Canto III
I.
When first the red savage call’d Man strode, a king,Through the wilds of creation—the very first thingThat his naked intelligence taught him to feelWas the shame of himself; and the wish to concealWas the first step in art. From the apron which EveIn Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave,To the furbelow’d flounce and the broad crinolineOf my lady—you all know of course whom I mean—This art of concealment has greatly increas’d.A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast;And that drama of passions as old as the hills,Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils,Is only reveal’d now and then to our eyesIn the newspaper-files and the courts of assize.
II.
In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled,‘Mid those walks over which the laburnum-bough trembled,And the deep-bosom’d lilac, emparadisingThe haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and sing,The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen only,A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonelyThe bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom;Conversing at ease in the garden’s green bosom,Like those who, when Florence was yet in her glories,Cheated death and kill’d time with Boccaccian stories.But at length the long twilight more deeply grew shaded,And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded.And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough,Through the shadowy garden were slumbering now.The trees only, o’er every unvisited walk,Began on a sudden to whisper and talk.And, as each little sprightly and garrulous leafWoke up with an evident sense of relief,They all seem’d to be saying… “Once more we’re alone,And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people are gone!”
III.
Through the deep blue concave of the luminous air,Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and there,Like the eyes of shy passionate women, look’d downO’er the dim world whose sole tender light was their own,When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended,And enter’d the garden, unseen, unattended.Her forehead was aching and parch’d, and her breastBy a vague inexpressible sadness oppress’d:A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew how,And she scarcely knew why… (save, indeed, that just nowThe house, out of which with a gasp she had fledHalf stifled, seem’d ready to sink on her head)…Out into the night air, the silence, the brightBoundless starlight, the cool isolation of night!Her husband that day had look’d once in her face,And press’d both her hands in a silent embrace,And reproachfully noticed her recent dejectionWith a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection.He, of late so indifferent and listless!… at lastWas he startled and awed by the change which had pass’dO’er the once radiant face of his young wife? Whence cameThat long look of solicitous fondness?… the sameLook and language of quiet affection—the lookAnd the language, alas! which so often she tookFor pure love in the simple repose of its purity—Her own heart thus lull’d to a fatal security!Ha! would he deceive her again by this kindness?Had she been, then, O fool! in her innocent blindness,The sport of transparent illusion? ah folly!And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy,She had taken, till then, in the heart, not aloneOf her husband, but also, indeed, in her own,For true love, nothing else, after all, did it proveBut a friendship profanely familiar?“And love?…What was love, then?… not calm, not secure—scarcely kind,But in one, all intensest emotions combined:Life and death: pain and rapture?”Thus wandering astray,Led by doubt, through the darkness she wander’d away.All silently crossing, recrossing the night.With faint, meteoric, miraculous light,The swift-shooting stars through the infinite burn’d,And into the infinite ever return’d.And silently o’er the obscure and unknownIn the heart of Matilda there darted and shoneThoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to expire,Leaving traces behind them of tremulous fire.
IV.
She enter’d that arbor of lilacs, in whichThe dark air with odors hung heavy and rich,Like a soul that grows faint with desire.’Twas the placeIn which she so lately had sat face to face,With her husband,—and her, the pale stranger detestedWhose presence her heart like a plague had infested.The whole spot with evil remembrance was haunted.Through the darkness there rose on the heart which it daunted,Each dreary detail of that desolate day,So full, and yet so incomplete. Far awayThe acacias were muttering, like mischievous elves,The whole story over again to themselves,Each word,—and each word was a wound! By degreesHer memory mingled its voice with the trees.
V.
Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused by the rootOf the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its fruit,To the heart of Matilda the trees seem’d to hissWild instructions, revealing man’s last right, which isThe right of reprisals.An image uncertain,And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the curtainOf the darkness around her. It came, and it went;Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent:It pass’d and repass’d her; it went and it came,Forever returning; forever the same;And forever more clearly defined; till her eyesIn that outline obscure could at last recognizeThe man to whose image, the more and the moreThat her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep of yore,From her husband detach’d itself slowly, with pain.Her thoughts had return’d, and return’d to, again,As though by some secret indefinite law,—The vigilant Frenchman—Eugene de Luvois!
VI.
A light sound behind her. She trembled. By someNight-witchcraft her vision a fact had become.On a sudden she felt, without turning to view,That a man was approaching behind her. She knewBy the fluttering pulse which she could not restrain,And the quick-beating heart, that this man was Eugene.Her first instinct was flight; but she felt her slight footAs heavy as though to the soil it had root.And the Duke’s voice retain’d her, like fear in a dream.
VII.
