I.
When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought powers, 'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. She felt her heart falter within her. She sat Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at The insignia of royalty worn for a night; Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, And the effort of passionate feigning; who thinks Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks From the chill of the change that awaits her.
II. From these Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, Unable to sleep, she descended the stair That led from her room to the garden. The air, With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand, Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The land Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its grave: No sound, save the voice of the long river wave And the crickets that sing all the night! She stood still, Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the hill. Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir, And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. Ah, pale woman! what, with that heart-broken look, Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-breaking book? Have the wild rains of heaven a father? and who Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew? Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both? What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth? Hath the darkness a dwelling,—save there, in those eyes? And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the skies? Ay, question, and listen! What answer? The sound Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled bound, And the crickets that sing all the night. There are hours Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all That to this race of worms,—stinging creatures, that crawl, Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own stings,— Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath pass'd Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last; When she traverses nature and space, till she stands In the Chamber of Fate; where, through tremulous hands, Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff uncurl'd, And those three blind old women sit spinning the world.
III.
The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green star Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar; The spirits of change and of awe, with faint breath, Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath. The spirits of awe and of change were around And about, and upon her. A dull muffled sound, And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise, And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes Of the Frenchman before her: those eyes seemed to burn, And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade Of a creature by fancy some solitude made, And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness.
IV.
"At last, then,—at last, and alone,—I and thou, Lucile de Nevers, have we met? "Hush! I know Not for me was the tryst. Never mind—it is mine; And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine, They remove not, until we have spoken. My hour Is come; and it holds me and thee in its power, As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'Tis well! The timidest maiden that e'er to the spell Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with delight, When soft stars were brightly uphanging the night, Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly, Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to me!" To the sound of his voice, as though out of a dream. She appear'd with a start to awaken. The stream, When he ceased, took the night with its moaning again, Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. "Continue," she answer'd, "I listen to hear." For a moment he did not reply. Through the drear And dim light between them, she saw that his face Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace, With his arms folded close, and the low restless stride Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide. Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast. "Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face? Is the sight so repugnant? ha, well! canst thou trace One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, With thine own name scrawl'd through it, defacing a soul?" In his face there was something so wrathful and wild, That the sight of it scared her. He saw it, and smiled, And then turn'd him from her, renewing again That short restless stride; as though searching in vain For the point of some purpose within him. "Lucile, You shudder to look in my face: do you feel No reproach when you look in your own heart?" "No, Duke, In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke: Not yours!" she replied. "No," he mutter'd again, "Gentle justice! you first bid Life hope not, and then To Despair you say, 'Act not!'"
V.
He watch'd her awhile With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long set, And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly loom'd Round about her. She spoke not. At length he resumed, "Wrecked creatures we are! I and thou—one and all! Only able to injure each other and fall, Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we are! O heaven! and what has become of them? all Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall: That glorious faith in inherited things: That sense in the soul of the length of her wings; Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night wind sounds human, Bewailing those once nightly visitants! Woman, Woman, what hast thou done with my youth? Give again, Give me back the young heart that I gave thee... in vain!" "Duke!" she falter'd. "Yes, yes!" he went on, "I was not Always thus! what I once was, I have not forgot."
VI.
As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change, He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. "Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torch Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch! But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me! Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine! Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine! My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep: And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep! Well!... how utter soever it be, one mistake In the love of a man, what more change need it make In the steps of his soul through the course love began, Than all other mistakes in the life of a man? And I said to myself, 'I am young yet: too young To have wholly survived my own portion among The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys; What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys! Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring! Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remains All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains And the hills with each summer their verdure renew. Wouldst thou be as they are? do thou then as they do, Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living divine Where they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!' "Vain! all vain!... For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears! It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told. And I said to my sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see, For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' And I said to the grave, 'Lo, my father!' and said To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to the dust, And one end to the wicked shall be with the just!"
VII.
