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

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[_He stands in a stupor for some minutes_.]

What devil whispered that vile word, _unclean_?
I care not--loving more than that can touch.
Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame,
As men call perishing, so she be saved.
Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!--Alas,
Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep,
Till her soul wept itself to purity!
Far, far away! where my love cannot reach.
No, no; she is not gone!

[_Starting and facing wildly through the room_.]

It is a lie--
Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love.
I must do something.--

[_Enter_ LILY.]

Ah! there's the precious thing
That shall entice her back.

[_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart_.]

My little Lily,
I have lost your mother.

_Lily_.
Oh!

[_Beginning to weep_.]

She was so pretty,
Somebody has stolen her.

_Julian_.
Will you go with me,
And help me look for her?

_Lily_.
O yes, I will.

[_Clasping him round the neck_.]

But my head aches so! Will you carry me?

_Julian_.
Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet.

_Lily_.
Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white!

[_Putting her finger to his cheek_.]

SCENE XI.--_A table in a club-room. Several_ Gentlemen _seated round
it. To them enter another_.

_1st Gentleman_.
Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter?

_Bernard_.
Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done.

_2nd G_.
A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard,
But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth
Of our impatient curiosity.

_Bernard_.
Most unexpectedly I found myself
Spectator of a scene in a home-drama
Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw.

_All_.
What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat.

[_He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine_.]

_Bernard_.
I went to call on Seaford, and was told
He had gone to town. So I, as privileged,
Went to his cabinet to write a note;
Which finished, I came down, and called his valet.
Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice--
"The Countess Lamballa--is she here to-day?"
And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse
Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest
In a blue shabby frock down to his knees,
And on his left arm sat a little child.
The porter gave short answer, with the door
For period to the same; when, like a flash,
It flew wide open, and the serving man
Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs,
'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned.
In walked the visitor; but in the moment
Just measured by the closing of the door,
Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if
Heading a column, with an eye and face
As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot
Up suddenly within his wasted frame.
The child sat on his arm quite still and pale,
But with a look of triumph in her eyes.
He glanced in each room opening from the hall,
Set his face for the stair, and came right on--
In every motion calm as glacier's flow,
Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick,
Of his right hand across to his left side:
'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms.

_3rd G_.
Did no one stop him?

_Bernard_.
Stop him? I'd as soon
Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy
In passion to meet passion; but it is
A daunting thing to look on, when the blood
Is going its wonted pace through your own veins.
Besides, this man had something in his face,
With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended,
A self-reliance, and a self-command,
That would go right up to its goal, in spite
Of any _no_ from any man. I would
As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him.
Over the porter, lying where he fell,
He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go--
I listened as it were a ghost that walked
With pallid spectre-child upon its arm--
Along the corridors, from door to door,
Opening and shutting. But at last a sting
Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady,
And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs.
I met him at the top, quiet as at first;
The fire had faded from his eyes; the child
Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove
Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall,
He turned him to the porter, who had scarce
Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying,
"The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford,"
Turned him again, and strode into the street.

_1st G_.
Have you learned anything of what it meant?

_Bernard_.
Of course he had suspicions of his wife:
For all the gifts a woman has to give,
I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see
The gentle fairy child fall kissing him,
And, with her little arms grasping his neck,
Peep anxious round into his shaggy face,
As they went down the street!--it almost made
A fool of me.--I'd marry for such a child!

SCENE XII.--_A by-street_. JULIAN _walking home very weary. The
child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An_ Organ-boy
_with a monkey, sitting on a door-step. He sings in a low voice_.

_Julian_.
Look at the monkey, Lily.

_Lily_.
No, dear father;
I do not like monkeys.

_Julian_.
Hear the poor boy sing.

[_They listen. He sings_.]

SONG.

Wenn ich hoere dich mir nah',
Stimmen in den Blaettern da;
Wenn ich fuehl' dich weit und breit,
Vater, das ist Seligkeit.

Nun die Sonne liebend scheint,
Mich mit dir und All vereint;
Biene zu den Blumen fliegt,
Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt.

