DRAMATIC.

Hark, sister! hear we not the vesper hymn? And is it not the hymn that Haydn wrote? Why not push wide the window? Rob we God, If, while our praise to Him be passing by, Some air, made sweeter, tarry here with us? There, there—it dies away.—Why say “it dies”?— Because it lived?—Ay, ay, my body here, Because it moves and throbs and tells of thought And wakens thought in others, thus you know My body lives. And music, while it sounds, Does it not move and throb and tell of thought And waken thought in others?—Then it dies.— But ah, the music, it has never sinn’d, No wish has ever known save that of heaven, And need not linger long here. Yet to eyes That scan eternity, time cannot be The measure gauging vital force; nay, nay: Then heavenly lightning were a weaker thing Then earthly smoke.—Ah, sister, I have thought, If there may rise, high up in halls of heaven, Sweet echoes of our earthly lives, re-lived, Yet not as here they lived, that there may rise From earthly music, echoes just as real. At least, my Haydn’s music throbs with life. The sounds are sentient as his own dear soul; They make me thrill, as if a power should come, And touch, with hands below these fleshly robes, And clasp, as loving spirits do, the spirit. They woo me as a god might, owning heaven. Why should I not talk thus? Go bid the flowers Keep back their perfume; then, perchance, may souls, All sweet with blooming love, keep back sweet words. I love him.—Shrink not, sister. Hear you must.— And say not I am weak. Should I not grow Far weaker, holding in a love so strong?

For years he lived there in my father’s house, My elder brother and my lover too, My helper, and my hero: all my youth Was one bright dawn about that sunny face. Four years my senior was he; yet, withal, So delicate in blunt and boyish ways, And young in all things but in being kind, He seem’d more near me. Ere I knew of it, In budding girlhood even, he had pluck’d My blushing love, and wore it on his heart; And all my life took root where sprang his own.

Once I remember now our strolling far Down through that glen, whose deep gorge unannounced Heaves all its bordering plains to sudden hills. The time of year it was, when nature seems In mood most motherly, with every breath Held in a mild suspense above a world Of just born babyhood, when tiny leaves, Like infant fingers, reach to drain warm dews From palpitating winds, and when small brooks Do babble much, birds chirp, lambs bleat, and then, While all around is one sweet nursery, Not strange it seems that men ape childhood too, And lisp—ah me!—minute the syllables, Yet still too coarse for love’s ethereal sense!

As was her wont, at that time walk’d with us Doretta fair, my sister, such an elf! My pride and Haydn’s pet, whose merry tones Would ring out, if our thoughts turn’d far from her, Like bells that homeward lure the wind-blown bees, And bring our flighty fancies back again. But Haydn liked this not, would ward it off, And turn her chafing overcharge of nerve From tongue to foot, with “Here, Doretta, imp! You cannot climb the ledge,” or “leap the brook,” Or “find the flowers”;—then bending down to me, Say: “I abhor our German prudery. We too should walk alone, or else have four, Or six. When two agree they make a match. A third is but a wedge with which to split The two apart.” And once he paused with me; And while Doretta linger’d, hid from view, We two sat languidly upon the turf. “Who feel like springing in the Spring?” he said, “Yet all life may spring on as bodies do That draw first back, or down, and then leap up. To feel relax’d, perchance, prepares one best To leap the hedge of each untested year; First action, then reaction—eh, not so?— And think—The same may form the law of souls: They stoop, then rise; they kneel, then know of heaven,— And say, Pauline, if once there rose in view An aim sublime, to make one proud, so proud, Say, would he not do thus?”— “Ha!” laugh’d a voice; And soon Doretta’s curls a shade shook down Between his face and mine. She smooth’d his brow; And with a wreath of heart’s-ease crown’d it then. “There, there, my sweet heart, be at ease,” we heard. “You take my head then for my heart,” he said. “Nay, nay,” she answer’d, “nay—would crown them both; Your music with your muse; your head, the home; The mistress there, your heart.” “With all one’s heart But mistress of his head alone, would love Gain much?” he ask’d. “Immortal fame,” said she; “Not so?” “And do you think,” he sigh’d, “that this Could set the heart at ease?—or think you none, If set at ease, can thrill with drum-like throbs That marshal on the spirit to success?— You may be right. In life’s unending strife, The wrestler the most fit to win the palm May be the strong soul’s restlessness, while rest, Like sweetmeats, all too sweet, when served ere meats, But surfeits appetite before it acts. “But look,” he added, starting suddenly; “The sun has touch’d the earth. See how its disk, Red-hot against the river, starts the mist, Like steam, to drive us home.” With that we all Walk’d home together; nor a chance was given For him to say the thing he would have said. Yet, sister, I have lately often thought His lips, thus closed, were making ready then, When came Doretta there, to breathe to me What might have roused me, like a Gabriel’s trump When rise dead hearts at resurrection-time, And open’d for me here a life of love.

