Kitabı oku: «The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1», sayfa 12

SCENE XX.—Portsmouth. LORD SEAFORD, partially recovered. Enter LADY GERTRUDE and BERNARD

 
  Lady Gertrude.
  I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!
 
 
  Lord S.
  Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!
 
 
  Bern.
  I came on Lady Gertrude in the street.
  I know not which of us was more surprised.
 

[LADY GERTRUDE goes.]

 
  Bern.
  Where is the countess?
 
 
  Lord S.
  Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.
 
 
  Bern.
  The Italian lady.
 
 
  Lord S.
  Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!
 
 
  Bern.
  I am glad indeed to know your ignorance;
  For since I saw the count, I would not have you
  Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head.
 

[LORD SEAFORD covers his eyes with his hands.]

 
  You have not then heard the news about yourself?
  Such interesting echoes reach the last
  A man's own ear. The public has decreed
  You and the countess run away together.
  'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
  And that she has been often to your house.
  The count believes it—clearly from his face:
  The man is dying slowly on his feet.
 
 
  Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell).
  O God! what am I? My love burns like hate,
  Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!
 
 
  Bern.
  What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?
 

Enter Waiter.

 
Lord S. Post-chaise for London—four horses—instantly.
 

[He sinks exhausted in his chair.]

SCENE XXI.—LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her

 
  Lily.
  O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
  Another story is very nearly done.
 

[He takes her on his knees.]

 
  I am so tired! Think I should like to go
  Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
  Where all the little boys and girls are lying
  In little beds—white curtains, and white tassels.
  —No, no, no—it is so dark down there!
  Father will not come near me all the night.
 
 
  Julian.
  You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.
 
 
  Lily.
  O will you keep me always, father dear?
  And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
  Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
  'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
  Don't let it take me; do not let me go:
  I cannot leave you, father—love hurts so.
 
 
  Julian.
  Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
  Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
  And try to make you sleep?
 
 
  Lily.
  Yes—no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head!
  Mother, mother, dear mother!—Sing to me, father.
 

[He tries to sing.]

 
      Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
      Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
      It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
      God on his throne, and man below.
 
 
      But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
      Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
      God be on high, nor man below,
      But for love—for the love with its hurt alone.
 
 
      Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
      Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
      Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
      Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;
 
 
      Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
      Love for love's sake, like the Father above,
      But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
      Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.
 

[She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in which he talks.]

 
  Julian.
  A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
  Man with the heart, praying for woman's love,
  Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
  Take this or this. O Heaven and Earth! I see—What
  is it? Statue trembling into life
  With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
  Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
  I see her—where I know not; for I see
  Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain—
  God keep me!—in celestial nakedness.
  She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
  With large eyes full of longing, made intense
  By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
  Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
  Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.
 
 
  O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
  To find my own ideal womanhood—
  Glory grown grace, divine to human grown?
 
 
  I hear the voice again: Speak but the word:
  She will array herself and come to thee.
  Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes,
  Her earthly dress for work and weary rest!
  —I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep,
  Close by the white foot of the wonderful.
  It is the same shape, line for line, as she.
  Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs.
  Why speak I not the word?———Clothe thee, and come,
  O infinite woman! my life faints for thee.
 
 
  Once more the voice: Stay! look on this side first:
  I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man!
  Choose then between them. Ah! ah!
 

[Silence.]

 
                                 Her I knew
  Some ages gone; the woman who did sail
  Down a long river with me to the sea;
  Who gave her lips up freely to my lips,
  Her body willingly into my arms;
  Came down from off her statue-pedestal,
  And was a woman in a common house,
  Not beautified by fancy every day,
  And losing worship by her gifts to me.
  She gave me that white child—what came of her?
  I have forgot.—I opened her great heart,
  And filled it half-way to the brim with love—
  With love half wine, half vinegar and gall—
  And so—and so—she—went away and died?
  O God! what was it?—something terrible—
  I will not stay to choose, or look again
  Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife,
  The woman of the old time on the earth.
  O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands,
  Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain
 
 
  If thou descend to earth, and find no man
  To love thee purely, strongly, in his will,
  Even as he loves the truth, because he will,
  And when he cannot see it beautiful—
  Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep.
  Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come.
 
