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The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic
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A TOUCH OF NATURE
When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes Into my veins and makes me kith and kin To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, Far from the brambly paths I used to know, Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine Where the Neponset alders take their glow, I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine.MEMORY
My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour— 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May— The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree."I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW"
I'll not confer with Sorrow Till to-morrow; But Joy shall have her way This very day. Ho, eglantine and cresses For her tresses!— Let Care, the beggar, wait Outside the gate. Tears if you will—but after Mirth and laughter; Then, folded hands on breast And endless rest.A DEDICATION
Take these rhymes into thy grace, Since they are of thy begetting, Lady, that dost make each place Where thou art a jewel's setting. Some such glamour lend this Book: Let it be thy poet's wages That henceforth thy gracious look Lies reflected on its pages.NO SONGS IN WINTER
The sky is gray as gray may be, There is no bird upon the bough, There is no leaf on vine or tree. In the Neponset marshes now Willow-stems, rosy in the wind, Shiver with hidden sense of snow. So too 'tis winter in my mind, No light-winged fancy comes and stays: A season churlish and unkind. Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days, The black ink crusts upon the pen— Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays And golden orioles come again!"LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND"
Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand And seeing a human footprint on the sand, Have I this day been startled, finding here, Set in brown mould and delicately clear, Spring's footprint—the first crocus of the year! O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude! Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood Flock from all sides with much ado and stir, And make of me most willing prisoner!THE LETTER
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887 I held his letter in my hand, And even while I read The lightning flashed across the land The word that he was dead. How strange it seemed! His living voice Was speaking from the page Those courteous phrases, tersely choice, Light-hearted, witty, sage. I wondered what it was that died! The man himself was here, His modesty, his scholar's pride, His soul serene and clear. These neither death nor time shall dim, Still this sad thing must be— Henceforth I may not speak to him, Though he can speak to me!SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS"
That face which no man ever saw And from his memory banished quite, With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light, Looks from this frame. A master's hand Has set the master-player here, In the fair temple that he planned Not for himself. To us most dear This image of him! "It was thus He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; With that same grace he greeted us— Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!" Sad words that shall be said some day— Far fall the day! O cruel Time, Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, Spare long this image of his prime, That others standing in the place Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, May know what sweet majestic face The gentle Prince of Players wore!PAULINE PAVLOVNA
SCENE: St. Petersburg. Period: the present time. A ballroom in the winter palace of the Prince—. The ladies in character costumes and masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the exception of six tall figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated with marked distinction as they move here and there among the promenaders. Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. Count SERGIUS PAVLOVICH PANSHINE, who has just arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway of an antechamber with his eyes fixed upon a lady in the costume of a maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently disengages herself from the crowd, and passes near Count PANSHINE, who impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her across the threshold of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied.
HE.
Pauline!SHE.
You knew me?HE.
How could I have failed? A mask may hide your features, not your soul. There is an air about you like the air That folds a star. A blind man knows the night, And feels the constellations. No coarse sense Of eye or ear had made you plain to me. Through these I had not found you; for your eyes, As blue as violets of our Novgorod, Look black behind your mask there, and your voice— I had not known that either. My heart said, "Pauline Pavlovna."SHE.
Ah! Your heart said that? You trust your heart, then! 'Tis a serious risk!— How is it you and others wear no mask?HE.
The Emperor's orders.SHE.
Is the Emperor here? I have not seen him.HE.
He is one of the six In scarlet kaftans and all masked alike. Watch—you will note how every one bows down Before those figures, thinking each by chance May be the Tsar; yet none knows which is he. Even his counterparts are left in doubt. Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore Such chains as gall our Emperor these sad days. He dare trust no man.SHE.
All men are so false.HE.
Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna.SHE.
No; all, all! I think there is no truth left in the world, In man or woman. Once were noble souls.— Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night?HE.
Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first. Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes, In all this glare of light; but in some place Where I could throw me at your feet and weep. In what shape came the story to your ear? Decked in the teller's colors, I'll be sworn; The truth, but in the livery of a lie, And so must wrong me. Only this is true: The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life To shield a life as wretched as my own, Bestows upon me, as supreme reward— O irony!—the hand of this poor girl. Says, HERE, I HAVE THE PEARL OF PEARLS FOR YOU, SUCH AS WAS NEVER PLUCKED FROM OUT THE DEEP BY INDIAN DIVER, FOR A SULTAN'S CROWN. YOUR JOY'S DECREED, and stabs me with a smile.SHE.