Nay, do not bid me cease. I must confess. It is not discontentment with my lot. My heart, it suffocates. This feeling here, It stifles me. I think that one might die, Forbidden speech. Ah, friend, had you a babe, A little puny thing that needed air, And nursing too; and now and then a kiss, A mother’s kiss, to quiet it; and arms, Warm arms to wrap and rock it so to sleep; Would you deny it these? And yet there lives A far more tender babe that God calls love; And when He sends it, why, we mortals here,— I would not say we grudge the kiss, the clasp,— We grudge the little heavenling even air. The tears will come. It makes me weep to think Of this poor gentle babe, this heir of heaven, So wronged because men live ashamed of it. Not strange is it that earth knows little love While all so little dare of love to speak. For once (I ask no more) you must permit That I should nurse the stranger, give it air, Ay, ay, and food, if need be; let it grow. God’s child alone, I have no fear of it.

Long after that, our Haydn found no chance To talk with me; and this, I know not why. My father—I could never find out why My father aught surmised: we walk’d alone, Doretta, Haydn, I—my father though From this time seem’d less trustful; not that he Loved less his favorite, Haydn; but we both Were still so young. And he, poor man, who earn’d With all his toil not much, had form’d a plan (As one might form a rosary, stringing beads, Then spending all his hours in counting them), Where hung bright hopes, but strung on flimsy thread,— Mere lint, brush’d off a worldling’s flattery, That I for wealth should wed. So, like a gem For future pride, he lock’d me up in school.

And there strange faces drove my lonely thoughts Back into memory for companionship And there imagination moved anon To fill the void love felt in earth about, Invoking fancies where it found no facts, Beheld an earth about that seemed bewitch’d. If Haydn’s presence had my love call’d forth, His absence, thus conjured, (could it do else?) call’d forth my worship. You remember, friend, Those heroes of old Rome appear’d not gods Till all were dead and veil’d from mortal eyes. And so with Haydn was it, and his world,— These never had appear’d so fill’d with light As when so far from me. The slightest hint Of home, that made me think this home was his, Made all things there as bright as heaven itself;— Yes, yes, though heaven so very bright must be!— For even here the past is bright; and there, Up there, we faith shall have, such perfect faith, That none can longer fear the future. No: As restful shall it seem as now the past; And then with all things bright, behind, before, Where could a place for gloom be? Even here, Could gloom be found if only men had faith?

A year pass’d over me. Can I forget That wondrous April day that set me free? At first, as though I own’d no soul at all, I seem’d myself a part of that wide air, And all things else had souls. The very earth Beneath me seem’d alive! its pulse to throb Through every trembling bush! its lungs to heave Where soft-blown wind-sighs thrill’d the wooded hills! And then, this great life broke in many lives, All one through sympathy. In lieu of clouds, The gusty breeze caught up the fluttering lark And shook down showers of trills that made bare rocks More sweet than fount-spray’d flowers, while all the leaves Went buzzing on their boughs like swarming bees. Then reverence hush’d the whole; for, greeting me, Our dear church spire seem’d soon to mount the hill, Our home to reach around a slow-turn’d rock,— And all stood still with Haydn. Chill as ice, My hot cheek felt my sister’s kiss then, then my father’s, And then bewilder’d, as from out a dream, At last I woke. And what a dawn was that! As if the sun had drawn the earth to itself, I dwelt in central light; and heaven, high heaven— Could feel some rays, perhaps, was touch’d by them, At star-points in the sky, but own’d no more.

Doretta in the year had grown so fair That, in her first ripe flush of maidenhood, I did not wonder, while I watch’d his eyes, My Haydn’s eyes, that he could crave the fruit. And intimate they were. Right merrily Through all the house I heard their voices chime. But me our Haydn did not seem to know; So quiet was he, and reserved with me. Yet all my heart would flutter like a bird’s At his approach; and all my will fly off, And, as if poised in air and not in me, Leave half my words and ways without control, Until I seem’d as if I prized him not.