He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineffable pity, replied to his own. "And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life? Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone For the love in your nature a lie in my own, Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse? Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, For I then should have wrong'd you!" "Wrong'd! ah, is it so? You could never have loved me?" "Duke!" "Never? oh, no!" (He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he said) "Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power Shut up in that cold face of yours! was this well? But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hell Which has grown in my heart. Oh, that man! first and last He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast His shadow 'twixt me and the sun... let it pass! My hate yet may find him!" She murmur'd, "Alas! These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall try To forget every word I have heard, every sight That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke, Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had! Adieu!" "Stay, Lucile, stay!"... he groaned, "I am mad, Brutalized, blind with pain! I know not what I said. I mean it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his head) "Forgive me! I—have I so wrong'd you, Lucile? I... have I... forgive me, forgive me!" "I feel Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, "far, Far too sad for resentment." "Yet stand as you are One moment," he murmur'd. "I think, could I gaze Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart Thus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink, Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think. Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will, Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. I lied. And the truth, now, could justify nought. There are battles, it may be, in which to have fought Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to feel—" "Could I help you," she murmur'd, "but what can I say That your life will respond to?" "My life?" he sigh'd. "Nay, My life hath brought forth only evil, and there The wild wind hath planted the wild weed: yet ere You exclaim, 'Fling the weed to the flames,' think again Why the field is so barren. With all other men First love, though it perish from life, only goes Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose. For a man, at least most men, may love on through life: Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife With labor, and therefor, with love, for a man. If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan Of man's life includes love in all objects! But I? All such loves from my life through its whole destiny Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas! Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass! It perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition? Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some great Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State? I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art? But, alas! I was fashion'd for action: my heart, Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly compress 'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics: life's stress Needs scope, not contraction! what rests? to wear out At some dark northern court an existence, no doubt, In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause As hopeless as is my own life! By the laws Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, I am what I am!"
VIII.
For a while she was mute. Then she answer'd, "We are our own fates. Our own deeds Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for men's creeds But men's actions. And, Duc de Luvois, I might say That all life attests, that 'the will makes the way.' Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth, Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less worth Our upholding, because the white lily no more Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore? Yet be that as it may be; I cannot perchance Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, Eugene De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in pain, Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul That the great master hand which sweeps over the whole Of this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretch To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to fetch Its response the truest, most stringent, and smart, Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart, Whose faculties, flaccid it may be, if less Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to express Just the one note the great final harmony needs. And what best proves there's life in a heart?—that it bleeds? Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain, Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain! Cease the sin with the sorrow! See morning begin! Pain must burn itself out if not fuel'd by sin. There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light. Let hate and despondency die with the night!" He was moved by her words. As some poor wretch confined In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose mind Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hear A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again, Singing through the caged lattice a once well-known strain, Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill With music and memory, and, as it were, The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each thing It once sought,—the poor idiot who pass'd for a king, Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now confess'd A madman more painfully mad than the rest.— So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore The forces of thought: he recaptured the whole Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul Reflected on his: he appear'd to awake From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a mistake: His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him: He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim, But he murmur'd... "Lucile, not for me that sun's light Which reveals—not restores—the wild havoc of night. There are some creatures born for the night, not the day. Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray, And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow tower Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my dower. Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by which eyes Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize Enough desolation."
IX.
"The pride that claims here On earth to itself (howsoever severe To itself it may be) God's dread office and right Of punishing sin, is a sin in heaven's sight, And against heaven's service. "Eugene de Luvois, Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the law. Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all His own doomsman." Her words seem'd to fall With a weight of tears in them. He look'd up, and saw That sad serene countenance, mournful as law And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him: and heard In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird.
X.
"Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly. "Eugene," She continued, "in life we have met once again, And once more life parts us. Yon day-spring for me Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be We shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to me yet The belief that it is not in vain we have met! I plead for the future. A new horoscope I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a hope: I plead for a memory; yours, yours alone, To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, Be the memory mine. "Once of yore, when for man Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began, Men aroused to the knowledge of evil, fled far From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the war With the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and sought Not repose, but employment in action or thought, Life's strong earnest, in all things! oh, think not of me, But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny: I plead for your life, with its duties undone, With its claims unappeased, and its trophies unwon; And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead For all that you miss, and for all that you need."
