The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

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 höre dich mir nah',
      Stimmen in den Blättern da;
      Wenn ich fühl' 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 völlig lieb du hast,
      Daseyn ist nicht eine Last;
      Wenn ich seh' und höre dich,
      Das genügt 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 höre dich,
      Das genügt 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.