Chapter 429

CONTENTS:

DREAMS THE BRIDE THE WRAITH SURRENDER THE CITADEL MALFEASANCE ANNUNCIATION VANISHED DREAMS INTO THY LAND DIVIDED WE MUST LIVE ON YET LIFE IS SWEET LOST FOOTSTEPS THE CLOSED DOOR THE CHALICE MIO DESTINO I HAVE BEHELD TOO SOON AWAY THE TREASURE DAHIN LOVE'S USURY THE DECREE 'TIS MORNING NOW SACRIFICE SHINE ON SO, THOU ART GONE THE THOUSAND THINGS ONES THE SEA THE CHART REVEALING OVERCOMING WHITHER NOW ARARAT AS LIGHT LEAPS UP THE DARKENED WAY REUNITED SONG WAS GONE FROM ME GOOD WAS THE FIGHT UNCHANGED ABSOLVO TE BENEDICTUS THE MESSAGE UNAVAILING YOU SHALL LIVE ON "VEX NOT THIS GHOST" THE MEMORY THE PASSING ENVOY

DREAMS

And so life passed. I lived from year to year With shadows, the strong warders of desire; I learned through them to seek the golden fire That hides itself in Song's bright hemisphere.

Through them I grew full of imaginings, I made strange pictures, conjured images From my deep longings; wrote the passages Of life inwrought with half-glad wonderings.

For who can know a majesty of peace, That wanders, ever waiting for a voice To say to him, "Behold, at last surcease

Of thy unrest has come, therefore, rejoice"? Here set I down some dreams that come again, Almost forgotten in my higher gain.

THE BRIDE

A ship at sea; a port to anchor in; Not far a starry light upon the shore. The sheeted lightning, like a golden door, Swings to and fro to let earth-angels in.

Most bravely has she sailed o'er every sea, Withstood the storm-rack, spurned the sullen reef; Cherished her strength; and held her guerdon fief To him who saith, "My ship comes back to me!

Behold, I sent her forth a stately thing, To be my messenger to farthest lands, To Fortunate Isles, and where the silver sands

Girdle a summer sea; that she might bring My bride, who wist not that I loved her so-- This is no bitter day for me, I trow!"

THE WRAITH

A ship in port; well-crossed the harbour-bar; The hawser swung, the grinding helm at rest; Hands clasping hands, and eyes with eager zest Seeking the loved, returning from afar.

And he, the master, holding little reck Of all, save but the idol of his soul, Seeks not his loving ardour to control. Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!

"My bride, my bride, my lone soul's best beloved, Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel?-- Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befell

This is but dust; where has the spirit roved? O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove? O phantom ship, O loveless wraith of Love!"

SURRENDER

A day of sunshine in a land of snow, And a soft-curtained room, where ruddy flakes Of fame fall free, in liquid light that slakes The soft desire of one cold, paleface: lo,

Close-pressed sweet lips, and eyes of violet, That are filled up as with a sudden fear-- A storm's prelude upon the expectant mere. Yet deep behind what never they forget,

Who ever see in life's chance or mischance. And he who saw, what could he do but say, "Fold up the tents; the camp is struck; away!

Vain victor who rides not in rest his lance!" Beside the hearthstone where the flame-flakes fell, There lay the cold keys of the citadel.

THE CITADEL

A night wind-swept and bound about with blee Of Erebus; all light and cheer within; White restless hands that falter, then begin To weave a music-voiced fantasy.

And life, and death, and love, and weariness, And unrequital, thrid the maze of sound; And one voice saith, "Behold, the lost is found!" And saith not any more for joyfulness.

Out of the night there comes a wanderer, Who waits upon the threshold, and is still; And listens, and bows down his head, until

His grief-drawn breath startles the heart of her. The victor vanquished, at her feet he fell, A prisoner in his conquered citadel.

MALFEASANCE

Two of one name; they standing where the sun Makes shadows in the orchard-bloom of spring; She holding in her palm a jewelled ring, He speaking on what evil it had done.

"Raise thy pale face and wondrous eyes to mine; Let not thy poor lips quiver in such pain; Too young and blindly thou hast drunk the wine Crushed from the lees of love. Be strong again.

Trail back thy golden hair from thy broad brow, And raise thy lily neck like some tall tower, That recks not any strife nor any hour,

So it but holds its height, heeding not how. The noblest find their way o'er paths of ire To the clear summit of God's full desire."

