in self, embittering Our own experience.” “And yet,” I said, “Our conscience, in religion”— “There,” he cried, “This too much conscience, overbalancing All wiser judgment, has wrought worse results, Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so much That, in the gap betwixt the two, was left No charity with which to do good here While on the earth.” “I hope that mine,” I said, “Will prompt to some small good in present life. What would you say, some day, were I a nun?”

“‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,— “What say?—why this: that if those blooming looks Hid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trust Sound health again! “Pauline, I half believe The conscience of a nun is consciousness Of mere unrest—no more. In natures framed Of spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may be Some sin that clogs the current of the soul; But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one; Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased— No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured best By sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.”

XL.

His words I styled “irreverent, unjust!”—

“I might be both of these,” he said, “in case I blamed the poor souls for the life they lead. But did I blame them? Nay, for in this world, Between youth’s immature credulity, That dares to think but what some guardian thinks, And manhood’s faith mature that thinks for itself, A realm there is where will must learn to act Through doubt and danger; where the character, First wean’d from oversight, must learn to choose. Then, like a tottering child it yearns to cling To one whose greater power can for it act. Its moods determine that to which they cling. Some girls are giddy:—they embrace a lover. And some are gloomy:—they beset a priest. He, like the first, may ply his own designs, May take advantage of their weaker state, And capture them for veils, if not for vice.”

“But marriage is a capture, too,” I said.

“If so,” he answer’d, “yet a natural state, Made statelier through authority of law, That, otherwise, might authorize the wrong;— A state to which, as not to convent life, All social instincts prompt; may prompt the more The more one’s years. Who then can it forswear?— Think you a maid, with half her moods unform’d At twenty, can conceive what thoughts may come To turn or torture her at thirty-five?—

“But what, Pauline, Pauline,—you turning pale!— In earnest, were you!—Had you really thought?— In God’s name, darling, this could never be!— Think only—Wherefore now?” “Because,” I said, “I hoped some good to do.” “And do you deem,” He ask’d, “that then the Virgin did no good, When nursing her sweet babe?—and was no saint? And what of Christ, who ate and drank with all, Call’d glutton and a bibber, yes, of wine?— Was He no saint?—What think you mortals need— To learn of life that never can be theirs? Nay, nay, to learn of life, inspired by love, Which all can live, made better by its power. If you a saint would be, oh, do not seek For truth so sunder’d from the common thought, For love that knows no common sympathies.”

XLI.

“Are some,” I said, “not call’d in special ways To nurse and tend the aged, sick, and poor?”

“Are some not call’d,” he ask’d, “in special ways To tend like this the men they love the best?— Whate’er old age may need, needs it the most The young who old have grown before their time?— Need sick men nurses pale?—or poor men, those Whose moods have never stored the rich results Mined from a world the world’s heir should explore?— Nay, nay, these all would be more ably served By spirits free to live their own love’s life. Who gains aught where the spirit is not free? Think you the veil, too hastily assumed, May never change the hues and views of life, Perverting them?—or cause beclouded love That might have bloom’d in light, to fade in gloom? ’Tis only when those knowing what they leave Turn calmly from all else to convent walls That love should not dissuade them. Let them find Large, sunny, healthful halls; and dwell therein: From thence deal forth that gentle charity So potent coming from a woman’s hand. Not strange it were if sickness, tended thus, Enliven’d by her smiles of light, should flush Or blush to perfect health! if wickedness, Beneath incrusted woes of years of wrong, Should feel the earlier faith of childhood waked By woman’s voice, and thus be born again!— And find a life renew’d within the soul As well as body. Let the convent thrive. But rid it of all circumscribing vows.”

“Of all its vows?” I ask’d. “Why not?” he said: “No character, I think, grows wholly ripe Save that which grows as nature guides its growth; And nature made us pairs. I know some say The soul should conquer nature; but this means That spirits all should claim their rights,—be lords Of forms that spring from earth. But are they so When by a vow they swear to serve a form, And don the life and livery of a slave? Would men look’d Godward more! ’Twould save their souls From many a hell that their own hands have made. One time when young I stood before a tree, And vow’d that, till an hour had pass’d away, My eye should see it not. What came of it?— The vow in misery kept me through the hour. And had it been a maid and not a tree, The vow had caused me more of misery. Yet God’s laws never bade me turn my back On tree or maid: nay, were my nature framed With any touch of truth, these both were made For souls like mine to look at and enjoy.”