And she—she loves you?HE.
I know not, indeed. Likes me, perhaps. What matters it?—HER love! The guardian, Sidor Yurievich, consents, And she consents. No love in it at all, A mere caprice, a young girl's spring-tide dream. Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare, She'll have a lover—something ready-made, Or improvised between two cups of tea— A lover by imperial ukase! Fate said her word—I chanced to be the man! If that grenade the crazy student threw Had not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar, All this would not have happened. I'd have been A hero, but quite safe from her romance. She takes me for a hero—think of that! Now by our holy Lady of Kazan, When I have finished pitying myself, I'll pity her.SHE.
Oh no; begin with her; She needs it most.HE.
At her door lies the blame, Whatever falls. She, with a single word, With half a tear, had stopt it at the first, This cruel juggling with poor human hearts.SHE.
The Tsar commanded it—you said the Tsar.HE.
The Tsar does what she wills—God fathoms why. Were she his mistress, now! but there's no snow Whiter within the bosom of a cloud, Nor colder either. She is very haughty, For all her fragile air of gentleness; With something vital in her, like those flowers That on our desolate steppes outlast the year. Resembles you in some things. It was that First made us friends. I do her justice, see! For we were friends in that smooth surface way We Russians have imported out of France. Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heaven This bolt fell on me! After these two years, My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, The old wrong righted, the estates restored, And my promotion, with the ink not dry! Those fairies which neglected me at birth Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me— Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to taste The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lip. This very night—just think, this very night— I planned to come and beg of you the alms I dared not ask for in my poverty. I thought me poor then. How stript am I now! There's not a ragged mendicant one meets Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave To tell his love, and I have not that right! Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there Stark as a statue, with no word to say?SHE.
Because this thing has frozen up my heart. I think that there is something killed in me, A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. What shall I say? What would you have me say?HE.
If it be possible, the word of words!SHE, VERY SLOWLY.
Well, then—I love you. I may tell you so This once, . . . and then forever hold my peace. We cannot stay here longer unobserved. No—do not touch me! but stand further off, And seem to laugh, as if we jested—eyes, Eyes everywhere! Now turn your face away . . . I love you.HE.
With such music in my ears I would death found me. It were sweet to die Listening! You love me—prove it.SHE.
Prove it—how? I prove it saying it. How else?HE.
Pauline, I have three things to choose from; you shall choose: This marriage, or Siberia, or France. The first means hell; the second, purgatory; The third—with you—were nothing less than heaven!SHE, STARTING.
How dared you even dream it!HE.
I was mad. This business has touched me in the brain. Have patience! the calamity's so new. (Pauses.) There is a fourth way; but that gate is shut To brave men who hold life a thing of God.SHE.
Yourself spoke there; the rest was not of you.HE.
Oh, lift me to your level! So I'm safe. What's to be done?SHE.
There must be some path out. Perhaps the Emperor—HE.
Not a ray of hope! His mind is set on this with that insistence Which seems to seize on all match-making folk. The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad.SHE.
Your father's friend, the Metropolitan— A word from him . . .HE.
Alas, he too is bitten! Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he sees This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege, And opens every door to preference.SHE.
Think while I think. There surely is some key Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. Nastasia!HE.
What! beg life of her? Not I.SHE.
Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all, would she not pity us? For if she love you, as I think she must, Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, Ennobling it an instant, if no more! You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her, in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much—ah, but 'twill hurt!— Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find—HE.
A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein.SHE.
How blindly you read her, Or any woman! Yes, I know. I grant How small we often seem in our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents— Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men— Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you.HE.
Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! But there's no martyr wrapt in HER rose flesh. There should have been; for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same Southern music to your lips, Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mould, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! I know her wilful—her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since spoiled here; as soft as swan's down now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her, between two rosy smiles, Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!" That is the sum of her.SHE.
You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken The soul these two months—and the face to-night! [Removes her mask.]HE.
You!—it was YOU!SHE.