ANNUNCIATION

I think in that far time when Gabriel came And gave short speech to Mary sweet and wise, That when the faint fear faded from her eyes, And they were filled up with a sudden flame

Of joy bewildering and wonderment; With reverence the angel in her palm Laid one white lily, dewy with the balm Of the Lord's garden; saying: "This is sent

For thine espousal, thou the undefiled; And it shall bloom till all be consummate." Lo, then he passed. She, musing where she sate,

Felt all her being moved in manner wondrous mild; Then, laying 'gainst her bosom the white flower, She bowed her head, and said, "It is God's dower."

VANISHED DREAMS

Dreams, only dreams. They sprang from loneliness Of outer life; from innermost desire To reach the soul that now in golden fire Of cherished song I pray for and caress.

I wandered through the world with longing gaze, To find her who was my hope's parallel, That to her I might all my gospel tell Of changeless love, and bid her make appraise.

I knew that some day I should look within The ever-deepening distance of her eyes; For, in my dreams, from veiled Seraphim

Came one, as if in answer to my cries: And passing near me, pointed down the road That led me at the last to thy abode.

INTO THY LAND

Into thy land of sunlight I have come, And live within thy presence, as a ray Of light lives in the brightness of the day; And find in thee my heaven and my home.

Yet what am I that thou shouldst ope the gate Of thy most sweet completeness; and should spend Rich values of thy life on me thy friend, For which I have no worthy duplicate!

Nay, lady, I no riches have to give; I have no name of honour, or the pride Of place, to priv'lege me to sit beside

Thee in thy kingdom, where thy graces live. Wilt thou not one day whisper, "You have climbed Beyond your merits; pray you, fall behind"?

Wish thy friend joy of his journey, but pray in secret that he have no joy, for then may he return quickly to thee. --Egyptian Proverb.

DIVIDED

Divided by no act of thine or mine, Forever parted by a fatal deed, A fatal feud. Alas! when fathers bleed, The children shall fulfil the wild design.

A Montague hath killed a Capulet, A Capulet hath slain a Montague,-- Twin graves, twin sorrows, and oh, mad to-do Of vengeance! oh, dread entail of regret!

There lie they in their dark, self-chosen graves, And from them cries Hate's everlasting ghost,-- "Blood hath been shed, and Love and ye are slaves,

Time wrecks, and freedom drifts upon life's coast." Yet not for us the relish of that doom Which found a throne upon a Juliet's tomb.

WE MUST LIVE ON

We must live on; a deeper tragedy: To see, to touch, to know, and to desire; To feel in every vein the glorious fire Of Eden, and to cry, "Oh, to be free!"

To cry, "Oh, wipe the gloomy stain away, Thou who first raised the sword, Who gave the hilt Into the hand of man. This blood they spilt-- Our fathers--oh, blot out the bitter day!

Erase the hour from out Thy calendar, Turn back the hands upon the clock of Time, Oh, Artificer of destroying War--

Their righteous hate who bore us in our crime!" "Upon the children!"--'Tis the cold reply Of Him who makes to those who must not die.

YET LIFE IS SWEET

Yet life is sweet. Thy soul hath breathed along, Thine eyes have cast their glory on the earth, Thy foot hath touched it, and thine hour of birth Didst give a new pulse to the veins of song.

Better to stand amid the toppling towers Of every valiant hope; a Samson's dream, Than the deep indolence of Lethe's stream, The loneliness of slow submerging hours.

Better, oh, better thus to see the wreck, And to have rocked to motion of the spheres; Better, oh, better to have trod the deck

Of hope, and sailed the unmanageable years- Ay, better to have paid the price, and known, Than never felt this tyrannous Alone!

LOST FOOTSTEPS

Upon the disc of Love's bright planet fell A darkness yestereve, and from your lips I heard cold words; then came a swift eclipse Of joy at meeting on hope's it-is-well.

And if I spoke with sadness and with fear; If from your gentle coldness I drew back, And felt that I had lost the flowery track That led to peace in Love's sweet atmosphere:

It was because a woful dread possessed. My aching heart--the dread some evil star Had crossed the warm affection in your breast,

Had bade me stand apart from where you are. The world seemed breaking on my life; I heard The crash of sorrows in that chiding word.

THE CLOSED DOOR

It is not so, and so for evermore, That thou and I must live our lives apart; I with a patient smother at my heart, And thy hand resting on a closed door?

What couldst thou ever ask me that I should Not bend me to achieve thy high behest? What cannot men achieve with lance in rest Who carry noble valour in their blood?