“Ah, lady! in life there are meetings which seemLike a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too?Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you?Alone with my thoughts, on this starlighted lawn,By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawnTo revisit the memories left in the placeWhere so lately this evening I look’d in your face.And I find,—you, yourself,—my own dream!“Can there beIn this world one thought common to you and to me?If so,… I, who deem’d but a moment agoMy heart uncompanion’d, save only by woe,Should indeed be more bless’d than I dare to believe——Ah, but ONE word, but one from your lips to receive”…Interrupting him quickly, she murmur’d, “I sought,Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought,Which I needed.”…“Lives solitude only for one?Must its charm by my presence so soon be undone?Ah, cannot two share it? What needs it for this?—The same thought in both hearts,—be it sorrow or bliss;If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady—you,Are you not yet alone,—even though we be two?”
“For that,”… said Matilda,… “needs were, you should readWhat I have in my heart”…“Think you, lady, indeed,You are yet of that age when a woman concealsIn her heart so completely whatever she feelsFrom the heart of the man whom it interests to knowAnd find out what that feeling may be? Ah, not so,Lady Alfred? Forgive me that in it I look,But I read in your heart as I read in a book.”
“Well, Duke! and what read you within it? unlessIt be, of a truth, a profound weariness,And some sadness?”“No doubt. To all facts there are laws.The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause.”
VIII.
Matilda shrank back; for she suddenly foundThat a finger was press’d on the yet bleeding woundShe, herself, had but that day perceived in her breast.
“You are sad,”… said the Duke (and that finger yet press’dWith a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed)—“You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first needOf a young and a beautiful woman is to beBeloved, and to love. You are sad: for you seeThat you are not beloved, as you deem’d that you were:You are sad: for that knowledge hath left you awareThat you have not yet loved, though you thought that you had.“Yes, yes!… you are sad—because knowledge is sad!”
He could not have read more profoundly her heart.“What gave you,” she cried, with a terrified start,“Such strange power?”“To read in your thoughts?” he exclaim’d“O lady,—a love, deep, profound—be it blamedOr rejected,—a love, true, intense—such, at least,As you, and you only, could wake in my breast!”
“Hush, hush!… I beseech you… for pity!’ she gasp’d,Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had clasp’d,In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot.
“For pity?”… he echoed, “for pity! and whatIs the pity you owe him? his pity for you!He, the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew!The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair,And matchless! (whose happiness did he not swearTo cherish through life?) he neglects her—for whom?For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the bloomOf that beauty which, even when hidd’n, can prevailTo keep sleepless with song the aroused nightingale,Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of flowersHer symbol is not, and this pure world of oursHas no second Matilda! For whom? Let that pass!’Tis not I, ’tis not you, that can name her, alas!And I dare not question or judge her. But why,Why cherish the cause of your own misery?Why think of one, lady, who thinks not of you?Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks through?And why, since you have but to stretch forth your hand,The love which you need and deserve to command,Why shrink? Why repel it?”“O hush, sir! O hush!”Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one blush.“Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life!Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his wife?”
IX.
“And have I not, lady,” he answer’d,… “respectedHIS rights as a friend, till himself he neglectedYOUR rights as a wife? Do you think ’tis aloneFor three days I have loved you? My love may have grown,I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes,In watching their tears, and in sounding your sighs.But, O lady! I loved you before I believedThat your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever grieved.Then I deem’d you were happy—I deem’d you possess’dAll the love you deserved,—and I hid in my breastMy own love, till this hour—when I could not but feelYour grief gave me the right my own grief to reveal!I knew, years ago, of the singular powerWhich Lucile o’er your husband possess’d. Till the hourIn which he revea’d it himself, did I,—say!—By a word, or a look, such a secret betray?No! no! do me justice. I never have spokenOf this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had brokenWhich bound YOUR heart to him. And now—now, that his loveFor another hath left your own heart free to rove,What is it,—even now,—that I kneel to implore you?Only this, Lady Alfred!… to let me adore youUnblamed: to have confidence in me: to spendOn me not one thought, save to think me your friend.Let me speak to you,—ah, let me speak to you still!Hush to silence my words in your heart if you will.I ask no response: I ask only your leaveTo live yet in your life, and to grieve when you grieve!”
X.
“Leave me, leave me!”… she gasp’d, with a voice thick and lowFrom emotion. “For pity’s sake, Duke, let me go!I feel that to blame we should both of us be,Did I linger.”“To blame? yes, no doubt!”… answer’d he,“If the love of your husband, in bringing you peace,Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your releaseBy the hand of another. One moment! but one!Who knows when, alas! I may see you aloneAs to-night I have seen you? or when we may meetAs to-night we have met? when, entranced at your feet,As in this blessed hour, I may ever avowThe thoughts which are pining for utterance now?”“Duke! Duke!”… she exclaim’d,… “for Heaven’s sake let me go!It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know.We must not be seen here together. The nightIs advancing. I feel overwhelm’d with affright!It is time to return to my lord.”“To your lord?”He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word.“To your lord? do you think he awaits you in truth?Is he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth?Return to your lord!… his restraint to renew?And hinder the glances which are not for you?No, no!… at this moment his looks seek the faceOf another! another is there in your place!Another consoles him! another receivesThe soft speech which from silence your absence relieves!”