But this he little mark’d. Doretta’s form Had cast a shade, perhaps, that dimm’d his view. Then, too, within the year, still subtler charms Had cast their spells about him: work had come. He needed now no more to earn his bread By joining us wig-makers while we plied— My sister and myself—our father’s trade. The church that had dismiss’d him, when from change It could now keep that voice, whose tones, of yore, Had touch’d my father so that heart and house Had both sprung open that the sweet-voiced boy Might find a home,—the church had called him back To aid again, but in the orchestra, The fresher singing of his younger mates. With this had pupils fill’d his vacant hours And, far away, an organ, play’d at Mass, Besiren’d all the Sundays. Thus cheer’d on, His brighten’d prospects had renew’d the charms Of music rivalling all things else with him. Full often, could we watch him, listless, gaze, Ay, even toward Doretta’s voice and form; Then turn, like one bewildered by a dream Fast-closing every sense to all besides, And seek our small bare attic, where anon, For hours together, pausing not for aught, The ringing strings within his harpsichord Would seem to call toward form that formless force Enrapturing so the spirit. When his moods Would note Doretta not, nor waiting meals, Nor sunset hues, nor moonlight at its full, Nor e’en the striking of the midnight bell, What could I think that he could care for me?

At last his illness came. How pale he lay! We fear’d for him, lest life should slip its net: The fleshly cords were worn to film so thin! But how the soul would shine through them! Its light, I would not say that it could gladden me, Yet—strange is it?—while sitting near him then, The fresh air fanning toward him, which his lungs Were all too weak to draw there for themselves, For that so gentle, babelike sufferer, I lost all fear; and, true to womanhood, I loved him more for low and helpless moans Than ever I had loved him when in health.

How oft I thank’d the Power that gave me power To think and do for him what he could not. I knelt: I gave my body to his needs: Brain, hands, and all things would I yield to him. And was I not paid back?—His dear, sweet heart, Each slightest beat of it, would seem to thrill Through all my veins, twice dear when serving two. And this was love! You know the Master’s words, That they alone who lose it find their life. ’Tis true. No soul can feel full consciousness Of full existence till it really love, And yield its own to serve another’s life. “To serve Christ’s life,” you say?—But part of that By Christ’s humaneness is to serve mankind. I speak a law of life, a truth of God: To heaven I dare as little limit it As to the earth; whatever be our sphere, We know not life therein until we love.

True love has life eternal, infinite. Complete within itself, and craving naught, It needs no future far, nor outlet vast, Nor aught to feel or touch in time or space. A sense within, itself its own reward, It waits not on return. For it, to love Is better than to be loved, better far To be a God than man. At least, my love More further’d me than Haydn. With all I long’d And all I toil’d, Doretta was the one Who could the best succeed in aiding him. For she at home had dwelt, knew household ways; And I was but a bungler, knew them not. And so to me was mainly given the task, To fan him while he slept. But, when he woke, Although his lips would move with no complaint, Nor eyes would glance for other than myself, I could not do for him as then could she. For she would turn his pillow, tell him tales, Bring books and pictures, just what pleas’d him most. But, ah, to me those patient eyes of his Appear’d such holy things! My deeds were hush’d: I did not dare disturb the silence there. It could not all have been mere selfishness; Yet I to look at him was all content.

And my inaptitude my sister knew. And partly since as well as I she knew it. And partly since as well as I she loved, Whene’er she heard him waking, she would come And by him sit till fast asleep again; And only when there thus was little left That could be done, would I be left to do it. At times then I would lean above his couch, And grieve to think that I could do no more; At times would rise in thankfulness that God Would let me do so much. A thought like this Perhaps He chose to bless. I came to think That even though I might not have her art, Doretta’s art, that I at least might have As much, perhaps, as guardian angels have, Without our hands or voices, keeping watch In spirit only. Still, when sister came, The thought would come that, if their souls unseen Could envy, sometimes they might envy men.