And some nobility of high emprise, Lady, couldst thou make possible in me; If living 'neath the pureness of thy eyes,

I found the key to inner majesty; And reaching outward, heart-strong, from thy hand, Set here and there a beacon in the land.

THE CHALICE

Not by my power alone, but thou and I Together thinking, working, loving on Achievement-wards, as all brave souls have gone, Perchance should find new star-drifts in the sky

That curves above humanity, and set Some new interpretation on life's page; Should serve the strivings of a widening age, And fashion wisdom from the social fret.

Deep did Time's lances go; thou pluck'st them forth, And on my sullen woundings laid the balm Of thy life's sweetness. Oh, let my love be worth

The keeping. My head beneath thy palm, Once more I lift Love's chalice to thine eyes: Not till thou blessest me will I arise.

MIO DESTINO

Here, making count, at every step I see Something in her, like to a hidden thought Within my life, that long time I had sought, But never found till her soul spoke to me.

And if she said a thousand times, "I did Not call thee, thou cam'st seeking; not my voice Was it thou heard'st; thy love was not my choice!" I should straightway reply, "That of thee hid,

Even from thyself, lest it should startle thee, Hath called me, made me slave and king in one; And when the mists of Time shall rise, and we

Stand forth, it shall be said, Since Time begun Ye two were called as one from that high hill, Where the creating Master hath His will."

I HAVE BEHELD

I have beheld a multitude stand still In such deep silence that a sudden pain Struck through the heart in sharing the tense strain, And all the world seemed bounded by one will.

But when precipitated on the sea Of human feeling was the incident That caught their wonder; then the skies were rent With quivering sound, with passion's liberty.

So have I stood before this parting day, With chilly fingers pressed upon my breast, That my heart burst not fleshen bands away,

And my sharp cry break through my lady's rest. I have shut burning eyelids on the sight Of this dread time that scorches my sad night.

TOO SOON AWAY

Have I then found thee but to lose thee, friend? But touched thee ere thou vanished from my gaze? And when my soul is struggling from the maze Of many conflicts, must our converse end?

Across the empty space that now shall spread Between us, shall I never go to thee? Or thou, beloved, never come to me, Save but to whisper prayers above the dead?

Ah, cruel thought! Shall not Hope's convoy bear To thee the reinforcements of my love? Shall I not on thy white hand drop a tear

Of crowned joy, one day, where thou dost move In thy place regally; even as now I place my farewell token on thy brow?

THE TREASURE

And now when from the shore goes out the ship Wherein is set the treasure that I hold Closer than miser all his hidden gold, Dearer than wine Zeus carried to his lip;

My aching heart cries from its pent-up pain,-- "O Love, O Life, O more than life to me, How can I live without the surety Of thy sweet presence till we meet again!"

So like a wounded deer I came to thee, The arrow of mischance piercing my side; And through thy sorrow-healing ministry

I rose with strength, like giants in their pride. But now--but now--how shall I stand alone, Knowing the light, the hope of me is gone?

DAHIN

O brow, so fronted with a stately calm, O full completeness of true womanhood, O counsel, pleader for all highest good, Thou hast upon my sorrow poured thy balm!

Poor soldier he who did not raise his sword, And, touching with his lips the hilt-cross, swear In war or peace the livery to wear Of one that blessed him with her queenly word.

Most base crusader, who at night and morn Crying Dahin, thought not of her again From whose sweet power was his knighthood born,

For whom he quells the valiant Saracen. Shall I not, then, in the tumultuous place Of my life's warfare ever seek thy face?

LOVE'S USURY

Here count I over all the gentle deeds Which thou hast done; here summon I thy words, Sweeter to me than sweetest song of birds; That came like grace immortal to my needs.

Love's usury has reckoned such a sum Of my indebtedness, that I can make No lien large enough to overtake Its value--and before it I am dumb!

Yet, O my gracious, most kind creditor, I would not owe to thee one item less We cannot give the sun requital for

Its liberal light; our office is to bless. If blessings could be compassed by my prayer, High heaven should set star-gems in thy hair.

THE DECREE

Last night I saw the warm white Southern moon Sail upward through a smoky amber sea; Orion stood in silver majesty Where the gold-girdled sun takes rest at noon.

I slept; I dreamed. Against a sunset sky I saw thee stand all garmented in white; With hand stretched to me, and there in thy sight I went to meet thee; but I heard thee cry:

"We stand apart as sun from shining sun; Thou hast thy place; there rolleth far and near A sea between; until life's all be done

Thou canst not come, nor I go to thee, dear." Methought I bowed my head to thy decree, And donned the mantle of my misery.

