Part 2

II. A CHAPTER FROM AN OLD MAN'S LIFE

As ample wreaths of curling smoke From his time-honored meerschaum broke, A kindly-faced, gray-bearded man Rose up and sadly thus began,-- "You ask a tale,--well, I'll express The reason why in manhood's prime I left a more congenial clime And sought this rugged wilderness." But, gentle reader, don't expect A tale in mongrel dialect, For "Uncle Jim," or James T. Hale, Who lived as anchorite or monk, Once led the senior class at Yale, And had his sheepskin in his trunk. There, while the crackling flames leaped high, And serpentine gyrations played Around the logs of hemlock, dry, And with the tempest seethed and swayed, As curled the drowsy wreaths of smoke Above his pipe, the old man spoke:

"'Twas on a day about like this, When, fresh from youthful haunts and scenes, I first beheld yon precipice, And sought these gulches and ravines, To pan, despite the frost and cold, For shining particles of gold; And hewed the rocker and the sluice From out the native pine and spruce. Arrayed in nature's pristine dress This was indeed a wilderness. Nor eye of eagle ever viewed A more forbidding solitude, Nor prospect more completely drear Confronted hardy pioneer.

Why came I here? My simple tale Goes back to a New England vale. It is, though simple tale it be, A life's unwritten tragedy: A story, with few incidents, But many years of penitence. As one, for some foul crime pursued, Doth flee, in frenzy rash and blind To wilderness or solitude, I fled, to leave my past behind.

I loved a maid, both fair and true, Just where, it matters not, nor who. For forty years, with silent tread, Have silvered many a raven head, Since on her wealth of auburn hair The moonlight shimmered, soft and fair, As where the pine and hemlock stood And sighed in answer to the breeze, With but the stars as witnesses, Our troth was plighted in the wood; A simple rustic tale in truth, Of love and sentimental youth.

Love is the subtle mystery, The charm, the esoteric spell, Which lures the seraph from on High. To leave the Throne of Light,--for Hell,-- And with resistless shackles binds, In viewless thrall, the captive minds. For who can fathom love's caprice, Supplant her fervid wars with peace, And passion's ardent flame command? Or who presume to understand And read with cabalistic art The hieroglyphics of the heart? [Blank Page] Nor eye of regent, skilled to rule, Nor sage from earth's profoundest school, Nor erudite philosophy On wisdom's heights, pretend to see The fervent secrets of the breast, Which rankle mute and unexpressed. Nor the angelic hosts above In their exuberance of love, Nor demons from the pit can span The depths of woman's love for man. And men, of love's sweet flame bereft, Have but the brutal instincts left.

She, too, my youthful love returned, Each breast with throb responsive yearned, The oracles of passion sweet, All augured happiness complete. But, ere the nuptial knot was bound, A whispered rumor crept around, A whispered rumor, such as rise From nothing to colossal size; Though none their origin can trace, Nor ferret out the starting place, Which start sometimes, in idle jest, When knowing looks imply the rest. The lightest rumor, or the worst, May be discredited at first, But oft repeated and received Is soon unconsciously believed. Though inconsistent and abstract, Fanned by insinuating tongues, Imaginary faults and wrongs Soon gain the currency of fact. The purest acts are misconstrued By the lascivious and lewd, And envy loves to lie in wait With fangs imbrued in venomed hate. This slander, born of jealousy, Was told as solemn truth to me, By tongues I deemed immaculate.

Alas! that shafts from falsehood's bow Should undetected cleave the air, Or wanton hands in malice sow The tares of discord and despair. For every seed of falsehood sown Brings forth a harvest of its own, And ears, most ready to believe, Are difficult to undeceive. Alas! that shafts from falsehood's tongue Should fall suspicious ears among, And be received, and nursed, forsooth, As arrows of unblemished truth: Maligning spotless innocence, With grave impeachments of offence. Their crime, of heinous crimes the worst, With multiplied damnation cursed, Who, lost to every sense of shame, Assassinate a woman's name. For such, with trumped-up calumnies, Would drag an angel from the skies, And stain its vestal robes of white With slander's sable hues of night, Holding to ridicule and shame The ruins of a once fair name.

Who so, from slander's chalice sips, May greet you with a friendly kiss, Nor may the foul, envenomed lips Betray the adder's sting and hiss. The fairest flowrets of the field The rankest poisons often yield, And falsehood loves to hide her tooth 'Neath the habiliments of truth. This scandal, venomous and vile, Had no foundation but a smile, But on it wagging tongues had built A massive pyramid of guilt.

In evil hour, I, too, believed For fabrications more absurd Than the aspersions I had heard Have wiser ears than mine deceived. I fought suspicion, vainly tried To cast each rising doubt aside. But he who lists to tales of ill Believes in part, despite his will. Then in my face, as in a book, She read one sad distrustful look, A look of pity, yet of doubt, For silence cries most loudly out, And who can smile with visage bright To shield misgivings black as night?