How hard I strove against this jealousy!— Would plead with Mary, and would kneel to Christ; And seek the priestly father and confess The feeling all to him. Nor would he chide One half as much as I would chide myself. How would he shame me that I dared to love “A man who had not ask’d me for my love! A man who loved my sister and not me!”— Then bid me count my beads for hours and hours A week or more I slept not, counting them; But, while my thought was fixt but on my sin, It seem’d my sin but grew. It grew in fact: For on this voyage of life, not seas alone, But skies—all things about us—mirror back The souls that they surround. With each to him That hath, is given back more of what he hath: One smiles at aught, it gives him back a smile; He frowns, it gives a frown; he looks with love, He finds love; but without love, none can find it. Alas, that men should think one secret fault Can hide itself. Their sin will find them out. Before, behind, from every quarter flash Their moods reflected. Let them tell the tale, Nay, let them whisper, glance, or shrug one hint Of what they find in earth about, and lo! In this, their tale of it, all read their own.

I wander much. There came a change at last. Our charge was better; and, one afternoon, Almost before I found that he had waked, Upon my cheeks arose a burning heat, While, past a mist of tears that flow’d, there dawn’d The light that waited in his clear, blue eye. “Pauline,” he murmur’d then, “Pauline, my friend— And what?—You weep for me! I shall not die.— Nay, do not rise, nor call Doretta yet. Hist, hist!—nor let her hear us. Why is this, That you stay never with me when I wake? “You think you ‘cannot do for me’?—do what? And have I ask’d you any thing to do?— I pray you stay: do not do any thing,— What pretty cuffs!—There, there: it still shall lie, The little hand; I like to look at it.— Who said I wish’d for books, and prints, and tales, And bustlings all about?—Who told you this? Your sister?—She a good, kind nurse has been: And you, you too, have been a good, kind nurse. Think you that I have never lain awake, Nor known the long hours you have watch’d with me?— “What say?—‘Done’ but ‘your duty’?—Say not so. A friend most pleases when, forgetting due, He seems to do his pleasure; but a foe,— Who does not shrink to feel him near enough To freeze one with a chill though duteous touch? Mere duty forms the body-part of love: Let love be present, and this body seems The fitting vestment of a finer life: Let love be gone, it leaves a hideous corpse! Pauline, I crave the life, I crave the soul: Would you content me with a skeleton? “I ‘meant’ your ‘sister’? Why?—who named her?—I?— Name her, did I, as being duteous?— Who ‘mean’ I then?—You little fluttering bird Suppose you were some actual little bird, How would you tell whence came or whither went The wind that ruff’d your feathers?—Do you know, You women always will match thoughts to things? You chat as birds chirp, when their mates grow bright: You love when comes a look that smiles on you. We men are more creative. We love love, Our own ideal long before aught real: Our halo of young fancy circles naught Save empty sky far off.—And yet those rays Fit like a crown, at last, about the face That fortune drives between our goal and us. “Yet, all may fail of truth; none fail like those Who deem themselves the most infallible: None more than men who, fallible in proof, Yet flout the failure of a woman’s guess. And your guess?—it went right. I thought of her, Your sister. We both honor her, and much. And yet I fear her, lest her will so strong Should overmatch by aught your strength of will. For God has given you your own moods, friend; And are you not responsible for them? And if you yield them up too readily, Not meaning wrong, yet may you not mistake? Our lives, remember, are not sounding-boards, Not senseless things, resounding for a world That nothing new can find in what we give. If one but echo back another’s note, Can he give forth God’s message through his own? Yet,—Nay, I would not chide, I caution you. Wit heeds a hint; ’tis dulness questions it. “And so you thought I wish’d my pillow turn’d, And books, and tales, and bustlings all about? Does not the world, then, worry life enough,— That one should crave for more to worry him? Do I so lack for exercise? Ah me! Some nervous mothers—bless them!—shake their babes. I never deem’d it wise; oh, no—am sure The friction frets the temper of the child.— Not natural, you see: God never shakes The ground with earthquakes when we wish for spring. He does not drive life from its germ, He draws By still, bright warmth. Pauline, but look at me. Too weak am I now to be driven to life; Nay, nay, but must be drawn.—And ah! could tell Where orbs there are more bright than suns could be— Nay, do nor blush nor turn that face away. You dream, aha, that I want sunset?—what?— The colors come right pretty, but—there, there— “What say?—I ‘dare not face’ you now?—Those eyes, Too bright, are they? or loving? Love, like God, So brightly dear is it, that lives like ours, Poor vapory lives, mere dews before the dawn, Dare not to face it lest we melt away?— Then be it so. Then look, Pauline, I dare Am I not yours? Should you not use your own?— Ay, darling, draw me all within yourself.”