'TIS MORNING NOW

'Tis morning now, and dreams and fears are gone, And sleep has calmed the fever in my veins, And I am strong to drink the cup that drains The last drop through my lips, and make no moan.

Strength I have borrowed from the outward show Of spiritual puissance thou dost wear. Shall I not thy high domination share Over the shock of feeling? Shall I grow

More fearful than the soldier, when between The smoke of hostile cannon lies his way; To carry far the colours of his queen,

While her bright eyes behold him in the fray? Here do I smile between the warring hosts Of sad farewells; and reek not what it costs.

SACRIFICE

And O most noble, and yet once again Most noble spirit, if I ever did Aught that thy goodness frowns on, be it hid Forever, and deep-buried. Let the rain

Of coming springs fall on the quiet grave. Perchance some violets will grow to tell That I, when uttering this last farewell, Built up a sacrificial architrave;

That I, who worship thee, have love so great, To live in the horizon thou may'st set; To stand but in the shadow of the gate,

Faithful, when coward promptings cry, "Forget." Ah, lady, when I gave my heart to thee, It passed into thy lifelong regency.

SHINE ON

Shine on, O sun! Sing on, O birds of song! And in her light my heart fashions a tune Not wholly sad, most like a tender rune Sung by some knight in days gone overlong,

When he with minstrel eyes in Syrian grove Looked out towards his England, and then drew From a sweet instrument a sound that grew From twilight unto morning of his love.

Go, then, beloved, bearing as you go These songs that have more sunlight far than cloud; More summer flowers than dead leaves 'neath the snow;

That tell of hopes from which you raised the shroud. My lady, bright benignant star, shine on--

I lift to thee my low Trisagion!

HE that hath pleasant dreams is more fortunate than one who hath a cup-bearer. --Egyptian Proverb.

SO, THOU ART GONE

So, thou art gone; and I am left to wear Thy memory as a golden amulet Upon my breast, to sing a chansonnette Of winter tones, when summer time is here.

And yet, my heart arises from the dark, Where it fell back in silence when you went To seaward, and a sprite malevolent Sat laughing in the white sails of thy barque.

'Twas not moth-wings dashing against the flame, Burning in love's areanum; 'twas a cry Struck from soul-crossing chords, that, separate, frame

Life's holy calm, or wasting agony. But now between the warring strings there grows A space of peace, as 'tween truce-honoured foes.

THE THOUSAND THINGS

Here one by one come back the thousand things Which made divinely sweet our intercourse; Love summons them here straightway to divorce The heart from melancholy wanderings.

"Here laid she her white hand upon my arm; To this place came she with slow-gliding grace; Here smiled she up serenely in my face; And these sweet notes she sang me for a charm."

I treasure up her words, and say them o'er With close-shut eyes; with her again I float Upon the Loire; I see the gems she wore,

The ruby shining at her queenly throat; I climb with her again the Pyrenees, And hear her laughter ringing through the trees.

THE SEA

I in my childhood never saw the sea Save in my dreams. There it was vast and lone, Splendid in power, breaking against the stone Walls of the world in thunder symphony.

From it arose mists growing into mists Making a cool white curtain for the sun, And melting mornward when the day was done, A moving sphere where spirits kept their trysts.

A ceaseless swinging with the swinging earth, A never-tiring ebbing to and fro, Trenching eternal fastnesses; a girth

Round mountains in their everlasting snow. It was a vast emotion, fibre-drawn From all the elements since the first dawn.

THE CHART

Then came in further years the virgin sight Of the live sea; the sea that marches down, With sunny phalanxes and flags of foam, To match its puissance with earth's awful might.

Far off the purple mist drew into mist, As thought melts into endless thought, and round The rim of the sheer world was heard a sound, Floating through palpitating amethyst.

And through the varying waste of elements There passed a sail, which caught the opposing wind, Triumphant, as an army in its tents

Beholds the foe it, conquering, left behind. "And Life," I said,--"Life is but like the sea; And what shall guide us to our destiny?"

REVEALING

The prescience of dreams struck walls away From mortal fact, and mortal fact revealed, With myriad voices, potencies concealed In the dim birth-place of a coming day.

Even as a blind man's fingers wander o'er His harpstrings, led by sound to dreams of sound, Till in his soul an eloquence profound Rises above the petulance and roar

Of the great globe: as in a rush of song From feathered throats, one, in a mighty wood, 'Mid sweet interpositions moves along

The avenues of some predestined good; So I, dream-nurtured, standing by the sea, Made levy on the wonders that should be.