So mich voellig lieb du hast,
Daseyn ist nicht eine Last;
Wenn ich seh' und hoere dich,
Das genuegt mir inniglich.

_Lily_.
It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father?

_Julian_.
My boy, you are not German?

_Boy_.
No; my mother
Came from those parts. She used to sing the song.
I do not understand it well myself,
For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother!

[_Weeps_.]

_Julian_.
My mother was a German, my poor boy;
My father was Italian: I am like you.

[_Giving him money_.]

You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees,
Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street!

_Boy_.
My mother sings it in her grave; and I
Will sing it everywhere, until I die.

SCENE XIII.--LILIA'S _room_. JULIAN _enters with the child;
undresses her, and puts her to bed_.

_Lily_.
Father does all things for his little Lily.

_Julian_.
My own dear Lily! Go to sleep, my pet.

[_Sitting by her_.]

"Wenn ich seh' und hoere dich,
Das genuegt mir inniglich."

[_Falling on his knees_.]

I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast,
Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear,
Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free,
That thou art not enough for me, my God.
Oh, dearly do I love thee! Look: no fear
Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me.
Herein I know thy love: mine casts out fear.
O give me back my wife; thou without her
Canst never make me blessed to the full.

[_Silence_.]

O yes; thou art enough for me, my God;
Part of thyself she is, else never mine.
My need of her is but thy thought of me;
She is the offspring of thy beauty, God;
Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee:
Thou wilt restore her to my very soul.

[_Rising_.]

It may be all a lie. Some needful cause
Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think
One moment that my wife could sin against me!
She will come back to-night. I know she will.
I never can forgive my jealousy!
Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford's house!

[_His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her
sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in
his bosom_.]

It will be all explained. To think I should,
Without one word from her, condemn her so!
What can I say to her when she returns?
I shall be utterly ashamed before her.
She will come back to-night. I know she will.

[_He throws himself wearily on the bed_.]

SCENE XIV.--_Crowd about the Italian Opera-House_. JULIAN. LILY
_in his arms. Three_ Students.

_1st Student_.
Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man?
There is a character for that same novel
You talk of thunder-striking London with,
One of these days.

_2nd St_.
I scarcely noticed him;
I was so taken with the lovely child.
She is angelic.

_3rd St_.
You see angels always,
Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals.
She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid.
I wonder what the old fellow is about.
Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract,
That lingers at the door he cannot enter!
Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon,
And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds.
Here's mine.

_1st St_.
And mine.

_2nd St_.
And mine.

[_3rd Student offers the money to_ JULIAN.]

_Julian_
(_very quietly_).
No, thank you, sir.

_Lily_.
Oh! there is mother!

[_Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage_.]

_Julian_.
No, no; hush, my child!

[_The lady looks round, and _LILY _clings to her father_.
Women _talking_.]

_1st W_.
I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be his.

_2nd W_.
There's a suspicious look about him.

_3rd W_
True;
But the child clings to him as if she loved him.

[JULIAN _moves on slowly_.]

SCENE XV.--JULIAN _seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor_.
LILY _playing in a corner_.

_Julian_.
Though I am lonely, yet this little child--
She understands me better than the Twelve
Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord.
Ten times last night I woke in agony,
I knew not why. There was no comforter.
I stretched my arm to find her, and her place
Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain
Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being;
Then would I lay my aching, weary head
Upon her bosom, promise of relief:
I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world!

[_He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger_.]

You'll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp.
Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear.

[_He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her_.]

'Here, take the pretty part. It's not so pretty
As it was once!

[_Thinking aloud_.]
I picked the jewels out
To buy your mother the last dress I gave her.
There's just one left, I see, for you, my Lily.
Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I,
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;--
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now----

_Lily_
(_throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him_).
Father, what is a poetry?

_Julian_.
A beautiful thing,--of the most beautiful
That God has made.

_Lily_.
As beautiful as mother?
_Julian_.
No, my dear child; but very beautiful.

_Lily_.
Do let me see a poetry.