Then, while he spoke with hands there clasping mine, And eyes that tired mine own with so much light Their trembling lids were vext by feeble tears, Doretta came. But startled, seeing me, She only smiled; said: “Haydn, what! awake?— And you, Pauline?—You good have been, so good; Nor call’d me; no. How very kind in you! Why, after all, some little training thus Might make you like, perhaps, to be a nurse,— Or housekeeper.—To-day, how wreck’d it look’d, Your room! Our father just now came from there; So vex’d, you know.” I flush’d, and thought, at least, That she to speak of it had not been kind. And could have told her so, but check’d the words, And went my way; and sought my father first, And told him what the cause had been, and then I sought my room, and pray’d that I might know If it were well to tell my father too Of Haydn’s love; or tell my own to Haydn; Or if he loved me, since my sister’s words. If only he could know my soul in truth, I felt that I could suffer all things then; Could die, if so the veil about my heart Withdrawn could be, and show him how I loved. Alas, I did not know then, had not learn’d, That love may more endure than even death.

The sunset brought Doretta to my room; And she began, and chided me, and said: “How dared you talk! and what were Haydn’s words?— He lay so ill, with fever high, so high. He could but rave. How dared you lead him on? He worse may grow,—Who knows, Pauline?—may die; And all the cause may be your nursing him!— When will you learn to learn what you know not?”

And then she told me such a long, sad tale, Of how great store she placed upon his life; And how they two had thought the self-same thing: She knew each inner chamber in his heart, And what key could unlock it; and she named First one and then another of our friends, Whom she could never love as him she loved. Then sigh’d she: “Ah, Pauline, had you explored The world about, with all its barren wastes, And found one little nook; and had you work’d And till’d it well, and form’d a garden there; And had you watch’d the plantlets grow until Their dainty bowers bent over you with shade, All sweet with bursting buds and carolling birds, What could you think of one who came and stript Your life of this, the thing that so you prized?— Alas, and what could I,—if any power Should wrest from me my Haydn, all that soil Where spring all hopes that bless my lonely hours, And make it sweet for me to live my life,— What could I think of her? Though you, Pauline, You have not known and tired of many men. You have not search’d, as I have, through the world”— “Nay, sister, I have not,” I said. Then she— “Quite right: and cannot yet know love, true love. Kept close at school you were, and hard it was; And harder still to-day that you must wait, As I have done,—at your age too. But yet Right love is ripe love. Life must be exposed In sun and storm—to frost and bruising too: The fruit grows mellow by and by alone.” “Why, dear,” said I, “I think that I can love! You know what Haydn sings,—that maids, like flowers, Are sweetest, pluck’d when in the bud?” “There now, You always will be quoting him!” she cried,— “Because, forsooth, a man, your first man-friend! Yet, not compared by you with other men, How know you him, what sort of man he is?— Girls unsophisticated are like bees: They buzz for all, and yet sip all their sweets From the first flowery lips that open to them.”

“Nay,” answer’d I, “I like him not for that,— Because a man!” “What?—not for that?” she said: “Aha, have shrewder plans?—I know, I know It would be well if you, or I, could feel That all were settled for our wedded life; So many ifs and ifs, it vexes one; It would be better, were we done with them. But we, poor girls, too trusting natures have. Weak parasites at best, each tall stout man Seems just the thing that we should cling about. But, dear, I think that half these trunks give way:— The wonder is we dare to cling at all!” “But Haydn,” said I, “Haydn”— “As for him,” She sigh’d, “may be he is not trustless all; Yet if he be, or be not, how know you Who know not human nature, nor have learn’d The way to work it, and bring out its worth? A friend grows grain and chaff. Sift out the first And cultivate it well, some gain may come— Some profit from your friendship.” “But,” said I, “If you should change yourself who change your friend, Or change but his relations to yourself, Or, some way, make a new, strange man of him?”— “Then would I make,” she said, “what pleases me; And with what pleases me preserve my love.”

