His being—there are some by nature proud,
Who patient in all else demand but this:
To love and be beloved with gentleness;
And being scorned, what wonder if they die
210Some living death? This is not destiny
But man’s own wilful ill.’ As thus I spoke
Servants announced the gondola, and we
Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea
Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands.
215We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands,
Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,
And laughter where complaint had merrier been,
Moans, shrieks and curses and blaspheming prayers
Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs
220Into an old court-yard. I heard on high
Then, fragments of most touching melody,
But looking up saw not the singer there—
Through the black bars in the tempestuous air
I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,
225Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing,
Of those who on a sudden were beguiled
Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled
Hearing sweet sounds.—Then I: ‘Methinks there were
A cure of these with patience and kind care
230If music can thus move … but what is he
Whom we seek here?’ ‘Of his sad history
I know but this,’ said Maddalo, ‘he came
To Venice a dejected man, and fame
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so;
235Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe;
But he was ever talking in such sort
As you do—far more sadly—he seemed hurt,
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,
To hear but of the oppression of the strong,
240Or those absurd deceits (I think with you
In some respects, you know) which carry through
The excellent impostors of this Earth
When they outface detection—he had worth,
Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way.’—
245‘Alas, what drove him mad?’ ‘I cannot say;
A Lady came with him from France, and when
She left him and returned, he wandered then
About yon lonely isles of desart sand
Till he grew wild—he had no cash or land
250Remaining,—the police had brought him here—
Some fancy took him and he would not bear
Removal; so I fitted up for him
Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim,
And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers
255Which had adorned his life in happier hours,
And instruments of music—you may guess
A stranger could do little more or less
For one so gentle and unfortunate,
And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight
260From madmen’s chains, and make this Hell appear
A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.’—
‘Nay, this was kind of you—he had no claim,
As the world says.’—‘None—but the very same
Which I on all mankind were I as he
265Fallen to such deep reverse;—his melody
Is interrupted now—we hear the din
Of madmen, shriek on shriek again begin;
Let us now visit him; after this strain
He ever communes with himself again,
270And sees nor hears not any.’ Having said
These words we called the keeper, and he led
To an apartment opening on the sea.—
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined
275One with the other, and the ooze and wind
Rushed thro’ an open casement, and did sway
His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;
His head was leaning on a music book,
And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;
280His lips were pressed against a folded leaf
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart—
As one who wrought from his own fervid heart
The eloquence of passion, soon he raised
285His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed
And spoke—sometimes as one who wrote and thought
His words might move some heart that heeded not
If sent to distant lands; and then as one
Reproaching deeds never to be undone
290With wondering self-compassion; then his speech
Was lost in grief, and then his words came each
Unmodulated, cold, expressionless;
But that from one jarred accent you might guess
It was despair made them so uniform:
295And all the while the loud and gusty storm
Hissed thro’ the window, and we stood behind
Stealing his accents from the envious wind
Unseen. I yet remember what he said
Distinctly: such impression his words made.
300 ‘Month after month,’ he cried, ‘to bear this load
And as a jade urged by the whip and goad
To drag life on, which like a heavy chain
Lengthens behind with many a link of pain!—
And not to speak my grief—O not to dare
305To give a human voice to my despair,
But live and move, and wretched thing! smile on
As if I never went aside to groan
And wear this mask of falshood even to those
Who are most dear—not for my own repose—
310Alas, no scorn or pain or hate could be
So heavy as that falshood is to me—
But that I cannot bear more altered faces
Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,
More misery, disappointment and mistrust
315To own me for their father … Would the dust
Were covered in upon my body now!
That the life ceased to toil within my brow!
And then these thoughts would at the least be fled;
Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.
320 ‘What Power delights to torture us? I know
That to myself I do not wholly owe
What now I suffer, tho’ in part I may.
Alas, none strewed sweet flowers upon the way
Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain
325My shadow, which will leave me not again—
If I have erred, there was no joy in error,
But pain and insult and unrest and terror;
I have not as some do, bought penitence
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence,
330For then,—if love and tenderness and truth
Had overlived hope’s momentary youth,
My creed should have redeemed me from repenting,
But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting
Met love excited by far other seeming
335Until the end was gained … as one from dreaming
Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state
Such as it is.—
‘O Thou, my spirit’s mate
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes
340If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see—
My secret groans must be unheard by thee,
Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know
Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.
‘Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed
345In friendship, let me not that name degrade
By placing on your hearts the secret load
Which crushes mine to dust. There is one
road
To peace and that is truth, which follow ye!
Love sometimes leads astray to misery.
350Yet think not tho’ subdued—and I may well
Say that I am subdued—that the full Hell
Within me would infect the untainted breast
Of sacred nature with its own unrest;
As some perverted beings think to find
355In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind
Which scorn or hate have wounded—O how vain!
The dagger heals not but may rend again …
Believe that I am ever still the same
In creed as in resolve, and what may tame
360My heart, must leave the understanding free
Or all would sink in this keen agony—
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry,
Or with my silence sanction tyranny,
Or seek a moment’s shelter from my pain
365In any madness which the world calls gain,
Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern
As those which make me what I am, or turn
To avarice or misanthropy or lust …
Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!