_Julian_
(_opening a book_).
There, love!
_Lily_
(_disappointedly_).
I don't think that's so very pretty, father.
One side is very well--smooth; but the other

[_Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines_.]

Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning,

[_Smoothing her hair down with both hands_.]

Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it.

_Julian_
(_putting the book down, and taking her on his knee_).
You do not understand it yet, my child.
You cannot know where it is beautiful.
But though you do not see it very pretty,
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty.

[_He reads_.]

_Lily_
(_looking pleased_).
Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty.
It sounds so nice!--not half so pretty as mother.

_Julian_.
There's something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you're older
You'll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?

_Lily_.
Yes, dear father.

[_Kissing him, then looking at the book_.]

I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all.

[_He sets her down. She goes to her corner_.]

_Julian_
(_musing_).
True, there's not much in me to love, and yet
I feel worth loving. I am very poor,
But that I could not help; and I grow old,
But there are saints in heaven older than I.
I have a world within me; there I thought
I had a store of lovely, precious things
Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass;
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels;
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east;
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column,
'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees;
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge,
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth,
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds:
The distant meadows and the gloomy river
Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.--
Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture:
Of this fair world I would have made her queen;--
Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond
Into that farther world of things unspoken,
Of which these glories are the outer stars,
The clouds that float within its atmosphere.
Under the holy might of teaching love,
I thought her eyes would open--see how, far
And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out,
And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere;
Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber,
Open the little window, and look forth
On the wide silent ocean, silent winds,
And see what she must see, I could not tell.
By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake
The sleeping music of her poet-soul:
We read together many magic words;
Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art;
Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound;
Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs;
And evermore I talked. I was too proud,
Too confident of power to waken life,
Believing in my might upon her heart,
Not trusting in the strength of living truth.
Unhappy saviour, who by force of self
Would save from selfishness and narrow needs!
I have not been a saviour. She grew weary.
I began wrong. The infinitely High,
Made manifest in lowliness, had been
The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there,
And set her down by humble Mary's side,
He would have taught her all I could not teach.
Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus
Terribly wretched, and beyond relief?

[_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book
to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear;
then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.]

_Julian (bursting into tears_).
Father, I am thy _child_.
Forgive me this:
Thy poetry is very hard to read.

SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_.

_Lily_.
Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad
Not to have any mother! Shall I ask
This gentleman if he knows where she is?

_Julian_.
No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by.

BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together.

_Bernard_.
Have you seen Seaford lately?
_Gentleman_.
No. In fact,
He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago.
Sam saw him with a lady in his cab;
And if I hear aright, one more is missing--
Just the companion for his lordship's taste.
You've not forgot that fine Italian woman
You met there once, some months ago?

_Bern_.
Forgot her!
I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough:
Her husband is alive!

_Lily_.
Mother was Italy, father,--was she not?

_Julian_.
Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word.

_Gentleman_.
Oh, yes; no doubt!
But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature!

_Bern_.
Something quite different, I assure you, Harry.
Last week I saw him--never to forget him--
Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast.

_Gentleman_.
Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely.
'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize
Worth sinning for a little more than little.

_Lily_
(_whispering_).
Why don't you ask them whether it was mother?
I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it.

_Gentleman_.
Look what a lovely child!

_Bern_.
Harry! Good heavens!
It is the Count Lamballa. Come along.

SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_.

_Julian_.
I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou,
To whom I never lift my soul, in hope
To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears
Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart
That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought
Of him in whom I live, who lives in me,
And makes me live in him; by whose one thought,
Alone, unreachable, the making thought,
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here,
A living, thinking will, that cannot know
The power whereby I am--so blest the more
In being thus in thee--Father, thy child.
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.
My being shares thy glory: lay on me
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me
Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I
May do it as my best, my highest joy;
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.

Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know
The power in thee to purify from sin.
But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive.
Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.
She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!--
I will love her the more, to fill the cup;
One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled;
For if I love her not, how desolate
The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not.

