Chapter 3
Those are my beautiful Carters; Every one doomed to be martyrs To the eccentric desire Of Christian people to skin them,-- Brought to the trial of fire For the good that is in them! Ivory tubers--divide one! Ivory all the way through! Never a hollow inside one; Never a core, black or blue! Ah, you should taste them when roasted! (Chestnuts are not half so good;) And you would find that I've boasted Less than I should. They make the meal for Sunday noon; And, if ever you eat one, let me beg You to manage it just as you do an egg. Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon, And wrap your napkin round the shell: Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell Of a white-lipped morning-glory? Well, that's the rest of the story! But it's very singular, surely, They should produce so poorly. Father knows that I want them, So he continues to plant them; But, if I try to argue the question, He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will; And puts me down with the stale suggestion-- "Small potatoes, and few in a hill."
_David_.
Thus is it over all the earth! That which we call the fairest, And prize for its surpassing worth, Is always rarest.
Iron is heaped in mountain piles, And gluts the laggard forges; But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles And lonely gorges.
The snowy marble flecks the land With heaped and rounded ledges, But diamonds hide within the sand Their starry edges.
The finny armies clog the twine That sweeps the lazy river, But pearls come singly from the brine, With the pale diver.
God gives no value unto men Unmatched by meed of labor; And Cost of Worth has ever been The closest neighbor.
Wide is the gate and broad the way That opens to perdition, And countless multitudes are they Who seek admission.
But strait the gate, the path unkind, That lead to life immortal, And few the careful feet that find The hidden portal.
All common good has common price; Exceeding good, exceeding; Christ bought the keys of Paradise By cruel bleeding;
And every soul that wins a place Upon its hills of pleasure, Must give its all, and beg for grace To fill the measure.
Were every hill a precious mine, And golden all the mountains; Were all the rivers fed with wine By tireless fountains;
Life would be ravished of its zest, And shorn of its ambition, And sinks into the dreamless rest Of inanition.
Up the broad stairs that Value rears Stand motives beckoning earthward, To summon men to nobler spheres, And lead them worthward.
_Ruth_.
I'm afraid to show you anything more; For parsnips and art are so very long, That the passage back to the cellar-door Would be through a mile of song. But Truth owns me for an honest teller; And, if the honest truth be told, I am indebted to you and the cellar For a lesson and a cold. And one or the other cheats my sight; (O silly girl! for shame!) Barrels are hooped with rings of light, And stopped with tongues of flame. Apples have conquered original sin, Manna is pickled in brine, Philosophy fills the potato bin, And cider will soon be wine. So crown the basket with mellow fruit, And brim the pitcher with pearls; And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit The old-time boys and girls.
[_They ascend the stairs_.]
SECOND MOVEMENT.
LOCALITY--_A chamber_.
PRESENT--GRACE, MARY, _and the_ BABY.
* * * * *
THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY EXPERIENCE.
_Grace_.
[_Sings_.] Hither, Sleep! A mother wants thee! Come with velvet arms! Fold the baby that she grants thee To thy own soft charms!
Bear him into Dreamland lightly! Give him sight of flowers! Do not bring him back till brightly Break the morning hours!
Close his eyes with gentle fingers! Cross his hands of snow! Tell the angels where he lingers They must whisper low!
I will guard thy spell unbroken If thou hear my call; Come then, Sleep! I wait the token Of thy downy thrall.
Now I see his sweet lips moving; He is in thy keep; Other milk the babe is proving At the breast of sleep!
_Mary_.
Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence! Sleep like a bud; for soon the sun of life With ardors quick and passionate shall rise, And, with hot kisses part the fragrant lips-- The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then! What pride and pain, ambition and despair, Desire, satiety, and all that fill With misery life's fretful enterprise, Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth, To be apportioned to the elements! I marvel, baby, whether it were ill That He who planted thee should pluck thee now, And save thee from the blight that comes on all. I marvel whether it would not be well That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, On the full throbbing of an angel's heart!
_Grace_.
Oh, speak not thus! The thought is terrible. He is my all; and yet, it sickens me To think that he will grow to be a man. If he were not a boy!
_Mary_.
Were not a boy? That wakens other thoughts. Thank God for that! To be a man, if aught, is privilege Precious and peerless. While I bide content The modest lot of woman, all my soul Gives truest manhood humblest reverence. It is a great and god-like thing to do! 'Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man. Man fells the forests, plows and tills the fields, And heaps the granaries that feed the world. At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings, And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies, Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime. Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand, And roar through ages with the din of trade. Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his will, Joining the angel of the Apocalypse 'Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous circumstance, And with one foot upon the conquered sea And one upon the subject land, proclaims That space shall be no more. The lightnings veil Their fiery forms to wait upon his thought, And give it wing, as unseen spirits pause To bear to God the burden of his prayer. God crowns him with the gift of eloquence, And puts a harp into his tuneful hands, And makes him both his prophet and his priest. 'Twas in his form the great Immanuel Revealed himself; the Apostolic Twelve, Like those who since have ministered the Word, Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man.