XI.
Through the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she spoke, A clear, chilly chime from a church-turret broke; And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the bell, On his ear, where he kneel'd, softly, soothingly fell. All within him was wild and confused, as within A chamber deserted in some roadside inn, Where, passing, wild travellers paused, over-night, To quaff and carouse; in each socket each light Is extinct; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the wall With wild ribald ballads; serenely o'er all, For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light creeps faint Through the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint, Seen through some broken frame, appears noting meanwhile The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness half drawn Oped behind her; and pure as the pure light of dawn She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his eyes From their sight to be melting away in the skies That expanded around her.
XII.
There pass'd through his head A fancy—a vision. That woman was dead He had loved long ago—loved and lost! dead to him, Dead to all the life left him; but there, in the dim Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit; 'twas hers; And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers: "O soul to its sources departing away! Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power, One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour I name not my heart, and I speak not to thine. Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine, Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart denies, Hope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon skies, This wild night is passing away while I speak: Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to break! Something wakens within me, and warms to the beam: Is it hope that awakens? or do I but dream? I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark Of a new light within me to solace the dark Unto which I return; or perchance it may be The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me. I know not. Thou goest thy way: I my own; For good or for evil, I know not. Alone This I know; we are parting. I wish'd to say more, But no matter! 'twill pass. All between us is o'er. Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the pain For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me again. I was unjust: forgive me. Spare now to reprove Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not love, That you thwarted this night. What is done is now done. Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. I was madden'd, delirious! I saw you return To him—not to me; and I felt my heart burn With a fierce thirst for vengeance—and thus... let it pass! Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, alas! Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 'Tis to meet nevermore. Is it not so? Who knows, Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise flies? Or what altars of his in the desert may rise? Is it not so, Lucile? Well, well! Thus then we part Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from heart!"
XIII.
And again clearer far than the chime of a bell, That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. "Our two paths must part us, Eugene; for my own Seems no more through that world in which henceforth alone You must work out (as now I believe that you will) The hope which you speak of. That work I shall still (If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far away. Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if I say That the great moral combat between human life And each human soul must be single. The strife None can share, though by all its results may be known. When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone. I say not, indeed, we shall meet nevermore, For I know not. But meet, as we have met of yore, I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the street, Or in solitude even, but never again Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, Eugene. For we know not the way we are going, nor yet Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. Life hath set No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, I will promise: whatever your path, or my own, If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and lance Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the war, You falter and hesitate, if from afar I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see That my presence could rescue, support you, or guide, In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, To warn, if you will, or incite, or control; And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to soul!"
XIV.
The voice ceased. He uplifted his eyes. All alone He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was gone, Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night, Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. And at once, in her place was the Sunrise! It rose In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose, The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold, Realms of rose, in the Orient! and breathless, and bold, While the great gates of heaven roll'd back one by one, The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun! Thrice holy Eospheros! Light's reign began In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the man. The dawn on the mountains! the dawn everywhere! Light! silence! the fresh innovations of air! O earth, and O ether! A butterfly breeze Floated up, flutter'd down, and poised blithe on the trees. Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-rippled stream, Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream, Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope, The spirits of morning were whispering, "HOPE!"
XV.
He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold Of his own youth,—its ardors—its promise of fame— Its ancestral ambition; and France by the name Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in light, That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd to be Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he Had once dwelt, a native! There, rooted and bound To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it! Around The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone; And he—as the body may yearn for the soul, So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole Heart arose to regain it. "And is it too late?" No! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. For the thought that springs upward and yearns to regain The true source of spirit, there IS no TOO LATE. As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate In the fountain arises, the spirit in him Arose to that image. The image waned dim Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense—awed, amazed— Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed.
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