Count Sergius Pavlovich, Go find Pauline Pavlovna—she is here— And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. [She goes out hurriedly, replacing her mask.]BAGATELLE
CORYDON
A PASTORALSCENE: A roadside in Arcady
SHEPHERD.
Good sir, have you seen pass this way A mischief straight from market-day? You'd know her at a glance, I think; Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; She has a way of looking back Over her shoulder, and, alack! Who gets that look one time, good sir, Has naught to do but follow her.PILGRIM.
I have not seen this maid, methinks, Though she that passed had lips like pinks.SHEPHERD.
Or like two strawberries made one By some sly trick of dew and sun.PILGRIM.
A poet!SHEPHERD.
Nay, a simple swain That tends his flock on yonder plain, Naught else, I swear by book and bell. But she that passed—you marked her well. Was she not smooth as any be That dwell herein in Arcady?PILGRIM.
Her skin was as the satin bark Of birches.SHEPHERD.
Light or dark?PILGRIM.
Quite dark.SHEPHERD.
Then 'twas not she.PILGRIM.
The peach's side That's next the sun is not so dyed As was her cheek. Her hair hung down Like summer twilight falling brown; And when the breeze swept by, I wist Her face was in a sombre mist.SHEPHERD.
No, that is not the maid I seek. HER hair lies gold against the cheek; Her yellow tresses take the morn Like silken tassels of the corn. And yet—brown locks are far from bad.PILGRIM.
Now I bethink me, this one had A figure like the willow-tree Which, slight and supple, wondrously Inclines to droop with pensive grace, And still retains its proper place; A foot so arched and very small The marvel was she walked at all; Her hand—in sooth I lack for words— Her hand, five slender snow-white birds. Her voice—though she but said "God-speed"— Was melody blown through a reed; The girl Pan changed into a pipe Had not a note so full and ripe. And then her eye—my lad, her eye! Discreet, inviting, candid, shy, An outward ice, an inward fire, And lashes to the heart's desire— Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.SHEPHERD, THOUGHTFULLY.
Good sir, which way did THIS one go? . . . . . . . .PILGRIM, SOLUS.
So, he is off! The silly youth Knoweth not Love in sober sooth. He loves—thus lads at first are blind— No woman, only Womankind. I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass, No maid at all did this way pass!AT A READING
The spare Professor, grave and bald, Began his paper. It was called, I think, "A Brief Historic Glance At Russia, Germany, and France." A glance, but to my best belief 'Twas almost anything but brief— A wide survey, in which the earth Was seen before mankind had birth; Strange monsters basked them in the sun, Behemoth, armored glyptodon, And in the dawn's unpractised ray The transient dodo winged its way; Then, by degrees, through silt and slough, We reached Berlin—I don't know how. The good Professor's monotone Had turned me into senseless stone Instanter, but that near me sat Hypatia in her new spring hat, Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom Lighted the heavy-curtained room. Hypatia—ah, what lovely things Are fashioned out of eighteen springs! At first, in sums of this amount, The eighteen winters do not count. Just as my eyes were growing dim With heaviness, I saw that slim, Erect, elastic figure there, Like a pond-lily taking air. She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat, So altogether crisp and sweet, I quite forgot what Bismarck said, And why the Emperor shook his head, And how it was Von Moltke's frown Cost France another frontier town. The only facts I took away From the Professor's theme that day Were these: a forehead broad and low, Such as the antique sculptures show; A chin to Greek perfection true; Eyes of Astarte's tender blue; A high complexion without fleck Or flaw, and curls about her neck.THE MENU
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound wine— The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno's breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand. No Persian pomp, you understand— A soup, a fish, two meats, and then A salad fit for aldermen (When aldermen, alas, the days! Were really worth their mayonnaise); A dish of grapes whose clusters won Their bronze in Carolinian sun; Next, cheese—for you the Neufchatel, A bit of Cheshire likes me well; Cafe au lait or coffee black, With Kirsch or Kummel or Cognac (The German band in Irving Place By this time purple in the face); Cigars and pipes. These being through, Friends shall drop in, a very few— Shakespeare and Milton, and no more. When these are guests I bolt the door, With Not at Home to any one Excepting Alfred Tennyson.AN ELECTIVE COURSE
