The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I by George MacDonald

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[_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.

SCENE II.--_A poor cottage. An old_ Man _and_ Woman _sitting together_.

_Man_.
How's the poor lady now?

_Woman_.
She's poorly still.
I fancy every day she's growing thinner.
I am sure she's wasting steadily.

_Man_.
Has the count
Been here again to-day?

_Woman_.
No. And I think
He will not come again. She was so proud
The last time he was here, you would have thought
She was a queen at least.

_Man_.
Remember, wife,
What she has been. Trouble like that throws down
The common folk like us all of a heap:
With folks like her, that are high bred and blood,
It sets the mettle up.

_Woman_.
All very right;
But take her as she was, she might do worse
Than wed the Count Nembroni.

_Man_.
Possible.
But are you sure there is no other man
Stands in his way?

_Woman_.
How can I tell? So be,
He should be here to help her. What she'll do
I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her.
And for her work, she does it far too well
To earn a living by it. Her times are changed--
She should not give herself such prideful airs.

_Man_.
Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard
On one another! You speak fair for men,
And make allowances; but when a woman
Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her.
But where is this you're going then to-night?
Do they want me to go as well as you?

_Woman_.
Yes, you must go, or else it is no use.
They cannot give the money to me, except
My husband go with me. He told me so.

_Man_.
Well, wife, it's worth the going--but to see:
I don't expect a groat to come of it.

SCENE III.--_Kitchen of a small inn_. Host _and_ Hostess.

_Host_.
That's a queer customer you've got upstairs!
What the deuce is he?

_Hostess_.
What is that to us?
He always pays his way, and handsomely.
I wish there were more like him.

_Host_.
Has he been
At home all day?

_Hostess_.
He has not stirred a foot
Across the threshold. That's his only fault--
He's always in the way.

_Host_.
What does he do?

_Hostess_.
Paces about the room, or sits at the window.
I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,
To see what he's about: he looks annoyed,
But does not speak a word.
_Host_.
He must be crazed,
Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.

_Hostess_.
He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;
But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,
If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;
And though he does not say much, when he speaks
A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.

_Host_.
Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?

SCENE IV.--_The inn; a room upstairs_. JULIAN _at the window, half
hidden by the curtain_.

_Julian_.
With what profusion her white fingers spend
Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!
It was so late this morning ere she came!
I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!
Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.
Do I not love he? more than when that beauty
Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond
The confines of her wondrous face and form,
And animated with a present power
Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!

Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest
In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,
As for her husband. Something will follow this.
And here he comes, all in his best like her.
They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,
With short steps down the street. Now I must wake
The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!

SCENE V.--_A back street. Two_ Servants _with a carriage and pair_.

_1st Serv_.
Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!
That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,
I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;
We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten.

_2nd Serv_.
Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare
She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,
As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were
Under some roof or other. I fear this business
Is not of the right sort.

_1st Serv_.
He looked as black
As if he too had lightning in his bosom.
There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!

SCENE VI.--_Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face
pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without_.

_Julian_.
Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone--no, there it flares!
I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.
Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm
Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind!
That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he
Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear
This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain
Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.
'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,
And take my stand in the corner by the door.
But if he comes while I go down the stairs,
And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently
Up the stair to the landing by her door.

[_He goes quickly toward the door_.]

_Hostess (opening the door and looking in_).
If you please, sir--

[_He hurries past_]

The devil's in the man!

SCENE VII.--_The landing_.

_Voice within_.
If you scream, I must muffle you.

_Julian (rushing up the stair_).
He _is_ there!
His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream!

[_Flinging the door open, as_ NEMBRONI _springs
forward on the other side_.]

Back!

_Nembroni_.
What the devil!--Beggar!

[_Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at_ JULIAN, _which
he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he
springs within_ NEMBRONI'S _guard_.]

_Julian (taking him by the throat_).
I have faced worse
storms than you.

[_They struggle_.]

Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force,

[_He stabs him_.]

Your ribs will not mail your heart!

