LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

      

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