OVERCOMING

And God is good, I said, and Art is good, And labour hath its rich reward of sleep; And recompense will come for all who keep Dishonour's ill contagion from the blood.

And over us there curves the infinite Blue heaven as a shield, and at the end We shall find One who loveth to befriend E'en those who faint for shame within His sight.

And down the awful passes of the sky There comes the voice that circumvents the gale; That makes the avalanche to pass us by,

And saith, "I overcome" to man's "I fail." "And peradventure now," said I, "the zest Of all existence waits on His behest."

WHITHER NOW

But man's deliverances intervene Between the soul's swift speech and God's high will; That saith to tempests of the thought, "Be still!" And in life's lazaretto maketh clean

The leprous sense. Ah, who can find his way Among the many altars? Who can call Out perfect peace from any ritual, Or shelter find in systems of a day?

As one sees on some ancient urn, upthrown From out a tomb, records that none may read With like interpretation, and the stone

Retains its graven fealty to the dead: So, on the great palimpsest men have writ Such lines o'ercrossed that none interprets it.

ARARAT

What marvel that the soul of youth should cry, "Man builds his temples 'tween me and the face Of Him whom I would seek; I cannot trace His purpose in their shadow, nor descry

The wisdom absolute?" What marvel that, With yearning impotent, ay, impotent Beyond all measure! his full faith was spent, And for his soul there rose no Ararat?

Yet out upon the sun-drawn sensate sea Of elemental pain, there came a word As if from Him who travelled Galilee,

As fair as any Zion ever heard. The voice of Love spoke; Love, that writes its name On Life and Death-and then my lady came.

AS LIGHT LEAPS UP

As light leaps up from star to star, so mounts Faith from one soul unto another; so The lower to the higher; till the flow Of knowledge rises from creation's founts;

Until from human love we come to know The august presence of the Love Divine; And feel the light unutterable shine Upon half-lights that we were wont to show,

Absorbing them. 'Tis Love that beckons us From low desires, from restlessness and sin, To heights that else we had not reached; and thus

We find the Heaven we dared not hope to win. How clearer seem designs immortal when Our lives are fed on Love's fine regimen

THE DARKENED WAY

"It is no matter;"--thus the noble Dane, About his heart more ill than one could tell; Sad augury, that like a funeral bell Against his soul struck solemn notes of pain.

So 'gainst the deadly smother he could press With calm his lofty manhood; interpose Purpose divine, and at the last disclose For life's great shift a regnant readiness.

To-day I bought some matches in the street From one whose eyes had long since lost their sight. Trembling with palsy was he to his feet.

"Father," I said, "how fare you in the night?" "In body ill, but 'tis no matter, friend, Strong is my soul to keep me to the end."

DISTRUST not a woman nor a king--it availeth nothing. --Egyptian Proverb.

WHEN thou journeyest into the shadows, take not sweetmeats with thee, but a seed of corn and a bottle of tears and wine; that thou mayst have a garden in the land whither thou goeat. --Egyptian Proverb.

REUNITED

Once more, once more! That golden eventide! Golden within, without all cold and grey, Slowly you came forth from the troubled day, Singing my heart--you glided to my side;

You glided in; the same grave, quiet face, The same deep look, the never-ending light In your proud eyes, eyes shining through the night, That night of absence--distance--from your place.

Calm words, slow touch of hand, but, oh, the cry, The long, long cry of passion and of joy Within my heart; the star-burst in the sky--

The world--our world--which time may not destroy! Your world and mine, unutterably sweet: Dearest, once more, the old song at thy feet.

SONG WAS GONE FROM ME

Dearest, once more! This I could tell and tell Till life turned drowsy with the ceaseless note; Dearest, once more! The words throb in my throat, My heart beats to them like a muffled bell.

Change--Time and Change! O Change and Time, you come Not knocking at my door, knowing me gone; Here have I dwelt within my heart alone, Watching and waiting, while my muse was dumb

Song was gone from me--sweet, I could not sing, Save as men sing upon the lonely hills; Under my hand the old chord ceased to ring,

Hushed by the grinding of the high gods' mills. Dearest, once more. Those mad mills had their way-- Now is mine hour. To every man his day.

GOOD WAS THE FIGHT

How have I toiled, how have I set my face Fair to the swords! No man could say I quailed; Ne'er did I falter; I dare not to have failed, I dare not to have dropped from out the race.