[NEMBRONI _falls dead_. JULIAN _wipes his dagger on the
dead man's coat_.]

If men _will_ be devils,
They are better in hell than here.

[_Lightning flashes on the blade_.]

What a night
For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven!

[_Approaches the lady within_.]

Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope
It will not pass too soon. It is not far
To the half-hidden door in my own fence,
And that is well. If I step carefully,
Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.
What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think!
Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me.
That's awkward now.

[_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.]

Pardon me, dear lady;

[_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.]

'Tis not to save my blood I would defile
Even your handkerchief.

[_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.]

I am pleased to think
Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.

[_Looking out of the window on the landing_.]

For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.

[_He goes down the stair_]

SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse.

_Julian_.
Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.
You have put your charge to bed?

_Nurse_.
Yes, my dear lord.

_Julian_.
And has she spoken yet?

_Nurse_.
After you left,
Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:
_Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me,
And her eyes wandered over all my face,
Till half in comfort, half in weariness,
They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is
As feeble as a child.

_Julian_.
Under your care
She'll soon be well again. Let no one know
She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her.

_Nurse_.
Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.

_Julian_.
That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.
Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.

_Nurse_.
Leave?

_Julian_.
Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again
Over the earth and sea. She must not know
I have been here. You must contrive to keep
My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke
When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.
She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;
Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.
Let her on no pretense guess where she is,
Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.
When she is well and wishes to be gone,
Then write to this address--but under cover

[_Writing_.]

To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I
Will see to all the rest. But let her know
Her father is set free; assuredly,
Ere you can say it is, it will be so.

_Nurse_.
How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?

_Julian_.
I have thought of that. There's a deserted room
In the old west wing, at the further end
Of the oak gallery.

_Nurse_.
Not deserted quite.
I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,
Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.

_Julian_.
You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:
I found a sliding panel, and a door
Into a room behind. I'll show it you.
You'll find some musty traces of me yet,
When you go in. Now take her to your room,
But get the other ready. Light a fire,
And keep it burning well for several days.
Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,
Take everything to make it comfortable;
Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,
Bind her to be as secret as yourself.
Then put her there. I'll let her father know
She is in safety.--I must change attire,
And be far off or ever morning break.

[Nurse _goes_.]

My treasure-room! how little then I thought,
Glad in my secret, one day it would hold
A treasure unto which I dared not come.
Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!--
But not with even a heavenly gift would I
Go begging love; that should be free as light,
Cleaving unto myself even for myself.
I have enough to brood on, joy to turn
Over and over in my secret heart:--
She lives, and is the better that I live!

_Re-enter_ Nurse.

_Nurse_.
My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;
She's in a dreadful fever. We must send
To Arli for the doctor, else her life
Will be in danger.

_Julian_
(_rising disturbed_).
Go and fetch your daughter.
Between you, take her to my room, yours now.
I'll see her there. I think you can together!

_Nurse_.
O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!

[Nurse _goes_.]

_Julian_.
I ought to know the way to treat a fever,
If it be one of twenty. Hers has come
Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.
I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!

SCENE IX.--_The Abbot's room in the monastery. The_ Abbot.

_Abbot_.
'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.
One hope remains: that fellow has a head!

_Enter_ STEPHEN.

Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told
You said to-day, if I commissioned you,
You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.

_Stephen_.
I did, my lord.

_Abbot_.
How would you do it, Stephen?

_Stephen_.
Try one plan till it failed; then try another;
Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes
And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:
Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.
I have no plan; but, give me time and money,
I'll find him out.

_Abbot_.
Stephen, you're just the man
I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.

SCENE X.--_Towards morning. The Nurse's room_. LILIA _in bed_.
JULIAN _watching_.

_Julian_.
I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then
She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!
My heart is beating as if it would spend
Its life in this one night, and beat it out.
And well it may, for there is more of life
In one such moment than in many years!
Pure life is measured by intensity,
Not by the how much of the crawling clock.
Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across
The window-blind? or is it but a band
Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed
Upon the other?--'Tis the moon herself,
Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this--

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