Kitabı oku: «The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1», sayfa 2

SCENE III.—Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, its candle nearly burnt out. JULIAN lying on his bed, looking at the light

 
  Julian.
  And so all growth that is not toward God
  Is growing to decay. All increase gained
  Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth.
  'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires,
  Towering above the light it overcomes,
  But ever sinking with the dying flame.
  O let me live, if but a daisy's life!
  No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence!
  Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me?
  Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none
  That springs from me, but much that springs from thee.
  Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me?
  I have done naught for thee, am but a want;
  But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims;
  And this same need of thee which thou hast given,
  Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself,
  And makes me bold to rise and come to thee.
  Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled
  This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead
  For thee with me, and for thy child with thee.
 
 
  Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him;
  Or was it but my heart that spoke for him?
  "Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give;
  My longing is thy promise, O my God!
  If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim,
  Why doth the longing yet remain with me,
  And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?"
  Methought I heard for answer: "Question on.
  Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds
  Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee,
  A hungering and a fainting and a pain,
  Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead
  While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it.
  Better to live in pain than die that death."
 
 
  So I will live, and nourish this my pain;
  For oft it giveth birth unto a hope
  That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too.
  Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his,
  Not mine to revel in. Content I wait.
  A still small voice I cannot but believe,
  Says on within: God will reveal himself.
 
 
  I must go from this place. I cannot rest.
  It boots not staying. A desire like thirst
  Awakes within me, or a new child-heart,
  To be abroad on the mysterious earth,
  Out with the moon in all the blowing winds.
 
 
  'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again.
  For many months I had not seen her form,
  Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past,
  Until I laid me down an hour ago;
  When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes,
  The memory passed, reclothed in verity:
  Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze
  Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon;
  The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind,
  "Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep,
  All save the poplar: it was full of joy,
  So that it could not sleep, but trembled on.
  Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea,
  She issued radiant from the pearly night.
  It took me half with fear—the glimmer and gleam
  Of her white festal garments, haloed round
  With denser moonbeams. On she came—and there
  I am bewildered. Something I remember
  Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound,
  Hurrying forth without their pilot-words;
  Of agony, as when a spirit seeks
  In vain to hold communion with a man;
  A hand that would and would not stay in mine;
  A gleaming of white garments far away;
  And then I know not what. The moon was low,
  When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet,
  Dripping with dew—
 

Enter ROBERT cautiously.

 
Why, how now, Robert?
 
 
[Rising on his elbow.] Robert (glancing at the chest). I see; that's well. Are you nearly ready?
 
 
  Julian.
  Why? What's the matter?
 
 
  Robert.
                      You must go this night,
  If you would go at all.
 
 
  Julian.
                        Why must I go?
 

  [Rises.]

 
  Robert (turning over the things in the chest).
                                       Here, put
  this coat on. Ah! take that thing too.
  No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat,
 

[Going to the chest again.]

 
  Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub
  Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow.
 
 
  Julian.
  Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.
 
 
  Robert.
  No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you.
  Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar
  The outer doors; and then—good-bye, poor Julian!
 

[JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes.]

 
  Julian.
  Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend.
  Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again.
 
 
  Robert.
  Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this.
 

[Goes.]

[JULIAN follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, and closes the door behind him.]

SCENE IV.—Night. The court of a country-inn. The Abbot, while his horse is brought out

 
  Abbot.
  Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna,
  Within the holiest of the holy place!
  I'll have it made in fashion as a stable,
  With porphyry pillars to a marble stall;
  And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay,
  Shall fill the silver manger for a bed,
  Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved
  By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem.
  And over him shall bend the Mother mild,
  In silken white and coroneted gems.
  Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now—
  The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant;
  Nor know I any nests of money-bees
  That could yield half-contentment to my need.
  Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet
  In journeying through this vale of tears have I
  Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.
 