XLII.

“But, Haydn,” said I, “your strange convent, fill’d With age and vowless maids—you banish thence Christ’s life, self-sacrifice.” “And sacrifice But sates the worst of vanity,” he said, “Unless our yielding yield to higher good. Christ’s work here glorified humanity— I must believe that souls, not when outside The world but in the world, though not of it, And in the body acting bodily, The lives transfiguring our common lives And common cares, the most resemble His.— The one who seeks to glorify herself In feigning burial to human cares, Humiliates rather her humanity. She hints—not so?—that truest womanhood Is maidenhood?—By Eve and Mary, false!— The mother lives the model of her sex, And not the maid. And she who seeks to lower The mother’s rank that she may lift her own, Yields less than she bids others yield to her.”

“But she serves God,” I said, “and others men.”

“How serves one God in doing this?” he ask’d. “God made our nature. Who make way with it, Make way with manhood, turn to suicide. He made the world where works His Providence To train our life. Who leave the world, leave Him— May add but more damnation to their woe.”

“But if men leave the world,” I said, “for this,— That they may serve the Church, how leave they God?— They rather go to him.” “What is the Church?” He ask’d. “The kingdom of the Lord,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” he cried; “and add the Master’s words: ‘The kingdom is within you.’—And, if so, I own some right to heed the voice within; And none can rightly bid my spirit bend, A passive slave to laws outside of me.”

XLIII.

“O Haydn,” begg’d I, “say not this. Here speaks The same rebellion that was once my own. We must not judge for self, but reverence The words of men ordain’d to teach the world; The words of men so learnèd in the truth; The words of councils fill’d with just such men.— No reverence have you for authority?”

“Mere common courtesy would teach me that,” He said. “And how could common piety, If awed before the Power above the sky, Deny a kindred awe to power on earth? The Church has power—and more. I reverence it. It may be God’s own storehouse of the truth. But ah, some truths have never yet been stored! Infinity is broad, and broad enough For truth to grow within me and without, In self as well as in the best about it. And I believe that all things God makes grow, Unfold in ways that work in harmony. And, when I love a soul as you I love, Did all the priests on earth assemble here, In front of them the pope, in front of him A shining form put forth by them as Christ, And tell me this pure love could lie to me, I would not”— “Haydn stop!—dare not!” I cried;— “And I have pray’d to God so much, so much, To make you more submissive.” “I submit To God,” he said; “but with my love to God, How can I yield the godliest thing I own?”

And there he sat, so firm and yet so kind, I could not help but sigh, “You make me doubt.”

“Would God,” he said, “I could do that for you! Then might you have true faith. Where springs from will One wise effect that does not follow doubt? One choice that does not weigh alternatives? Doubt comes with waverings of the balances Before the heavier motive settles down. Let those who feel so sure their views are right, Dissolve my doubt:—I dare to doubt if they Walk not by knowledge rather than by faith. I read that Jesus answer’d him who pray’d, ‘Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief’; That on the cross itself even He could cry: ‘My God, O why hast thou forsaken me?’ And so I think, at times, these doubts of ours May only rise like minor preludes here, Ere that triumphant cadence, ‘It is finished.’ But come, Pauline,” he added then with warmth, “And promise me that you will yield them up, These dark, sad thoughts. Why, they could make of me An infidel outright! Could faith destroy Our love, what good then might it not destroy?” A wonder is it, that to moods like this I could not say the thing I would?

XLIV.

Months pass’d. My time drew nigh. My vows must be fulfill’d. I told my father of it, and he wept. Poor man, he spent his hours alternately. At times he urged; at times he chided me; At times he kiss’d my cheek and look’d at me; At times he took me by the hand, and said: “My daughter, dear, we will defer the deed”; At times he moaned: “My daughter will do right.”

XLV.

Then slowly dawn’d on Haydn’s mind the fact, Though not, as yet, the reason of my vow. And all the household grew so mild with me, And all the neighbors gazed so piteously: If they had clothed my body in a shroud, And I had loiter’d round it there, a ghost, Life scarce had seem’d more lonely or more chill.