_Grace_.
And fortunate to have an advocate Across whose memory convenient clouds Come floating at convenient intervals. The harvest fields that man has honored most Are those where human life is reaped like grain. There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail, Nor sprang a great invention into birth, By other motive than man's love of gold. It is for wrong that he is eloquent; For lust that he indites his sweetest songs. Christ was betrayed by treason of a man, And scourged and hung upon a tree by men; And the sad women who were at his cross, And sought him early at the sepulcher, And since that day, in gentle multitudes Have loved and followed him, have been man's slaves,-- The victims of his power and his desire.
_Mary_.
And you, a wedded wife-well wedded, too, Can say all this, and say it bitterly!
_Grace_.
Perhaps because a wife; perhaps because--
_Mary_.
Hush, Grace! No more! I beg you, say no more. Nay! I will leave you at another word; For I could listen to a blasphemy, Falling from bestial lips, with lighter chill Than to the mad complainings of a soul Which God has favored as he favors few. I dare not listen when a woman's voice, Which blessings strive to smother, flings them off In mad contempt. I dare not hear the words Whose utterance all the gentle loves dissuade By kisses which are reasons, while a throng Of friendships, comforts, and sweet charities-- The almoners of the All-Bountiful-- With folded wings stand sadly looking on. Believe me, Grace, the pioneer of judgment-- Ordained, commissioned--is Ingratitude; For where it moves, good withers; blessings die; Till a clean path is left for Providence, Who never sows a good the second time Till the torn bosom of the graceless soil Is ready for the seed.
_Grace_.
Oh, could you know The anguish of my heart, you would not chide! If I repine, it is because my lot Is not the blessed thing it seems to you. O Mary! Could you know! Could you but know!
_Mary_.
Then why not tell me all? You know me, love. And know that secrets make their graves with me.
So, tell me all; for I do promise you Such sympathy as God through suffering Has given me power to grant to such as you. I bought it dearly, and its largess waits The opening of your heart.
_Grace_.
I am ashamed,-- In truth I am ashamed--to tell you all. You will not laugh at me?
_Mary_.
I laugh at you?
_Grace_.
Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak; Distrustful of itself and all the world. Ah, well! To what strange issues leads our life! It seems but yesterday that you were brought To this old house, an orphaned little girl, Whose large shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrinking ways Filled all our hearts with wonder, as we stood And stared at you, until your heart o'erfilled With the oppressive strangeness, and you wept. Yes, I remember how I pitied you-- I who had never wept, nor even sighed, Save on the bosom of my gentle mother; For my quick heart caught all your history When with a hurried step you sought the sun, And pressed your eyes against the windowpane That God's sweet light might dry them. Well I knew Though all untaught, that you were motherless. And I remember how I followed you,-- Embraced and kissed you--kissed your tears away-- Tears that came faster, till they bathed the lips That would have sealed their flooded fountain-heads; And then we wound our arms around each other, And passed out-out under the pleasant sky, And stood among the lilies at the door.
I gave no formal comfort; you, no thanks; For tears had been your language, kisses mine, And we were friends. We talked about our dolls, And all the pretty playthings we possessed. Then we revealed, with childish vanity, Our little stores of knowledge. I was full Of a sweet marvel when you pointed out The yellow thighs of bees that, half asleep, Plundered the secrets of the lily-bells, And called the golden pigment honeycomb. And your black eyes were opened very wide When I related how, one sunny day, I found a well, half covered, down the lane, That was so deep and clear that I could see Straight through the world, into another sky!
_Mary_.
Do you remember how the Guinea hens Set up a scream upon the garden wall, That frightened me to running, when you screamed With laughter quite as loud?
_Grace_.
Aye, very well; But better still the scene that followed all. Oh, that has lingered in my memory Like that divinest dream of Raphael-- The Dresden virgin prisoned in a print-- That watched with me in sickness through long weeks, And from its frame upon the chamber-wall Breathed constant benedictions, till I learned To love the presence like a Roman saint.
My mother called us in; and at her knee, Embracing still, we stood, and felt her smile Shine on our upturned faces like the light Of the soft summer moon. And then she stooped; And when she kissed us, I could see the tears Brimming her eyes. O sweet experiment! To try if love of Jesus and of me Could make our kisses equal to her lips! Then straight my prescient heart set up a song, And fluttered in my bosom like a bird.