Unhappy trait that in us lies! We doubt the verdict of our eyes; We doubt each faculty and sense, Yet credit sham and false pretence. We question Truth, and much prefer To list to Falsehood, than to her: And that, which most substantial seems, We doubt, yet place our faith in dreams. We doubt the pearl of purest white, We doubt the diamond clear and bright, And yet accept the base and flawed, Yes, revel in all forms of fraud.

That moment's lack of confidence, The shadow of remote offence, Cost each the sweetest joys of life, Cost her a husband, me a wife.

Ere yet that month its course had spent, In time's continuous descent, Her face had been forever hid Beneath the sod and coffin lid. Then slanderous tongues forgot their lies, And wagged in glowing eulogies.

Though tears, the pearls of sorrow be, And many o'er her grave were shed, Mine was a tearless agony, A deeper, dry-eyed grief instead.

That rumor, void of fact or proof, Too late betrayed the cloven hoof. Too late, alas! 'twas given me To recognize its falsity.

Within a rural burial place, A rude, though quaint, necropolis, Where, through the growth of hemlock trees, Is borne the requiem of the breeze; Where stand the funeral pines as plumes, Above the scattered graves and tombs, And sigh, with drooping branches spread, In sylvan dirges for the dead; Beneath a fir tree's sombre shade, My last adieu to her was made.

Close by the slab of graven stone, Which marks her place of silent rest, I knelt at midnight, and alone, Then rose and started for the West."

* * * * *

The wind in temporary lull, Had dwindled to a plaintive moan; As if in mournful monotone, Her cup of anguish being full, Sad nature's fountain-heads of bale Had overflowed with plaint and wail. In palpitating throbs of woe, It now arose and whirled the snow With triple energy renewed, Filling the dismal solitude With woeful shriekings of despair, As demon orgies in the air, And culminated in a roar More violent than aught before.

* * * * *

At length another timely lull Made human voices audible. As Uncle Jim resumed his seat, A voice cried out for Russian Pete.

* * * * *

III. THE PRISONER

Of Russian Pete but little had been known, He liked to read and be so much alone; No more his close associates could tell, Save that he spoke the English language well. About this stranger with the clever tongue, An air of mystery and sadness clung. His name, so long and unpronounceable, Which none could frame, much less presume to spell, Waiving abridgment, partial or complete, Was, by the boys, transformed to "Russian Pete."

Now Russian Pete was tall and strong of limb, Nor more than half as old as Uncle Jim, Of noble stature and commanding brow, With knees which in no genuflections bow. His face was sad, the index of a breast Where memory's fires were raging unsuppressed. With eyes which search in closest scrutiny, Nor yet offend the object they would see. One, who from feature, act and equipoise, Had known life's sorrows better than its joys. A man whom you would notice in the street, And know the second time if you should meet.

This man of mystery and intellect Arose, and stood in manhood's poise erect. In tone of voice so musical and clear It might have charmed the most exacting ear, And wealth of language few can hope to reach, Nor trace of foreign accent in his speech, He forthwith spake: "My simple tale shall be, Not one of love, but dire captivity. Like Uncle Jim's, however, it contains The cause why I forsook my native plains. No tender web of sentiment, but one By treachery and machination spun.

Across the sea, in distant realms afar, In the remote dominions of the Czar, Past where the Dnieper rolls his murky flood, Surcharged with fertilizing silt and mud, Past the dark forests and productive plains, Which he with many a tributary drains; Within that city whose inhabitants, With flaming torch, withstood the arms of France, Preferring ruin to the victor's boast, Or occupation by an alien host. Fair Moscow, which became a funeral pyre, And perished in her self-ignited fire, That her invaders, chilled by snow and sleet, Might sink in irretrievable defeat. A few years since, the date concerns us not, A minor detail readily forgot, Beneath the shadow of her noblest spire, There dwelt two students, children of one sire.

With prospects fair at manhood's budding edge, In caste esteemed of no base parentage; Two students, versed in languages, and planned For consul service in a distant land, As foreign usages are studied most, When one aspires to diplomatic post. Thus eagerly, did we acquire the tongue Of you, whom I address and live among. With lucubrations diligent, we sought Our ways up varied avenues of thought, Until by prejudice no longer bound, We stood at last upon dissenting ground; Or wavered, where reluctant doubts confuse, In that strange zone of ruminating views, Where progress and established custom meet; Yes, crossed its boundaries with reckless feet.

In that stern Empire, on disruption's brink, Some things you may,--and some you may not,--think; Express yourself, and instantly disgraced, Your steps may point toward a Siberian waste; Your substance confiscated by a court Where equity is but a theme for sport; Extol your theories, proffer your advice, And chains or banishment may be the price.