SCENE V.—After midnight. JULIAN seated under a tree by the roadside

 
  Julian.
  So lies my journey—on into the dark!
  Without my will I find myself alive,
  And must go forward. Is it God that draws
  Magnetic all the souls unto their home,
  Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?
  It matters little what may come to me
  Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst,
  Social condition, yea, or love or hate;
  But what shall I be, fifty summers hence?
  My life, my being, all that meaneth me,
  Goes darkling forward into something—what?
  O God, thou knowest. It is not my care.
  If thou wert less than truth, or less than love,
  It were a fearful thing to be and grow
  We know not what. My God, take care of me;
  Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love,
  Pervading and inspiring me, thy child.
  And let thy own design in me work on,
  Unfolding the ideal man in me;
  Which being greater far than I have grown,
  I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine.
  One day, completed unto thine intent,
  I shall be able to discourse with thee;
  For thy Idea, gifted with a self,
  Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,
  And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts.
  Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand;
  I ask not whither, for it must be on.
 
 
  This road will lead me to the hills, I think;
  And there I am in safety and at home.
 

SCENE VI.—The Abbot's room. The Abbot and one of the Monks

 
  Abbot.
  Did she say Julian? Did she say the name?
 
 
  Monk.
  She did.
 
 
  Abbot.
             What did she call the lady? What?
 
 
  Monk.
  I could not hear.
 
 
  Abbot.
                   Nor where she lived?
 
 
  Monk.
                                         Nor that.
  She was too wild for leading where I would.
 
 
  Abbot.
  So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask:
  You have kept this matter secret?
 
 
  Monk.
                                  Yes, my lord.
 
 
  Abbot.
  Well, go and send him hither.
 

  [Monk goes.]

 
                               Said I well,
  That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?
  That God would hear his own elect who cried?
  Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means
  That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!
  So tender in conceit, that it shall draw
  The heart by very strength of delicateness,
  And move proud thought to worship!
                                      I must act
  With caution now; must win his confidence;
  Question him of the secret enemies
  That fight against his soul; and lead him thus
  To tell me, by degrees, his history.
  So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation
  For future acts, as circumstance requires.
  For if the tale be true that he is rich,
  And if——
 

Re-enter Monk in haste and terror.

 
  Monk.
  He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.
 
 
  Abbot (starting up).
               What! You are crazy! Gone?
  His cell is empty?
 
 
  Monk.
  'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!
 
 
  Abbot.
  Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear!
  There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied!
  Some one is in his confidence!—who is it?
  Go rouse the convent.
 

[Monk goes.]

 
                           He must be followed, found.
  Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!
  But by and by your horns, and then your side!
  'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating.
  I'll go and sift this business to the bran.
  Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!—God's
  curse! it shall fare ill with any man
  That has connived at this, if I detect him.
 

SCENE VII.—Afternoon. The mountains. JULIAN

 
  Julian.
  Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven!
  I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak
  Is miles away, and high amid the clouds.
  Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit,
  With the fantastic rock upon its side,
  Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window
  Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze
  With wondering awe upon the mighty thing,
  Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied,
  The hitherto of my child-thoughts. Beyond,
  A sea might roar around its base. Beyond,
  Might be the depths of the unfathomed space,
  This the earth's bulwark over the abyss.
  Upon its very point I have watched a star
  For a few moments crown it with a fire,
  As of an incense-offering that blazed
  Upon this mighty altar high uplift,
  And then float up the pathless waste of heaven.
  From the next window I could look abroad
  Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted
  With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river,
  Where boats went to and fro like water-flies,
  In white and green; but still I turned to look
  At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows:
  All here I saw—I knew not what was there.
  O love of knowledge and of mystery,
  Striving together in the heart of man!
  "Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."—
  Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round:
  "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!"
  But I must hasten; else the sun will set
  Before I reach the smoother valley-road.
  I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has
  Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think,
  Four years of wandering since I left my home,
  In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell,
  Must have worn changes in this face of mine
  Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.
 