I knew a blessing was about to fall, As robins know the coming of the rain, And bruit the joyous secret, ere its steps Are heard upon the mountain tops. I knew You were to be my sister; and my heart Was almost bursting with its love and pride. I could not wait to hear the kindly words Our mother spoke--her counsels and commands-- For you were mine--my sister! So I tore Your clinging hand from hers with rude constraint, And took you to my chamber, where I played With you, in selfish sense of property, The whole bright afternoon.
And here again, Within this same old chamber we are met. We told our secrets to each other then; Thus let us tell them now; and you shall be To my grief-burdened soul what you have said, So many times that I have been to yours.
_Mary_.
Alas! I never meant to tell my tale To other ear than God's; but you have claims Upon my confidence,--claims just rehearsed, And other claims which you have never known.
_Grace_.
And other claims which I have never known! You speak in riddles, love. I only know You grew to womanhood, were beautiful, Were loved and wooed, were married and were blest;--
That after passage of mysterious years We heard sad stories of your misery, And rumors of desertion; but your pen Revealed no secrets of your altered life. Enough for me that you are here to-night, And have an ear for sorrow, and a heart Which disappointment has inhabited. My history you know. A twelvemonth since This fearful, festive night, and in this house, I gave my hand to one whom I believed To be the noblest man God ever made;-- A man who seemed to my infatuate heart Heaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soul The choicest harmonies of life should flow, Growing articulate upon his lips In numbers to enchant a willing world. I cannot tell you of the pride that filled My bosom, as I marked his manly form, And read his soul through his effulgent eyes, And heard the wondrous music of his voice, That swept the chords of feeling in all hearts With such a divine persuasion as might grow Under the transit of an angel's hand. And, then, to think that I, a farmer's child, Should be the woman culled from all the world To be that man's companion,--to abide The nearest soul to such a soul--to sit Close by the fountain of his peerless life-- The welling center of his loving thoughts-- And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best,-- To lay my head upon his breast, and feel That of all precious burdens it had borne That was most precious--Oh! my heart was wild With the delirium of happiness-- But, Mary, you are weeping!
_Mary_.
Mark it not. Your words wake memories which you may guess, And thoughts which you may sometime know--not now.
_Grace_.
Well, we were married, as I said; and I Was not unthankful utterly, I think; Though, if the awful question had come then, And stood before me with a brow severe And steady finger, bidding me decide Which of the two I loved the more, the God Who gave my husband to me, or his gift, I know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes.
We passed a honeymoon whose atmosphere, Flooded with inspiration, and embraced By a wide sky set full of starry thoughts, And constellated visions of delight, Still wraps me in my dreams--itself a dream. The full moon waned at last, and in my sky, With horn inverted, gave its sign of tears; And then, when wasted to a skeleton, It sank into a heaving sea of tears That caught its tumult from my sighing soul. My husband, who had spent whole months with me, Till he was wedded to my every thought, Left me through dreary hours,--nay, days,--alone! He pleaded business--business day and night; Leaving me with a formal kiss at morn, And meeting me with strange reserve at eve; And I could mark the sea of tenderness Upon whose beach I had sat down for life, Hoping to feel for ever, as at first, The love-breeze from its billows, and to clasp With open arms the silver surf that ran To wreck itself upon my bosom, ebb, Day after day receding, till the sand Grew dry and hot, and the old hulls appeared Of hopes sent out upon that faithless main Since woman loved, and he she loved was false. Night after night I sat the evening out, And heard the clock tick on the mantel-tree Till it grew irksome to me, and I grudged The careless pleasures of the kitchen maids Whose distant laughter shocked the lapsing hours.
_Mary_.
But did your husband never tell the cause Of this neglect?
_Grace_.
Never an honest word. He told me he was writing; and, at home, Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look. I was offended, and upbraided him. I knew he had a secret, and that from The center of its closely coiling folds A cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue, Swayed with a double story--one for me, And one for whom I knew not--whom he knew. His words, which wandered first as carelessly As the free footsteps of a boy, were trained To the stern paces of a sentinel Guarding a prison door, and never tripped With a suggestion.
I despaired at last Of winning what I sought by wiles and prayers; So, through long nights of sleeplessness I lay, And held my ear beside his silent lips-- An eager cup--ready to catch the gush Of the pent waters, if a dream-swung rod Should smite his bosom. It was all in vain. And thus months passed away, and all the while Another heart was beating under mine. May Heaven forgive me! but I grieved the charms The unborn thing was stealing, for I felt That in my insufficiency of power I had no charm to lose.
_Mary_.
And he did not, In this most tender trial of your heart, Turn in relenting?--give you sympathy?