Good was the fight--good, till a piteous dream Crept from some direful covert of despair; Showed me your look, that look so true and fair, Distant and bleak; for me no more to gleam.

Then was I driven back upon my soul, Then came dark moments; lady, then I drew Forth from its place the round unfathomed bowl

Of sorrow, and from it I quaffed to you; Speaking as men speak who have lost Their hearts' last prize--and dare not count the cost.

UNCHANGED

But you are here unchanged. You say not so In words, but when you placed your hands in mine; But when I saw the same old glory shine Within your eyes, I read it; and I know.

And when those hands ran up along my arm, And rested on my shoulder for a space, A sacred inquisition in your face, To read my heart, how could I doubt that charm,

That truth ineffable!--I set my soul In hazard to a farthing, that you kept The faith, with pride unspeakable, the whole

Course of those years in which communion slept. Your soul flamed in your look; you read; I knew How little worth was I, how heavenly you.

ABSOLVO TE

I read your truth. You read--What did you read? Did you read all, and, reading all, forgive? How I--O little dwarf of conscience sieve My soul; bare all before her bare indeed!

And, looking on the remnant and the waste, Can you absolve me,--me, the doubter, one Who challenged what God spent His genius on, His genius and His pride; so fair, so chaste?

I am ashamed. . . . And when I told my dreams, Shaken and humble,--"Dear, there was no cause," Your words; proud, sorrowful, as it beseems

Such as thou art. There never was a cause Why you should honour me. Ashamed am I. And you forgive me, bless me, for reply.

BENEDICTUS

You bless me, then you turn away your head-- "Never again, dear. I have blessed you so, My lips upon your lips; between must flow The river--Oh the river!" Thus you said.

The river--Oh the river, and the sun; Stream that we may not cross, sun that is joy: Flow as thou must; shine on in full employ-- Shine through her eyes thou; let the river run.

O lady, to your liegeman speak. You say: "Dream no more dreams; yourself be as am I" Your hands clasped to your face, so shutting out the day.

An instant, then to me, your low good-bye-- Good-night, good-bye; and then the social reign, The lights, the songs, the flowers--and the pain.

THE MESSAGE

"Oh, hush!" you said; "oh, hush!" The twilight hung Between us and the world; but in your face, Flooding with warm inner light, the sovereign grace Of one who rests the brooding trees among--

Of one who steps down from a lofty throne, Seeking that peace the sceptre cannot call; And leaving courtier, page, and seneschal, Goes down the lane of sycamores alone;

And, going, listens to the notes that swell From golden throats--stories of ardent days, And lovers in fair vales; and homing bell:

And the sweet theme unbearable, she prays The song-bird cease! So, on the tale I dare, Your "hush!" your wistful "hush!" broke like prayer.

UNAVAILING

"Never," you said, "never this side the grave, And what shall come hereafter, who may know? Whether we e'en shall guess the way we go, Passing beneath Death's mystic architrave

Silence or song, dumb sleep or cheerful hours?" O lady, you have questioned, answer too. You--you to die--silence and gloom for you: Dead song, dead lights, dead graces, and dead flowers?

It is not so: the foolish trivial end, The inconsequent paltry Nothing--gone--gone all; The genius of the ageless Something spend

Itself within this little earthly wall: The commonplace conception, that we reap Reward of drudge and ploughman--idle sleep!

YOU SHALL LIVE ON

You shall live on triumphant, you shall take Your place among the peerless, fearless ones; And those who loved you here shall tell their sons To honour every woman for your sake.

And those your Peers shall say, "Others are pure, Others are noble, others too have vowed, And for a vow have suffered; but she bowed Her own soul and another's to endure.

She smote the being more to her than all,-- Her own soul and the world,--a truth to hold, Faith with the dead; and hung a heavy pall

'Tween her and love and life. The world is old, It hath sent here none queenlier. Of the few, The royal few is she, martyred and true."

"VEX NOT THIS GHOST"

Upon the rack of this tough world I hear, As when Cordelia's glories all dissever- "Never--never--never--never--never,--" That wild moan of the dispossessed Lear.

O world, vex not this ghost, yea, let it pass, The Spirit of these songs. The fool hath mocked, The fool our woe upon us hath unlocked From where the soul holds to our lips the glass,

To see what breath of life. O fool, poor fool, Well, we have laughed together, you and I. O fond insulter, in the healing pool

Of your deep poignant raillery I lie. Let us be grand again, my fool. The throne Is gone; but see, the coronation stone!