XI.
“You mistake, sir!”… responded a voice, calm, severe,And sad,… “You mistake, sir! that other is here.”Eugene and Matilda both started.“Lucile!”With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reelFrom the place where she stood, cried Matilda.“Ho, oh!What! eaves-dropping, madam?”… the Duke cried… “And soYou were listening?”“Say, rather,” she said, “that I heard,Without wishing to hear it, that infamous word,—Heard—and therefore reply.”“Belle Comtesse,” said the Duke,With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke,Which betray’d that he felt himself baffled… “you knowThat your place is not HERE.”“Duke,” she answer’d him slow,“My place is wherever my duty is clear;And therefore my place, at this moment, is here.O lady, this morning my place was besideYour husband, because (as she said this she sigh’d)I felt that from folly fast growing to crime—The crime of self-blindness—Heaven yet spared me timeTo save for the love of an innocent wifeAll that such love deserved in the heart and the lifeOf the man to whose heart and whose life you aloneCan with safety confide the pure trust of your own.”
She turn’d to Matilda, and lightly laid on herHer soft quiet hand…“’Tis, O lady, the honorWhich that man has confided to you, that, in spiteOf his friend, I now trust I may yet save to-night—Save for both of you, lady! for yours I revere;Duc de Luvois, what say you?—my place is not here?”
XII.
And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught,Wound one arm round her waist unresisted and soughtGently, softly, to draw her away from the spot.The Duke stood confounded, and follow’d them not,But not yet the house had they reach’d when LucileHer tender and delicate burden could feelSink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt down,Flung her arms round Matilda, and press’d to her ownThe poor bosom beating against her.The moon,Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful of June,Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the vale,And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one pale,Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous starSwinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car,Thus to each of those women revealing the faceOf the other. Each bore on her features the traceOf a vivid emotion. A deep inward shameThe cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame.With her enthusiastic emotion, LucileTrembled visibly yet; for she could not but feelThat a heavenly hand was upon her that night,And it touch’d her pure brow to a heavenly light.“In the name of your husband, dear lady,” she said,“In the name of your mother, take heart! Lift your head,For those blushes are noble. Alas! do not trustTo that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust,That the fault of the husband can cancel the wife’s.Take heart! and take refuge and strength in your life’sPure silence,—there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, and wait!”“Saved, Lucile!” sobb’d Matilda, “but saved to what fate?Tears, prayers, yes! not hopes.”“Hush!” the sweet voice replied.“Fool’d away by a fancy, again to your sideMust your husband return. Doubt not this. And returnFor the love you can give, with the love that you yearnTo receive, lady. What was it chill’d you both now?Not the absence of love, but the ignorance howLove is nourish’d by love. Well! henceforth you will proveYour heart worthy of love,—since it knows how to love.”
XIII.
“What gives you such power over me, that I feelThus drawn to obey you? What are you, Lucile?”Sigh’d Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the faceOf Lucile.There pass’d suddenly through it the traceOf deep sadness; and o’er that fair forehead came downA shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown.“The pupil of sorrow, perchance,”… she replied.“Of sorrow?” Matilda exclaim’d… “O confideTo my heart your affliction. In all you made knownI should find some instruction, no doubt, for my own!”
“And I some consolation, no doubt; for the tearsOf another have not flow’d for me many years.”
It was then that Matilda herself seized the handOf Lucile in her own, and uplifted her; andThus together they enter’d the house.
XIV.
’Twas the roomOf Matilda.The languid and delicate gloomOf a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloftFrom the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft.The casement oped into the garden. The paleCool moonlight stream’d through it. One lone nightingaleSung aloof in the laurels. And here, side by side,Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried,Save by guardian angels.As when, sparkling yetFrom the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, leaves wetThe bright head it humbles, a young rose inclinesTo some pale lily near it, the fair vision shinesAs one flower with two faces, in hush’d, tearful speech,Like the showery whispers of flowers, each to eachLink’d, and leaning together, so loving, so fair,So united, yet diverse, the two women thereLook’d, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping stem,In the soft light that tenderly rested on them.All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who knows?All that heart gain’d from heart?Leave the lily, the rose,Undisturb’d with their secret within them. For whoTo the heart of the floweret can follow the dew?A night full of stars! O’er the silence, unseen,The footsteps of sentinel angels betweenThe dark land and deep sky were moving. You heardPass’d from earth up to heaven the happy watchwordWhich brighten’d the stars as amongst them it fellFrom earth’s heart, which it eased… “All is well! all is well!”