For despot hands, since might's initial sway, Have fashioned chains for worthier hands than they; And oftentimes beneath the tyrant's heel Are crushed the lives which strive for human weal; Who dare to hold the gonfalon aloft For human rights and progress, yes, how oft Since Cain that fratricidal murder wrought, Have death and durance been the price of thought!

He who espouses radical reform Invites upon his head the gathering storm; Each forward step from Custom's hackneyed school, Draws forth the floods of scorn and ridicule; Witness the dungeon, guillotine and rack, Chains for the feet and scourges for the back; Bestrewn with insult, diatribe and cuff, The pathway of reform was ever rough; And when reforms, as tidal waves have come, The foremost breakers dash to martyrdom.

Perhaps, in youth's enthusiastic heat We may have been a little indiscreet, When we, thus inexperienced and young, Against oppression dared to raise the tongue. Perhaps 'twere best to tarnish manhood's brow With servile adulation, and to bow With craven salaam and obeisance, down In sycophantic homage to a crown. What, though the diadem its blazon rears Above a population's groans and tears! What, though the paths of tyranny be strew'd With suspirations of the multitude! If one but bask within the regal smile, Why strive against injustice, fraud and guile? Or, why enlist the sympathetic pen, Though thrones may crush the liberties of men?

One inadvertent hour, some chance remark Was misconstrued with application dark; For little is required as an excuse When private ends are furthered by abuse; Suspicion's tunes are played with greatest ease, When jealousy manipulates the keys. What followed, it were wearisome to tell, Save that we found ourselves within a cell, Charged with sedition and conspiracy, By those more likely to conspire than we.

Three days were we, in custody detained, In stern abeyance formally constrained. Within a court, where no protesting word From prisoner or counsel may be heard; A court, where no forensic eloquence May quash the allegations of offence; Our doom was sealed, by a capricious judge Who thereby satisfied a family grudge.

The sentence passed, the stalwart Cossack guard Straightway transferred us to a prison yard. There parted we, before its grated door; They dragged him in,--and he was seen no more.

Another door, with dull metallic sound Was closed, and I was hurried underground, Through labyrinth of passages and halls, Past dingy arches and protruding walls, Where gloom perpetual the eye obscures, Through damp recesses, nooks and apertures, With foul effluvia and odors filled, By darkness, dampness and decay distilled. For noisome vapors float in gaseous waves, In cavern depths of men-created caves, And generate in humid warmth or cold The loathsome mildew and corrupting mould.

At length, through cruel maze of grate and stone, By paths circuitous and ways unknown, We reached the cell,--as hideous a den, As ever held unwilling beasts or men. And soon with manacles securely bound, Myself its only occupant I found. A dungeon, dimly lighted and obscure, With pools of water, stagnant and impure, Whose noxious exhalations permeate The deadened air, which could not circulate: And laden with malignant slime and ooze, Upon the walls discharged in baneful dews: Or else precipitate, with vapory loss, Enrobed the cruel stones with pendent moss. And water, foul as e'er offended lip, Fell from the roof with intermittent drip. Remote from daylight, dismal and unsunned, Decompositions stored a teeming fund Of molecules and organisms strange, In an invisible but constant change. As stagnant waters generate a froth, These, with spontaneous and fungous growth, Had draped the dungeon's limited expanse With toadstool, bulb and foul protuberance. These from the air its milder virtues drank, Supplanting ichors, venemous and dank, Whose essence deleterious, the while, Exudes in savors and miasmas vile.

High on the wall, a double-grated slit A slender ray of sunshine would admit On pleasant mornings, when the sky was clear From leaden fogs and hazy atmosphere. A ray of sunlight, yes, a welcome ray, A wholesome beam, but just too far away. Although I tugged at the remorseless chain And strove to reach that sunbeam, 'twas in vain; The lambent gleam which broke into the cell Alone on toad and savage rodent fell. In vain I wrenched the manacles, in vain I sought to rend the cruel gyves in twain, Strove, with contortions painful and extreme, To lay my head within this gladsome beam, Or even touch it with the finger-tip; In vain,--no galling chain relaxed its grip.

A ray of sunlight just beyond my reach, Like Tantalus, as ancient classics teach, When for duplicity and theft immersed, In rippling waters, doomed to ceaseless thirst,-- For as his parching lips essayed to drink, The mocking waters would recede, or sink; Though luscious fruits hung pendent in his sight, To coax the palate and the appetite, Whene'er his hand reached forth with eager thrust, Those selfsame fruits resolved to baleful dust. That sunbeam, though an aggravation fair, Still closed the floodgates of complete despair. As dykes constrain, in distant lowland realms, The deluge, which engulfs and overwhelms. With final resource and expedient And all her vials of expectation spent, Fate, in her changeable kaleidoscope, Evolves new turns to reëstablish hope. That ray of sunshine, as an angel's smile, Beaming in love amid surroundings vile, Came, morn by morn, to mitigate and bless; A benediction in my bitterness.