THE MEMORY

Know you where I, my royal fool, was crowned? A rock within the great Egean? Where A strong flood hurrieth on Finistere? Where at the Pole our valiant men were drowned?

Where the soft creamy wash of Indian seas Spreads palmward? Where the sunset glides to dawn, No night between? Where all the tides are drawn To greet their Sun and bathe their Idol's knees?

Where was I crowned? Dear fool, upon a stone That standeth where Earth's arches make but one, Where all the banners of her soul were flown,

And trumpeted the legions of the sun. The stone is left: 'tis here against the door Of throne and kingdom. . . . Pray you, mock no more.

THE PASSING

A time will come when we again shall rail-- Not yet, not yet. The flood comes on apace, That deep dividing river, and her face Grows dimmer as it widens--pale, so pale.

Have we not railed and laughed these many days, Mummers before the lights? Dear fool, your hand Upon your lips--Oh let us once be grand, Grand as we were when treading royal ways.

Lo, there she moves beyond the river. Gone-- Gone is the sun-lo, starlight in her eyes. See, how she standeth silent and alone--

Oh, hush! let us not vex her with our cries. Proud as of old, unto my throne I go. . . . Cordelia's gone...... Hush, draw the curtain--so.

ENVOY

When you and I have played the little hour, Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, The first long breath of freedom; when the flower

Of Recompense has fluttered to our feet, As to an actor's; and the curtain down, We turn to face each other all alone-- Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,

Alone, and absolute, and free: oh, then, Oh, then, most dear, how shall be told the tale? Clasped hands, pressed lips, and so clasped hands again;

No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan Of joy; and then our infinite Alone.

THE MONEY MASTER, Complete

By Gilbert Parker

CONTENTS

EPOCH THE FIRST I. THE GRAND TOUR OF JEAN JACQUES BARBILLE II. THE REST OF THE STORY "TO-MORROW" III. "TO-MORROW"

EPOCH THE SECOND IV. THIRTEEN YEARS AFTER AND THE CLERK OF THE COURT TELLS A STORY V. THE CLERK OF THE COURT ENDS HIS STORY VI. JEAN JACQUES HAD HAD A GREAT DAY VII. JEAN JACQUES AWAKES FROM SLEEP VIII. THE GATE IN THE WALL IX. "MOI-JE SUIS PHILOSOPHE" X. "QUIEN SABE"--WHO KNOWS! XI. THE CLERK OF THE COURT KEEPS A PROMISE XII. THE MASTER-CARPENTER HAS A PROBLEM

EPOCH THE THIRD XIII. THE MAN FROM OUTSIDE XIV. "I DO NOT WANT TO GO" XV. BON MARCHE

EPOCH THE FOURTH XVI. MISFORTUNES COME NOT SINGLY XVII. HIS GREATEST ASSET XVIII. JEAN JACQUES HAS AN OFFER XIX. SEBASTIAN DOLORES DOES NOT SLEEP XX. "AU 'VOIR, M'SIEU' JEAN JACQUES" XXI. IF SHE HAD KNOWN IN TIME

EPOCH THE FIFTH XXII. BELLS OF MEMORY XXIII. JEAN JACQUES HAS WORK TO DO XXIV. JEAN JACQUES ENCAMPED. XXV. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE

EPILOGUE

INTRODUCTION

This book is in a place by itself among the novels I have written. Many critics said that it was a welcome return to Canada, where I had made my first success in the field of fiction. This statement was only meagrely accurate, because since 'The Right of Way' was published in 1901 I had written, and given to the public, 'Northern Lights', a book of short stories, 'You Never Know Your Luck', a short novel, and 'The World for Sale', though all of these dealt with life in Western Canada, and not with the life of the French Canadians, in which field I had made my first firm impression upon the public. In any case, The Money Master was favourably received by the press and public both in England and America, and my friends were justified in thinking, and in saying, that I was at home in French Canada and gave the impression of mastery of my material. If mastery of material means a knowledge of the life, and a sympathy with it, then my friends are justified; for I have always had an intense sympathy with, and admiration for, French Canadian life. I think the French Canadian one of the most individual, original, and distinctive beings of the modern world. He has kept his place, with his own customs, his own Gallic views of life, and his religious habits, with an assiduity and firmness none too common. He is essentially a man of the home, of the soil, and of the stream; he has by nature instinctive philosophy and temperamental logic. As a lover of the soil of Canada he is not surpassed by any of the other citizens of the country, English or otherwise.