SCENE VIII.—A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the floor. ROBERT

 
  Robert.
  One comfort is, he's far away by this.
  Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin.
  Where shall I find a daysman in this strife
  Between my heart and holy Church's words?
  Is not the law of kindness from God's finger,
  Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must
  Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield,
  Be subject to the written law of words;
  Impulses made, made strong, that we might have
  Within the temple's court live things to bring
  And slay upon his altar; that we may,
  By this hard penance of the heart and soul,
  Become the slaves of Christ.—I have done wrong;
  I ought not to have let poor Julian go.
  And yet that light upon the floor says, yes—
  Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good,
  Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life
  That he might be in peace. Still up and down
  The balance goes, a good in either scale;
  Two angels giving each to each the lie,
  And none to part them or decide the question.
  But still the words come down the heaviest
  Upon my conscience as that scale descends;
  But that may be because they hurt me more,
  Being rough strangers in the feelings' home.
  Would God forbid us to do what is right,
  Even for his sake? But then Julian's life
  Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases!
  I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God
  Commanded different things in different tones.
  Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest
  God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind,
  Like Mary singing to her mangered child;
  The other like a self-restrained tempest;
  Like—ah, alas!—the trumpet on Mount Sinai,
  Louder and louder, and the voice of words.
  O for some light! Would they would kill me! then
  I would go up, close up, to God's own throne,
  And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth;
  And he would slay this ghastly contradiction.
  I should not fear, for he would comfort me,
  Because I am perplexed, and long to know.
  But this perplexity may be my sin,
  And come of pride that will not yield to him!
  O for one word from God! his own, and fresh
  From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!
 

PART II

 
  Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!
  It is thy Duty waiting thee without.
  Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt;
  A hand doth pull thee—it is Providence;
  Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence;
  Go forth into the tumult and the shout;
  Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about:
  Of noise alone is born the inward sense
  Of silence; and from action springs alone
  The inward knowledge of true love and faith.
  Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,
  And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan:
  One day upon His bosom, all thine own,
  Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.
 

SCENE I.—A room in Julian's castle. JULIAN and the old Nurse

 
  Julian.
  Nembroni? Count Nembroni?—I remember:
  A man about my height, but stronger built?
  I have seen him at her father's. There was something
  I did not like about him:—ah! I know:
  He had a way of darting looks at you,
  As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.
 
 
  Nurse.
  The same, my lord. He is the creditor.
  The common story is, he sought the daughter,
  But sought in vain: the lady would not wed.
  'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble,
  Which caused much wonder, for the family
  Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni
  Contrived to be the only creditor,
  And so imprisoned him.
 
 
  Julian.
                        Where is the lady?
 
 
  Nurse.
                     Down in the town.
 
 
  Julian.
          But where?
 
 
  Nurse.
                                    If you turn left,
  When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house
  Upon this side the way. An honest couple,
  Who once were almost pensioners of hers,
  Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home
  With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis
  A wretched change for her.
 
 
  Julian.
                      Hm! ah! I see.
  What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse?
 
 
  Nurse.
  Here he is little known. His title comes
  From an estate, they say, beyond the hills.
  He looks ungracious: I have seen the children
  Run to the doors when he came up the street.
 
 
  Julian.
  Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay—one thing more:
  Have any of my people seen me?
 
 
  Nurse. None
  But me, my lord.
 
 
  Julian.
                                 And can you keep it secret?—
  know you will for my sake. I will trust you.
  Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.]
  Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid
  His plans for nothing further! I will watch him.
  Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake.
  Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father,
  Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame;
  My love had no claim on like love from thee.—How
  the old tide comes rushing to my heart!
 
 
  I know not what I can do yet but watch.
  I have no hold on him. I cannot go,
  Say, I suspect; and, Is it so or not?
  I should but injure them by doing so.
  True, I might pay her father's debts; and will,
  If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well
  During my absence. I have not spent much.
  But still she'd be in danger from this man,
  If not permitted to betray himself;
  And I, discovered, could no more protect.
  Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt
  Her footsteps like an angel, not for long
  Should I remain unseen of other eyes,
  That peer from under cowls—not angel-eyes—
  Hunting me out, over the stormy earth.
   No; I must watch. I can do nothing better.