But yet more sad than all it seem’d for me To shun poor Haydn. To his attic driven, Who knew his grief? Alas, who knew it not? Did ever harpsichord so crave a voice To utter forth a cry of full despair? Did ever aught that human hands could touch So tremble to reveal such agony As wrung the frame of him whose fingers wrought, Along the sympathetic key-board there, The counterpoint still pointing out his woe?

XLVI.

Through all those days how heeded I each sound, That broke the stillness in that room of his! Would hold my breath between the notes to feel His own suspense before the impending strain When fell, anon, the spirit’s overflow. I never so had trembled at the peals Of thunder as beneath the chords he struck; Nor felt my cheek so moist by rains as there By tears that flow’d as flow’d his melodies; While all the air about appear’d surcharged With dangerous force electric, touch’d alone To flash keen suffering from his heart to mine. And yet, each day, his music sweeter swell’d. Ere that, it may have lack’d in undertone, The pleading pathos of half-utter’d grief: Since then, I never hear it but it seems As if the heavens had been bereaved of love, And pour’d their sad complaint on earth beneath; And I who listen to the sweetness of it Can never tell if I should smile or weep To think that it has come so far below, Or feel that it has left so much above.

XLVII.

One night I found my father still more sad Than was his wont. I knelt before him then, And “O my father, why is this?” I ask’d. But he said nothing. Then I question’d him: And found the cause out. Haydn was the cause. My father loved him so, as men love sons; And long had hoped he might a son become. But they had talk’d in confidence, and talk’d About Doretta. “Ah,” my father sigh’d; “My plans for all of you are vain!— “Why now?” He cried, “in this my old age, now, too late To be replaced again, should I have lost My aims, my home, my hope, my happiness?— And who has brought it on? has done such wrong His deeds deserve it?—Here am I, myself,— I loved you, loved you both, but plann’d your good: The priest loved (so he says) the Church and you: Doretta loved; sought only love’s full fruit: And Haydn loved; wish’d but to show his love: And you, child, loved, were but obedient: We all of us were loving, were we not? Yet working outward, wisely, as we deem’d, We all have done the thing to doom us all. Alas what power has wrought to thwart us thus? I do believe, though long I doubted it, There lives a Devil! Hell-scorch’d hands alone Could weave such death-black shrouds from thread so bright, Drawn from sleek skeins of love. That spider-fiend, Feeding on our sweet plans, emits this web, To trip and trap us in like flies!—Ah me, It may be well that one should suffer here Until a wish bereaved shriek prayers for death; But through what fearful pangs earth peels away This withering flesh from off the worthier soul! The scales about my own grow thin, how thin! Pauline and Haydn gone, and home, and hope,— What further shred invests the love so stript!— Is this, then, being freed from earth?—Yet where Are signs of heaven?—My God, I see them not.”

“O father, rave not thus,” I cried. “O if— If Haydn,—if I had some power with him.”—

“Nay, daughter, nay,” he said. Yet o’er his face Flush’d hope like hues at dawn. I kiss’d his brow, Said, “Father, I will try,” and went my way.

XLVIII.

And Haydn then, when found, appear’d so sad. “Ah,” sigh’d he, “we two souls were fitted so To match each other. Here, where jars the world, And all goes contrary, where every sun That ripes this, withers that; and every storm That brings refreshment here, sends deluge there, We two, exceptions to the general rule, Like living miracles (is love fulfill’d A miracle indeed?), seem’d born to draw The self-same tale of weal or woe from each. I saw but last night, darling, in my dreams, Our spirits journeying through this under gloom: And hand in hand they walk’d; and over them, As over limner’d seraphs, did there hang A halo, love reflected. By its glow The gloom about grew brightness: while far off, In clearest lines, the path passed up and on.— Pauline, but heed me: once again, I pray (If ever once I pray’d to God above), Blot not this light from all my future life.”

XLIX.

“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “would you have me change? What soul shall dwell on God’s most holy hill But he ‘that sweareth to his own hurt,’ yes, ‘And changeth not’?” “But yet,” he said, “but yet If you were wrong to swear? How can it be That any project so against the soul— Each instinct of one’s nature—should be right?”