_Grace_.
No--yes! Perhaps he pitied me, and that Indeed was very pitiful; for what Has love to do with pity? When a wife Has sunk so hopelessly in the regard Of him she loves that he can pity her,-- Has sunk so low that she may only share The tribute which a mute humanity Bestows on those whom Providence has struck With helpless poverty, or foul disease; She may he pitied, both by earth and heaven, Because he pities her. A pitied child That begs its bread from door to door is blest; A wife who begs for love and confidence, And gets but alms from pity, is accurst.
Well, time passed on; and rumor came at last To tell the story of my husband's shame And my dishonor. He was seen at night, Walking in lonely streets with one whose eyes Were blacker than the night,--whose little hand Was clinging to his arm. Both were absorbed In the half-whispered converse of the time; And both, as if accustomed to the path, Turned down an alley, climbed a flight of steps, Entered a door, and closed it after them-- A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me. I had my secret; and I kept it, too. I knew his haunt, and it was watched for me, Till doubt and prayers for doubt,--pale flowers I nourished with my tears--were crushed By the relentless hand of Certainty.
Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days. My wrongs and all their shameful history Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf, Though he had only shown their title-page: That page was his; the rest were in my heart. I knew that he had left my home for hers; I knew his nightly labor was to feed Other than me;--that he was loaded down With cares that were the price of sinful love.
_Mary_.
Grace, in your heart do you believe all this? I fear--I know--you do your husband wrong. He is not competent for treachery. He is too good, too noble, to desert The woman whom he only loves too well. You love him not!
_Grace_.
I love him not? Alas! I am more angry with myself than him That, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows, And spite my hate, I love the traitor still. I love him not? Why am I here to-night-- Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are strewn Through every room for him to trample on-- But in my pride to show him to you all, With the dear child that publishes a love That blessed me once, e'en if it curse me now? You know I do my husband wrong! You think, Because he can talk smoothly, and befool A simple ear with pious sophistries, He must be e'en the saintly man he seems. We heard him talk to-night; it was done well. I saw the triumph of his argument, And I was proud, though full of spite the while. His stuff was meant for me; and, with intent For selfish purpose, or in irony, He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet. My heart rebelled, and now you know the cause Of my harsh words to him.
_Mary_.
'Tis very sad! Oh very--very sad! Pray you go on! Who is this woman?
_Grace_.
I have never learned. I only know she stole my husband's heart, And made me very wretched. I suppose That at the time my little babe was born, She went away; for David was at home For many days. That pain was bliss to me-- I need no argument to teach me that-- Which caused neglect of her, and gave offense. Since then, he has not where to go from me; And, loving well his child, he stays at home.
So he lugs round his secret, and I mine. I call him husband; and he calls me wife; And I, who once was like an April day, That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled My heart against my fate, and now am calm. I will live on; and though these simple folk Who call me sister understand me not, It matters little. There is one who does; And he shall have no liberty of love By any word of mine. 'Tis woman's lot, And man's most weak and wicked wantonness. Mine is like other husbands, I suppose; No worse--no better.
_Mary_.
Ask you sympathy Of such as I? I cannot give it you, For you have shut me from the privilege.
_Grace_.
I asked it once; you gave me unbelief. I had no choice but to grow hard again. 'Tis my misfortune and my misery That every hand whose friendly ministry My poor heart craves, is held--withheld--by him; And I must freeze that I may stand alone.
_Mary_.
And so, because one man is false, or you Imagine him to be, all men are false; Do I speak rightly?
_Grace_.
Have it your own way. Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, Are prone to falsehood. I will not gainsay The common virtue of the common herd. I prize it as I do the goodish men Who hold the goodish stuff, and know it not. These serve to fill an easy-going world, And that to clothe it with complacency.
_Mary_.
I had not thought misanthropy like this Could lodge with you; so I must e'en confess A tale which never passed my lips before, Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine. In this, I'll prove my friendship, if I lose The friendship which demands the sacrifice.
I have come back, a worse than widowed wife; Yet I went out with dream as bright as yours,-- Nay, brighter,--for the birds were singing then, And apple-blossoms drifted on the ground Where snow-flakes fell and flew when you were wed. The skies were soft; the roses budded full; The meads and swelling uplands fresh and green;-- The very atmosphere was full of love. It was no girlish carelessness of heart That kept my eyes from tears, as I went forth From this dear shelter of the orphan child. I felt that God was smiling on my lot, And made the airs his angels to convey To every sense and sensibility The message of his favor. Every sound Was music to me; every sight was peace; And breathing was the drinking of perfume. I said, content, and full of gratitude, "This is as God would have it; and he speaks These pleasant languages to tell me so."