I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:--
Give me my wife again, that I may watch
And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell
What loving-kindness I have found in thee;
And she will come to thee to make her clean.
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss,
To know a dead one lieth in the house:
Let me be near her in that agony,
To tend her in the fever of the soul,
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope,
Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh;
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.
God, I would give her love like thine to me,
_Because_ I love her, and her need is great.
Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me,
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell:
Help me to love her with a love like thine.

How shall I find her? It were horrible
If the dread hour should come, and I not near.
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang,
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse,
For she must hate the evil she has done;
Only take not away hope utterly.

_Lily (in her sleep_).
Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall.
_Julian (going to her_).
She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill.
I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless.
To-morrow I will take her to the sea.

[_Returning_.]

If I knew where, I would write to her, and write
So tenderly, she could not choose but come.
I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream
I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well.

[_He sits down and writes_.]

My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe.
I was alone upon a desolate moor;
And the wind blew by fits and died away--
I know not if it was the wind or me.
How long I wandered there, I cannot tell;
But some one came and took me by the hand.
I gazed, but could not see the form that led me,
And went unquestioning, I cared not whither.
We came into a street I seemed to know,
Came to a house that I had seen before.
The shutters were all closed; the house was dead.
The door went open soundless. We went in,
And entered yet again an inner room.
The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if
From striking on it. The door closed behind.
And then I saw that there was something black,
Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up
In the middle of the room. And then I saw
That there were shapes of woe all round the room,
Like women in long mantles, bent in grief,
With long veils hanging low down from their heads,
All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound
Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing
Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures
Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed,
The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left
The house in long procession. I was walking
Alone beside the coffin--such it was--
Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing.
And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes:
Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up
White arms of lamentation; Desdemona
In her night-robe, crimson on the left side;
Thekla in black, with resolute white face;
And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow--
That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen
Upon her face. And many more I knew--
Long-suffering women, true in heart and life;
Women that make man proud for very love
Of their humility, and of his pride
Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife.
On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills
Began to rise on each side of the path
Until at last we came into a glen,
From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven,
Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies.
Upon the eastern side one mighty summit
Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air;
And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint,
A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night.
From base to top, on climbing peak and crag,
Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes,
Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth
Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired
Great men of old--up, even to the apex
Of the snow-spear-point. _Morning_ had arisen
From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel
Of Michelangelo laid him reclining,
And stood upon the crest.
A cry awoke
Amid the watchers at the lowest base,
And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth,
Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top;
And "_Is God coming_?" was the cry; which died
Away in silence; for no voice said _No_.
The bearers stood and set the coffin down;
The mourners gathered round it in a group;
Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why.
So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke,
And clomb the mountain-side, and died away
In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came.

How long we waited thus, I cannot tell--
How oft the cry arose and died again.

At last, from far, faint summit to the base,
Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes,
A mighty voice descended: "_God is coming_!"
Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side,
From all that multitude's melodious throats,
Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer!
It ceased, for hope was too intense for song.
A pause.--The figure on the crest flashed out,
Bordered with light. The sun was rising--rose
Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen
Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group.

What God did for the rest, I know not; it
Was easy to help them.--I saw them not.--
I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own!
Thy lovely face angelic now with grief;
But that I saw not first: thy head was bent,
Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between.
I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise,
Once only lifting that sweet face to mine,
Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream
Had lasted ever!--No; 'twas but a dream;
Thou art not rescued yet.

Earth's morning came,
And my soul's morning died in tearful gray.
The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped
In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring;
The last I heard, a chant break suddenly
Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound:
I had not listened in the excess of joy.

SCENE XVIII.--_Portsmouth. A bedroom_. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE.

_Lord S_.
Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry.
If you could go alone, I'd have you go.

_Lady Gertrude_.
And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel.
Believe me, father, I am happier
In your sick room, than on a glowing island
In the blue Bay of Naples.

_Lord S_.
It was so sudden!
'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly.
But have your walk before the sun be hot.
Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.

_Lady Gertrude_.
Good-bye then, father, for a little
while.

[_Goes_.]

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