Time after time, when the approaching night Had banished every modicum of light, And clothed each outline with her sable guise, I watched the greenish glow of reptile eyes, Nor dared to slumber, till exhaustion's sleep Benumbed my senses with its stupors deep. Then, conjured by the witcheries of night, Came pleasant dreams and visions of delight, Those iridescent phantasies of air, Which mock the troubled breast in its despair; Then waking, the delusive phantoms flown, A prisoner upon a floor of stone. My fare was still the captive's mouldy crust, My chains still reeked with clotted gore and rust, The rigid shackles still retained their clutch, And clammy walls repulsed the friendly touch.

Day after day, besmeared with filth and slime, In foul monotony I passed the time, Battling with vermin foes, a teeming brood, Prolific and not easily withstood: An evil pest, ubiquitous and rife, In the fecundity of insect life. In agony of body and of brain, Each breath a stifling gasp and twinge of pain, Cursing my fortune, though each fevered curse Redounding, made my agony the worse; For fits of anger seldom mollify, When vacancy reiterates the cry, Or walls of cold, unsympathetic stone Respond but hollow echoes of a groan. Though limbs as free and restless as the wind Are not to shackles readily resigned, Complaint, with oath and bitterness replete, In prisoner is doubly indiscreet. The imprecation, born of righteous wrath, Subtracts no obstacle from any path.

Bereft of star or luminary bright, No night so dark as artificial night; No glittering constellations kindly throw Their twinkling beacons o'er the void below; No satellite with pale invasive beam Breaks through the darkness awful and extreme; No comet, through the vast sidereal waste, Pursues its orbit with unbridled haste; No silvery moon, through the dissembling shroud, May shine or burst through orifice of cloud In mellow radiations, soft and sweet; Darkness most dense, oppressive and complete.

No friendly voice might penetrate the gloom, Nor break the silence of that fetid tomb, With genial converse, which in some degree Makes men forget their depth of misery. Silence, most tragic, horrible, profound, Except the sharp and intermittent sound Of rodent feet, and noise of creeping things, The squeak of vampires and their whirr of wings; Or cries of swift pursuit, or of despair, Rang out upon the pestilential air, As ever and anon a dying squeak Told of the strong prevailing o'er the weak; For might obtains along the selfsame plan With ruthless vermin and enlightened man. Yet man in his dominion absolute, Removed above the province of the brute, From social claims and attributes released, Has little to distinguish from the beast. With all associative wants denied, And his gregarious longings unsupplied, By human comradeship, affection springs Well up in effluent love for baser things. For 'neath the polish and embellishments Of cultivation and intelligence, There lies a basic bond of sympathy, For man and beast are friends in misery. Yes, friends, the most ill-favored shape which squirms In reptile folds, repulsive snakes and worms, Soon lose their dread repugnance, one and all, To solitary man in prison thrall. Through the long hours of physical distress, In my extremity of loneliness, I felt companionship in this abode, For e'en the vicious rat and sluggish toad.

Thrice sixty days of corporal decay And mental anguish, slowly wore away; Thrice sixty nights of filthy durance passed, Each day and night more hopeless than the last. My limbs, no longer brawny and alert, Were famine-wasted, loathsome and inert. With shaggy beard and matted unkempt hair, With face no longer rubicund and fair, Which haggard and emaciated shone, And through the sallow skin disclosed the bone. Thus languished nature in enforced decay, Till hope's last beacon light had burned away.

Though never exculpated from offence, Time brought conditional deliverance; A writ of amnesty, the Czar's decree, Within its gracious scope included me. Released at last by ukase absolute, But famished, homeless, sick and destitute. What followed would be tedious to recite, The sequel, but the incidents of flight. Alone, an outcast from my native hearth, An aimless wanderer upon the earth, Blown as the desert shifts a grain of sand, Borne by each wanton gale, from land to land.

A keen observer of the play of life, Withal a nether factor in its strife. Watching existence as a game of chess, Where love, hate, smile, tear, insult and caress Hold us by turns in various forms of check; Some sort of yoke is worn by every neck. Kings, queens and knights, exalted castles see, Undone by pawns and powers of base degree. Positions gained at a tremendous cost, By one false move may be forever lost; Each studied movement, each strategic course, Is shaped by contact with opposing force, And moves which seem fortuitous and blind Are often those most cunningly designed. In devious ways we may not understand, Our steps are ordered by an Unseen Hand. Proud queens, subservient pawns, with varied rôle, Are vain components of the wondrous whole; Life's pantomime, in figures complicate; Men are but puppets on the wires of fate.

* * * * *