Delphi complete works of.., p.1152
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells, page 1152
II.
Prattling on of these things, which I think cannot interest deeply,
So I hold back in my heart its dear and wonderful secret
(Which I must tell you at last, however I falter to tell you),
Fain to keep it all my own for a little while longer, —
Doubting but it shall lose some part of its strangeness and sweetness,
Shared with another, and fearful that even you may not find it
Just the marvel that I do — and thus turn our friendship to hatred.
Sometimes it seems to me that this love, which I feel is eternal,
Must have begun with my life, and that only an absence was ended
When we met and knew in our souls that we loved one another.
For from the first was no doubt. The earliest hints of the passion,
Whispered to girlhood’s tremulous dream, may be mixed with misgiving,
But, when the very love comes, it bears no vagueness of meaning;
Touched by its truth (too fine to be felt by the ignorant senses,
Knowing but looks and utterance) soul unto soul makes confession,
Silence to silence speaks. And I think that this subtile assurance,
Yet unconfirmed from without, is even sweeter and dearer
Than the perfected bliss that comes when the words have been spoken.
— Not that I’d have them unsaid, now! But ‘t was delicious to ponder
All the miracle over, and clasp it, and keep it, and hide it, —
While I beheld him, you know, with looks of indifferent languor,
Talking of other things, and felt the divine contradiction
Trouble my heart below!
And yet, if no doubt touched our passion,
Do not believe for that, our love has been wholly unclouded.
All best things are ours when pain and patience have won them:
Peace itself would mean nothing but for the strife that preceded;
Triumph of love is greatest, when peril of love has been sorest.
(That’s to say, I dare say. I’m only repeating what he said.)
Well, then, of all wretched things in the world, a mystery, Clara,
Lurked in this life dear to mine, and hopelessly held us asunder
When we drew nearest together, and all but his speech said, “I love you.”
Fred had known him at college, and then had found him at Naples,
After several years, — and called him a capital fellow.
Thus far his knowledge went, and beyond this began to run shallow
Over troubled ways, and to break into brilliant conjecture,
Harder by far to endure than the other’s reticent absence —
Absence wherein at times he seemed to walk like one troubled
By an uneasy dream, whose spell is not broken with waking,
But it returns all day with a vivid and sudden recurrence,
Like a remembered event. Of the past that was closest the present,
This we knew from himself: He went at the earliest summons,
When the Rebellion began, and falling, terribly wounded,
Into the enemy’s hands, after ages of sickness and prison,
Made his escape at last; and, returning, found all his virtues
Grown out of recognition and shining in posthumous splendor, —
Found all changed and estranged, and, he fancied, more wonder than welcome.
So, somewhat heavy of heart, and disabled for war, he had wandered
Hither to Europe for perfecter peace. Abruptly his silence,
Full of suggestion and sadness, made here a chasm between us;
But we spanned the chasm with conversational bridges,
Else talked all around it, and feigned an ignorance of it,
With that absurd pretence which is always so painful, or comic,
Just as you happen to make it or see it.
In spite of our fictions,
Severed from his by that silence, my heart grew ever more anxious,
Till last night when together we sat in Piazza San Marco
(Then, when the morrow must bring us parting — forever, it might be),
Taking our ices al fresco. Some strolling minstrels were singing
Airs from the Trovatore. I noted with painful observance,
With the unwilling minuteness at such times absolute torture,
All that brilliant scene, for which I cared nothing, before me:
Dark-eyed Venetian leoni regarding the forestieri
With those compassionate looks of gentle and curious wonder
Home-keeping Italy’s nations bend on the voyaging races, —
Taciturn, indolent, sad, as their beautiful city itself is;
Groups of remotest English — not just the traditional English
(Lavish Milor is no more, and your travelling Briton is frugal) —
English, though, after all, with the Channel always between them,
Islanded in themselves, and the Continent’s sociable races;
Country-people of ours — the New World’s confident children,
Proud of America always, and even vain of the Troubles
As of disaster laid out on a scale unequalled in Europe;
Polyglot Russians that spoke all languages better than natives;
White-coated Austrian officers, anglicized Austrian dandies;
Gorgeous Levantine figures of Greek, and Turk, and Albanian —
These, and the throngs that moved through the long arcades and Piazza,
Shone on by numberless lamps that flamed round the perfect Piazza,
Jewel-like set in the splendid frame of this beautiful picture,
Full of such motley life, and so altogether Venetian.
Then we rose and walked where the lamps were blanched by the moonlight
Flooding the Piazzetta with splendor, and throwing in shadow
All the façade of Saint Mark’s, with its pillars, and horses, and arches;
But the sculptured frondage, that blossoms over the arches
Into the forms of saints, was touched with tenderest lucence,
And the angel that stands on the crest of the vast campanile
Bathed his golden vans in the liquid light of the moonbeams.