 
  'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet!
  In the same dress, same flowing of the hair,
  As long ago, on earth: is her face changed?
  Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower;
  My dove descending rests upon thy head;
  I bless and sanctify thee for my own:
  Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee.
 
 
  Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers!
  She rises—turns it up from me to God,
  With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!—the stars
  Might find new orbits there, and be content.
  O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure
  Their opening must be prophecy or song!
  A high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
  And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth!
 
 
  Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk
  That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;—
  O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form,
  With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet,
  And hands with rosy palms—my own ideal!
  The woman of my world, with deeper eyes
  Than I had power to think—and yet my Lilia,
  My wife, with homely airs of earth about her,
  And dearer to my heart as my lost wife,
  Than to my soul as its new-found ideal!
  Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel:
  Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear.
  Yea, all eternity—
 

[He is roused by a cry from the child.]

 
  Lily.
  Oh, father! put your arms close round about me.
  Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear.
  Now! I am better now.
 

[She looks long and passionately in his face. Her eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead.]

SCENE XXII.—A cottage-room. LILIA folding a letter

 
  Lilia.
  Now I have told him all; no word kept back
  To burn within me like an evil fire.
  And where I am, I have told him; and I wait
  To know his will. What though he love me not,
  If I love him!—I will go back to him,
  And wait on him submissive. Tis enough
  For one life, to be servant to that man!
  It was but pride—at best, love stained with pride,
  That drove me from him. He and my sweet child
  Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart.
  How lonely is my Lily all the day,
  Till he comes home and makes her paradise!
 
 
  I go to be his servant. Every word
  That comes from him softer than a command,
  I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart,
  And serve him better for it.—He will receive me.
 

SCENE XXIII.—LILY lying dead. JULIAN bending over her

 
  Julian.
  The light of setting suns be on thee, child!
  Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns
  Is on thee! Joy is with thee—God is Joy;
  Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy;
  Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy.
  Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love.
  Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy.
 
 
  Children, they say, are born into a world
  Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think,
  Never hadst much of grief—thy second birth
  Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief,
  If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story,
  And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God,
  Let not my Lily turn away from me.
 
 
  Now I am free to follow and find her.
  Thy truer Father took thee home to him,
  That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife.
  I thank him for his gift of thee; for all
  That thou hast taught me, blessed little child.
  I love thee, dear, with an eternal love.
  And now farewell!
 

[Kissing her.]

—no, not farewell; I come. Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee. Yes, they will also lead me on to her.

Enter a Jew.

 
  Jew.
  What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir.
 
 
  Julian.
  Walk into the next room; then look at this,
  And tell me what you'll give for everything.
 

[Jew goes.]

 
  My darling's death has made me almost happy.
  Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again.
  When I have laid my little one to rest
  Among the flowers in that same sunny spot,
  Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way;
  And, calling up all old forgotten skill,
  Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind,
  I'll be a man once more in the loud world.
  Revived experience in its winding ways,
  Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love,
  If all the world were sworn to secrecy,
  Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death.
  I'll follow my wife, follow until I die.
  How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep,
  Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me?
  How find her in great Hades, if not here
  In this poor little round O of a world?
  I'll follow my wife, follow until I find.
 

Re-enter Jew.

 
Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal.
 
 
  Jew.
  Let me see this room, too. The things are all
  Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little.
 
 
  Julian.
  Say what you will—only make haste and go.
 
 
  Jew.
  Say twenty pounds?
 
 
  Julian.
                   Well, fetch the money at once,
  And take possession. But make haste, I pray.
 

SCENE XXIV.—The country-churchyard. JULIAN standing by LILY'S new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill

 
  Julian.
  Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep;
  Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child!
  Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb
  Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek
  And find the wandering mother of my lamb.
  I cannot weep; I know thee with me still.
  Thou dost not find it very dark down there?
  Would I could go to thee; I long to go;
  My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too;
  And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat.
  O gladly would I come to thee, my child,
  And lay my head upon thy little heart,
  And sleep in the divine munificence
  Of thy great love! But my night has not come;
  She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one.
 

[He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising.]

 
Now for the world—that's Italy, and her!
 

SCENE XXV.—The empty room, formerly Lilia's

Enter JULIAN.

 
  Julian.
  How am I here? Alas! I do not know.
  I should have been at sea.—Ah, now I know!
  I have come here to die.
 

  [Lies down on the floor.]