LINES FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF A HARVARD UNDERGRADUATE The bloom that lies on Fanny's cheek Is all my Latin, all my Greek; The only sciences I know Are frowns that gloom and smiles that glow; Siberia and Italy Lie in her sweet geography; No scholarship have I but such As teaches me to love her much. Why should I strive to read the skies, Who know the midnight of her eyes? Why should I go so very far To learn what heavenly bodies are! Not Berenice's starry hair With Fanny's tresses can compare; Not Venus on a cloudless night, Enslaving Science with her light, Ever reveals so much as when SHE stares and droops her lids again. If Nature's secrets are forbidden To mortals, she may keep them hidden. AEons and aeons we progressed And did not let that break our rest; Little we cared if Mars o'erhead Were or were not inhabited; Without the aid of Saturn's rings Fair girls were wived in those far springs; Warm lips met ours and conquered us Or ere thou wert, Copernicus! Graybeards, who seek to bridge the chasm 'Twixt man to-day and protoplasm, Who theorize and probe and gape, And finally evolve an ape— Yours is a harmless sort of cult, If you are pleased with the result. Some folks admit, with cynic grace, That you have rather proved your case. These dogmatists are so severe! Enough for me that Fanny's here, Enough that, having long survived Pre-Eveic forms, she HAS arrived— An illustration the completest Of the survival of the sweetest. Linnaeus, avaunt! I only care To know what flower she wants to wear. I leave it to the addle-pated To guess how pinks originated, As if it mattered! The chief thing Is that we have them in the Spring, And Fanny likes them. When they come, I straightway send and purchase some. The Origin of Plants—go to! Their proper end I have in view. O loveliest book that ever man Looked into since the world began Is Woman! As I turn those pages, As fresh as in the primal ages, As day by day I scan, perplext, The ever subtly changing text, I feel that I am slowly growing To think no other work worth knowing. And in my copy—there is none So perfect as the one I own— I find no thing set down but such As teaches me to love it much.L'EAU DORMANTE
Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book. In vain he tries to win a look, And from the trellis over there Blows sundry kisses through the air, Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen. My lad, if you, without abuse, Will take advice from one who's wiser, And put his wisdom to more use Than ever yet did your adviser; If you will let, as none will do, Another's heartbreak serve for two, You'll have a care, some four years hence, How you lounge there by yonder fence And blow those kisses through that screen— For Lydia will be seventeen.THALIA
A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS BROUGHT HIM HIS HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD HAIR FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK:
I say it under the rose— oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; we are not going to quarrel. We have too long been friends on foot and in gilded coaches, Now that the whole thing ends, to spoil our kiss with reproaches. I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portal— Ah, I no more am young, and you, child, you are immortal! Mine is the glacier's way, yours is the blossom's weather— When were December and May known to be happy together? Before my kisses grow tame, before my moodiness grieve you, While yet my heart is flame, and I all lover, I leave you. So, in the coming time, when you count the rich years over, Think of me in my prime, and not as a white-haired lover, Fretful, pierced with regret, the wraith of a dead Desire Thrumming a cracked spinet by a slowly dying fire. When, at last, I am cold— years hence, if the gods so will it— Say, "He was true as gold," and wear a rose in your fillet! Others, tender as I, will come and sue for caresses, Woo you, win you, and die— mind you, a rose in your tresses! Some Melpomene woo, some hold Clio the nearest; You, sweet Comedy—you were ever sweetest and dearest! Nay, it is time to go— when writing your tragic sister Say to that child of woe how sorry I was I missed her. Really, I cannot stay, though "parting is such sweet sorrow" . . . Perhaps I will, on my way down-town, look in to-morrow!PALINODE
Who is Lydia, pray, and who Is Hypatia? Softly, dear, Let me breathe it in your ear— They are you, and only you. And those other nameless two Walking in Arcadian air— She that was so very fair? She that had the twilight hair?— They were you, dear, only you. If I speak of night or day, Grace of fern or bloom of grape, Hanging cloud or fountain spray, Gem or star or glistening dew, Or of mythologic shape, Psyche, Pyrrha, Daphne, say— I mean you, dear, you, just you.