Black rose the granite pillars that lift the Saint and the Lion;
Black sank the island campanili from distance to distance;
Over the charmèd scene there brooded a presence of music,
Subtler than sound, and felt, unheard, in the depth of the spirit.
How can I gather and show you the airy threads of enchantment
Woven that night round my life and forever wrought into my being,
As in our boat we glided away from the glittering city?
Dull at heart I felt, and I looked at the lights in the water,
Blurring their brilliance with tears, while the tresses of eddying seaweed,
Whirled in the ebbing tide, like the tresses of sea-maidens drifting
Seaward from palace-haunts, in the moonshine glistened and darkened.
Sad and vague were my thoughts, and full of fear was the silence;
And, when he turned to speak at last, I trembled to hear him,
Feeling he now must speak of his love, and his life and its secret, —
Now that the narrowing chances had left but that cruel conclusion,
Else the life-long ache of a love and a trouble unuttered.
Better, my feebleness pleaded, the dreariest doubt that had vexed me,
Than my life left nothing, not even a doubt to console it;
But, while I trembled and listened, his broken words crumbled to silence,
And, as though some touch of fate had thrilled him with warning,
Suddenly from me he turned. Our gondola slipped from the shadow
Under a ship lying near, and glided into the moonlight,
Where, in its brightest lustre, another gondola rested.
I saw two lovers there, and he, in the face of the woman,
Saw what has made him mine, my own belovèd, forever!
Mine! — but through what tribulation, and awful confusion of spirit!
Tears that I think of with smiles, and sighs I remember with laughter,
Agonies full of absurdity, keen, ridiculous anguish,
Ending in depths of blissful shame, and heavenly transports!
III.
White, and estranged as a man who has looked on a spectre, he mutely
Sank to the place at my side, nor while we returned to the city
Uttered a word of explaining, or comment, or comfort, but only,
With his good-night, incoherently craved my forgiveness and patience,
Parted, and left me to spend the night in hysterical vigils,
Tending to Annie’s supreme dismay, and postponing our journey
One day longer at least; for I went to bed in the morning,
Firmly rejecting the pity of friends, and the pleasures of travel,
Fixed in a dreadful purpose never to get any better.
Later, however, I rallied, when Fred, with a maddening prologue
Touching the cause of my sickness, including his fever at Jaffa,
Told me that some one was waiting; and could he see me a moment?
See me? Certainly not. Or, — yes. But why did he want to?
So, in the dishabille of a morning-gown and an arm-chair,
Languid, with eloquent wanness of eye and of cheek, I received him —
Willing to touch and reproach, and half-melted myself by my pathos,
Which, with a reprobate joy, I wholly forgot the next instant,
When, with electric words, few, swift, and vivid, he brought me,
Through a brief tempest of tears, to this heaven of sunshine and sweetness.
Yes, he had looked on a ghost — the phantom of love that was perished! —
When, last night, he beheld the scene of which I have told you.
For to the woman he saw there, his troth had been solemnly plighted
Ere he went to the war. His return from the dead found her absent
In the belief of his death; and hither to Europe he followed, —
Followed to seek her, and keep, if she would, the promise between them,
Or, were a haunting doubt confirmed, to break it and free her.
Then, at Naples we met, and the love that, before he was conscious,
Turned his life toward mine, laid torturing stress to the purpose
Whither it drove him forever, and whence forever it swerved him.
How could he tell me his love, with this terrible burden upon him?
How could he linger near me, and still withhold the avowal?
And what ruin were that, if the other were doubted unjustly,
And should prove fatally true! With shame, he confessed he had faltered,
Clinging to guilty delays, and to hopes that were bitter with treason,
Up to the eve of our parting. And then the last anguish was spared him.
Her love for him was dead. But the heart that leaped in his bosom
With a great, dumb throb of joy and wonder and doubting,
Still must yield to the spell of his silencing will till that phantom
Proved an actual ghost by common-place tests of the daylight,
Such as speech with the lady’s father.
And now, could I pardon —
Nay, did I think I could love him? I sobbingly answered, I thought so.
And we are all of us going to Lago di Como to-morrow,
With an ulterior view at the first convenient Legation.
Patientest darling, good-by! Poor Fred, whose sense of what’s proper
Never was touched till now, is shocked at my glad self-betrayals,
And I am pointed out as an awful example to Annie,
Figuring all she must never be. But, oh, if he loves me! —
POSTSCRIPT.
Since, he has shown me a letter in which he absolves and forgives her
(Philip, of course, not Fred; and the other, of course, and not Annie).
Don’t you think him generous, noble, unselfish, heroic?
L’ENVOY. — Clara’s Comment.