 
                            Where's Lilia?
  I cannot find her. She is here, I know.
  But oh these endless passages and stairs,
  And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia!
  Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast,
  But something holds me. Let me go, devil!
  My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you.
  You are God's child—they dare not touch you, wife.
  O pardon me, my beautiful, my own!
 

[Sings.]

 
      Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing
      From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea;
      Thou blowest to the sea ray blue sail's wing—
      Us to a new, love-lit futurity:
      Out to the ocean fleet and float—
      Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
 

[While he sings, enter LORD SEAFORD, pale and haggard.]

 
  JULIAN descries him suddenly.
  What are you, man? O brother, bury me—
  There's money in my pocket—
 

[Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor.]

 
by my child.
 

[Staring at him.]

 
  Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse—
  I will not walk—I'll ride. What, skeleton!
  I cannot sit him! ha! ha! Hither, brute!
  Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child,
  And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up
  With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes.
  Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs,
  Nor is there any maid to bind them on:
 
 
  I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee.
  Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!—we'll go.
 
 
  Lord Seaford (stooping over him).
  I am Seaford, Count.
 
 
Julian.
Seaford! What Seaford?
 

[Recollecting.]

 
—Seaford!
 

[Springing to his feet.]

 
Where is my wife?
 

[He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down.]

 
Lord S. Had I seen him, she had been safe for me.
 

[Goes.]

  [JULIAN lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He

 
  wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening.]
  Julian.
  Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead.
  I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God!
 

[He is quiet a little.]

 
  So then thou didst not take the child away
  That I might find my wife! Thy will be done.
  Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire
  I send away with grief, but willingly.
  I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer:
  Take thou thine own way, only lead her home.
  Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might;
  But thou art mighty, with a power unlike
  All, all that we know by the name of power,
  Transcending it as intellect transcends
  'The stone upon the ground—it may be more,
  For these are both created—thou creator,
  Lonely, supreme.
 
 
                     Now it is almost over,
  My spirit's journey through this strange sad world;
  This part is done, whatever cometh next.
  Morning and evening have made out their day;
  My sun is going down in stormy dark,
  But I will face it fearless.
  The first act Is over of the drama.—Is it so?
  What means this dim dawn of half-memories?
 
 
  There's something I knew once and know not now!—
  A something different from all this earth!
  It matters little; I care not—only know
  That God will keep the living thing he made.
  How mighty must he be to have the right
  Of swaying this great power I feel I am—
  Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him!
  O God, I come to thee! thou art my life;
  O God, thou art my home; I come to thee.
 
 
  Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up
  Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see
  But that which is, the living awful Truth—
  All forms of which are but the sparks flung out
  From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun,
  Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me:
  Christ said to Martha—"Whosoever liveth,
  And doth believe in me, shall never die"!
  I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door
  Of God's wide theatre be open flung
  To let me in. What marvels I shall see!
  The expectation fills me, like new life
  Dancing through all my veins.
 
 
                         Once more I thank thee
  For all that thou hast made me—most of all,
  That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee.
  I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her;
  Forget her not, my God. If thou save her,
  I shall be able then to thank thee so
  As will content thee—with full-flowing song,
  The very bubbles on whose dancing waves
  Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet.
 
 
  My heart sinks in me.—I grow faint. Oh! whence
  This wind of love that fans me out of life?
  One stoops to kiss me!—Ah, my lily child!
  God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall.
 

  [Re-enter LORD SEAFORD with the doctor. JULIAN takes no heed of them. The doctor shakes his head.]

 
  My little child, I'll never leave thee more;
  We are both children now in God's big house.
  Come, lead me; you are older here than I
  By three whole days, my darling angel-child!
 

  [A letter is brought in. LORD SEAFORD holds it before JULIAN'S eyes. He looks vaguely at it.]

 
  Lord S.
  It is a letter from your wife, I think.
 
 
  Julian (feebly).
  A letter from my Lilia! Bury it with me—
  I'll read it in my chamber, by and by:
  Dear words should not be read with others nigh.
  Lilia, my wife! I am going home to God.
 
 
  Lord S. (pending over him).
  Your wife is innocent. I know she is.
 

  JULIAN gazes at him blankly. A light begins to grow in his eyes. It grows till his face is transfigured. It vanishes. He dies.