370Till then the dungeon may demand its prey,
And poverty and shame may meet and say—
Halting beside me on the public way—
“That love-devoted youth is ours—let’s sit
Beside him—he may live some six months yet.”
375Or the red scaffold, as our country bends,
May ask some willing victim, or ye friends
May fall under some sorrow which this heart
Or hand may share or vanquish or avert;
I am prepared: in truth with no proud joy
380To do or suffer aught, as when a boy
I did devote to justice and to love
My nature, worthless now!…
‘I must remove
A veil from my pent mind. ’Tis torn aside!
O, pallid as death’s dedicated bride,
385Thou mockery which art sitting by my side,
Am I not wan like thee? at the grave’s call
I haste, invited to thy wedding ball
To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom
Thou hast deserted me … and made the tomb
390Thy bridal bed … but I beside your feet
Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet—
Thus … wide awake tho’ dead … yet stay, O stay!
Go not so soon—I know not what I say—
Hear but my reasons … I am mad, I fear,
395My fancy is o’erwrought … thou art not here …
Pale art thou, ’tis most true … but thou art gone,
Thy work is finished … I am left alone!—
* * * * * * *
‘Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast
Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest
400As in repayment of the warmth it lent?
Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?
Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought
That thou wert she who said “You kiss me not
Ever, I fear you cease to love me now”—
405In truth I loved even to my overthrow
Her, who would fain forget these words: but they
Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.
* * * * * * *
‘You say that I am proud—that when I speak
My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break
410The spirit it expresses … Never one
Humbled himself before, as I have done!
Even the instinctive worm on which we tread
Turns, tho’ it wound not—then with prostrate head
Sinks in the dust and writhes like me—and dies?
415No: wears a living death of agonies!
As the slow shadows of the pointed grass
Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass
Slow, ever-moving,—making moments be
As mine seem—each an immortality!
* * * * * * *
420 ‘That you had never seen me—never heard
My voice, and more than all had ne’er endured
The deep pollution of my loathed embrace—
That your eyes ne’er had lied love in my face—
That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out
425The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root
With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne’er
Our hearts had for a moment mingled there
To disunite in horror—these were not
With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought
430Which flits athwart our musings, but can find
No rest within a pure and gentle mind …
Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word
And cearedst my memory o’er them,—for I heard
And can forget not … they were ministered
435One after one, those curses. Mix them up
Like self-destroying poisons in one cup,
And they will make one blessing, which thou ne’er
Didst imprecate for, on me,—death.
* * * * * * *
‘It were
A cruel punishment for one most cruel,
440If such can love, to make that love the fuel
Of the mind’s hell—hate, scorn, remorse, despair:
But me—whose heart a stranger’s tear might wear
As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone,
Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan
445For woes which others hear not, and could see
The absent with the glance of phantasy,
And with the poor and trampled sit and weep,
Following the captive to his dungeon deep;
Me—who am as a nerve o’er which do creep
450The else unfelt oppressions of this earth
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth
When all beside was cold—that thou on me
Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony—
Such curses are from lips once eloquent
455With love’s too partial praise—let none relent
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name
Henceforth, if an example for the same
They seek … for thou on me lookedst so, and so—
And didst speak thus … and thus … I live to shew
460How much men bear and die not!
* * * * * * *
‘Thou wilt tell
With the grimace of hate how horrible
It was to meet my love when thine grew less;
Thou wilt admire how I could e’er address
Such features to love’s work … this taunt, tho’ true,
465(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue
Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)
Shall not be thy defence … for since thy lip
Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled
With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled
470Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught
But as love changes what it loveth not
After long years and many trials.
‘How vain
Are words! I thought never to speak again
Not even in secret,—not to my own heart—
475But from my lips the unwilling accents start
And from my pen the words flow as I write,
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears … my sight
Is dim to see that charactered in vain
On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain
480And eats into it … blotting all things fair
And wise and good which time had written there.
‘Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
The work of their own hearts and this must be
Our chastisement or recompense—O child!
485I w
ould that thine were like to be more mild
For both our wretched sakes … for thine the most
Who feelest already all that thou hast lost
Without the power to wish it thine again;
And as slow years pass, a funereal train
490Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend
No thought on my dead memory?
* * * * * * *
‘Alas, love!
Fear me not … against thee I would not move
A finger in despite. Do I not live
495That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?
I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate
And that thy lot may be less desolate
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.
500Then, when thou speakest of me, never say
He could forgive not. Here I cast away
All human passions, all revenge, all pride;
I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide
Under these words like embers, every spark
505Of that which has consumed me—quick and dark
The grave is yawning … as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms under and over
So let Oblivion hide this grief … the air
Closes upon my accents, as despair
510Upon my heart—let death upon despair!’
He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile,
Then rising, with a melancholy smile
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept
515And muttered some familiar name, and we
Wept without shame in his society.
I think I never was impressed so much;
The man who were not, must have lacked a touch
Of human nature … then we lingered not,
520Although our argument was quite forgot,
But calling the attendants, went to dine
At Maddalo’s; yet neither cheer nor wine
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;
525And we agreed his was some dreadful ill
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot
530Of falshood on his mind which flourished not
But in the light of all-beholding truth,
And having stamped this canker on his youth
She had abandoned him … and how much more
Might be his woe, we guessed not—he had store
Selected Poems and Prose Page 22