Well, I’m glad, I am sure, if Fanny supposes she’s happy.
I’ve no doubt her lover is good and noble — as men go.
But, as regards his release of a woman who’d wholly forgot him,
And whom he loved no longer, for one whom he loves, and who loves him,
I don’t exactly see where the heroism commences.
THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS.
There is a bird that comes and sings
In the Professor’s garden-trees;
Upon the English oak he swings,
And tilts and tosses in the breeze.
I know his name, I know his note,
That so with rapture takes my soul;
Like flame the gold beneath his throat,
His glossy cope is black as coal.
O oriole, it is the song
You sang me from the cottonwood,
Too young to feel that I was young,
Too glad to guess if life were good.
And while I hark, before my door,
Adown the dusty Concord Road,
The blue Miami flows once more
As by the cottonwood it flowed.
And on the bank that rises steep,
And pours a thousand tiny rills,
From death and absence laugh and leap
My school-mates to their flutter-mills.
The blackbirds jangle in the tops
Of hoary-antlered sycamores;
The timorous killdee starts and stops
Among the drift-wood on the shores.
Below, the bridge — a noonday fear
Of dust and shadow shot with sun —
Stretches its gloom from pier to pier,
Far unto alien coasts unknown.
And on those alien coasts, above,
Where silver ripples break the stream’s
Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove
A hidden parrot scolds and screams.
Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things:
A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath —
It is a song the oriole sings —
And all the rest belongs to death.
But oriole, my oriole,
Were some bright seraph sent from bliss
With songs of heaven to win my soul
From simple memories such as this,
What could he tell to tempt my ear
From you? What high thing could there be,
So tenderly and sweetly dear
As my lost boyhood is to me?
PORDENONE.
I.
Hard by the Church of Saint Stephen, in sole and beautiful Venice,
Under the colonnade of the Augustinian Convent,
Every day, as I passed, I paused to look at the frescos
Painted upon the ancient walls of the court of the Convent
By a great master of old, who wore his sword and his dagger
While he wrought the figures of patriarchs, martyrs, and virgins
Into the sacred and famous scenes of Scriptural story.
II.
Long ago the monks from their snug self-devotion were driven,
Wistful and fat and slow: looking backward, I fancied them going
Out through the sculptured doorway, and down the Ponte de’Frati,
Cowled and sandalled and beaded, a plump and pensive procession;
And in my day their cells were barracks for Austrian soldiers,
Who in their turn have followed the Augustinian Friars.
As to the frescos, little remained of work once so perfect.
Summer and winter weather of some three cycles had wasted;
Plaster had fallen, and left unsightly blotches of ruin;
Wanton and stupid neglect had done its worst to the pictures:
Yet to the sympathetic and reverent eye was apparent —
Where the careless glance but found, in expanses of plaster,
Touches of incoherent color and lines interrupted —
Somewhat still of the life of surpassing splendor and glory
Filling the frescos once; and here and there was a figure,
Standing apart, and out from the common decay and confusion,
Flushed with immortal youth and ineffaceable beauty,
Such as that figure of Eve in pathetic expulsion from Eden,
Taking — the tourist remembers — the wrath of Heaven al fresco,
As is her well-known custom in thousands of acres of canvas.
III.
I could make out the much-bepainted Biblical subjects,
When I had patience enough: The Temptation, of course, and Expulsion;
Cain killing Abel, his Brother — the merest fragment of murder;
Noah’s Debauch — the trunk of the sea-faring patriarch naked,
And the garment, borne backward to cover it, fearfully tattered;
Abraham offering Isaac — no visible Isaac, and only
Abraham’s lifted knife held back by the hovering angel;
Martyrdom of Saint Stephen — a part of the figure of Stephen;
And the Conversion of Paul — the greaves on the leg of a soldier
Held across the back of a prostrate horse by the stirrup;
But when I looked at the face of that tearful and beauteous figure, —
Eve in the fresco there, and, in Venice of old, Violante,
As I must fain believe (the lovely daughter of Palma,
Who was her father’s Saint Barbara, and was the Bella of Titian), —
Such a meaning and life shone forth from its animate presence
As could restore those vague and ineffectual pictures,
With their pristine colors, and fill them with light and with movement.
Nay, sometimes it could blind me to all the present about me,
Till I beheld no more the sausage-legged Austrian soldiers,
Where they stood on guard beside one door of the Convent,
Nor the sentinel beggars that watched the approach to the other;
Neither the bigolanti, the broad-backed Friulan maidens,
Drawing the water with clatter and splashing, and laughter and gossip,
Out of the carven well in the midst of the court of the Convent —
No, not even the one with the mole on her cheek and the sidelong
Look, as she ambled forth with her buckets of bronze at her shoulder,