It would almost seem as though the pageantry of past French Canadian history, and the beauty and vigour of the topographical surroundings of French Canadian life, had produced an hereditary pride and exaltation-- perhaps an excessive pride and a strenuous exaltation, but, in any case, there it was, and is. The French Canadian lives a more secluded life on the whole than any other citizen of Canada, though the native, adventurous spirit has sent him to the Eastern States of the American Union for work in the mills and factories, or up to the farthest reaches of the St. Lawrence, Ottawa, and their tributaries in the wood and timber trade.

Domestically he is perhaps the most productive son of the North American continent. Families of twenty, or even twenty-five, are not unknown, and, when a man has had more than one wife, it has even exceeded that. Life itself is full of camaraderie and good spirit, marked by religious traits and sacerdotal influence.

The French Canadian is on the whole sober and industrious; but when he breaks away from sobriety and industry he becomes a vicious element in the general organism. Yet his vices are of the surface, and do not destroy the foundations of his social and domestic scheme. A French Canadian pony used to be considered the most virile and lasting stock on the continent, and it is fair to say that the French Canadians themselves are genuinely hardy, long-lived, virile, and enduring.

It was among such people that the hero of The Money Master, Jean Jacques Barbille, lived. He was the symbol or pattern of their virtues and of their weaknesses. By nature a poet, a philosopher, a farmer and an adventurer, his life was a sacrifice to prepossession and race instinct; to temperament more powerful than logic or common sense, though he was almost professionally the exponent of both.

There is no man so simply sincere, or so extraordinarily prejudiced as the French Canadian. He is at once modest and vain; he is even lyrical in his enthusiasms; he is a child in the intrigues and inventions of life; but he has imagination, he has a heart, he has a love of tradition, and is the slave of legend. To him domestic life is the summum bonum of being. His four walls are the best thing which the world has to offer, except the cheerful and sacred communion of the Mass, and his dismissal from life itself under the blessing of his priest and with the promise of a good immortality.

Jean Jacques Barbille had the French Canadian life of pageant, pomp, and place extraordinarily developed. His love of history and tradition was abnormal. A genius, he was, within an inch, a tragedy to the last button. Probably the adventurous spirit of his forefathers played a greater part in his development and in the story of his days than anything else. He was wide-eyed, and he had a big soul. He trained himself to believe in himself and to follow his own judgment; therefore, he invited loss upon loss, he made mistake upon mistake, he heaped financial adventure upon financial adventure, he ran great risks; and it is possible that his vast belief in himself kept him going when other men would have dropped by the wayside. He loved his wife and daughter, and he lost them both. He loved his farms, his mills and his manor, and they disappeared from his control.

It must be remembered that the story of The Money Master really runs for a generation, and it says something for Jean Jacques Barbille that he could travel through scenes, many of them depressing, for long years, and still, in the end, provoke no disparagement, by marrying the woman who had once out of the goodness of her heart offered him everything-- herself, her home, her honour; and it was to Jean Jacques's credit that he took neither until the death of his wife made him free; but the tremendous gift offered him produced a powerful impression upon his mind and heart.

One of the most distinguished men of the world to-day wrote me in praise and protest concerning The Money Master. He declared that the first half of the book was as good as anything that had been done by anybody, and then he bemoaned the fact, which he believed, that the author had sacrificed his two heroines without real cause and because he was tired of them. There he was wrong. In the author's mind the story was planned exactly as it worked out. He was never tired; he was resolute. He was intent to produce, if possible, a figure which would breed and develop its own disasters, which would suffer profoundly for its own mistakes; but which, in the end, would triumph over the disasters of life and time. It was all deliberate in the main intention and plan. Any failures that exist in the book are due to the faults of the author, and to nothing else.

Some critics have been good enough to call 'The Money Master' a beautiful book, and there are many who said that it was real, true, and faithful. Personally I think it is real and true, and as time goes on, and we get older, that is what seems to matter to those who love life and wish to see it well harvested.

I do not know what the future of the book may be; what the future of any work of mine will be; but I can say this, that no one has had the pleasure in reading my books which I have had in making them. They have been ground out of the raw material of the soul. I have a hope that they will outlast my brief day, but, in any case, it will not matter. They have given me a chance of showing to the world life as I have seen it, and indirectly, and perhaps indistinctly, my own ideas of that life. 'The Money Master' is a vivid and somewhat emotional part of it.

EPOCH THE FIRST