“And I,” replied I, “not for future gain, For what he may become, would prize my friend; I prize the thing he is; nor wish him changed. I would not dare disturb for aught besides The poise of traits composing sympathy, Which, as they are, so balance my desires. Ah, did I chiefly look for gain to come, For him or me, where were my present joy?— Nay, nay, that love I, which I find possess’d.” “Pray, how much can you find possess’d?” she ask’d. “Enough to love,” I said. “What holds enough For that?” she laugh’d. “Enough,” I answer’d her,— “To make his presence here a boon to me; To make his wishes a behest for me; To make me feel an instinct seeking him, And, finding him, a consciousness of all.” “‘A consciousness of all,’ is vague,” she said. “I ask for reasons and you rave alone. This very vagueness, while you answer me, Proves all your love a myth, or immature.” “Ah, dear,” replied I, “there is higher love,— A love of God, a love all worshipful; And that love should you ask me to define, I might an answer vaguer still give back: The finite only can be well defined.” “The finite!” she repeated; then exclaim’d: “Oh, you wish worship! We must find you then An idol! and I know a golden one; And so do you—nay, nay, deny it not.— And father’s heart is fix’d on him; besides Your lover could fall down and worship you; So father says. Two idols you could have,— Your home a very temple; only, dear, Be not so backward. Had but I your chance— To you our suitors all present their best. You get the diamonds as if you were noon; While I, I get but coals. They never touch, Unless to burn or else to blacken me.”

She spoke, then left abruptly. Strange it was, With what abhorrence I would shrink from her While speaking thus. Not selfish seem’d she all, But so insensible; and these, our tastes, These dainty despots of desire, our tastes The worst of tyrants are; nor brook offense. I wellnigh hated her. Yet minded thus, While musing on her moods that seemed so hard— Have not you noticed at the arsenal, At times, when watching those grim helmets there, All suddenly, upon their polish’d brass A wondrous brightness? then, within the disk, Your own face hideous render’d? So with me: Amid her harsher traits that there appear’d, Shone soon the brighter metal; out of it, Leer’d back to greet me my own hideousness!— For I, it seem’d, had been the selfish one. Had I regarded her, my father’s wish, That suitor’s choice?—Nay, I had thought of none, None saving Haydn. Then I ask’d again, Could this be true—the thing my sister said,— Could aught so sweet as Haydn’s love exude From moods, all mushroom’d by disease? I thought How marvellously throng’d with strange weird shapes Deep halls of fancy loom, when lighted up By fires of fever; how, with trust complete, The weak lean oft on all beside themselves, And soon I blamed my heart that it could dare To lure his poor, weak, crazed confession on; And then I flush’d, and broke in passionate sobs, To think Doretta dared to hint such things.

Three days my woes alternated, and then I went to my confessor for relief. “What, child,” he said, “love troubles you again? The rest of us poor mortals here, we fret Because we have too little of it, you Because you have too much. All girls are prone, Young girls, to deem their own love great and grand; But you, my child, find yours a very monster! It taxes all your powers to get it food; Yet nothing does unless to tramp on you. Now tell me, think you God it is, or man, Who makes our earthly love so troublesome?” “Why, man,” I said, “of course.” “Of course,” he said; “Then think you not it might be wise to get Some less of man in you, and more of God?— How fares it with your prayers?” “But yet,” I urged, “It scarcely seems my fault, this woe of mine.” “Seems not your fault?” he answer’d; “weigh the sides: One for you—three against you—which should yield?” “No; two for me,” I said,—“myself and Haydn; Besides, the other three have no such love.” “No love?” he said. “Is that a Christian mood? A modest, humble mood?—‘Have no such love’? How test we love, my child? It seems to me That love, like light, is tested by its rays. The halo crowns the saints, our lights of life, Just as the love they shed surrounds their souls. Where one is God’s, the strong soul serves the weak; The mother yields her powers to bless her babes; The man his powers, for her; and Christ for all. Ah, child, if you were strong! had love like theirs!” I sigh’d, “But how can one know whom to serve?” “How?—Put it thus:—your own wish? or your father’s?— How reads the decalogue?” “But,” answer’d I, “It seems as if some higher power there were That first should be obey’d—some power like God.” “Yes, child,” he said, “there is, of course, the Church: Of course, of course.” “Who is the Church?” I ask’d. And then he laugh’d: “Who?—What a question, child!— Why, read your prayer-book. Why, of course, the Church, Speaks through its ministers.” “If you speak then,” Inquired I, trembling,—“give advice to us, Is that the last resort?—must one obey?” “Why, that depends,” he said;—“but, dear me, child, You must not think us bears! We growl at times In sermons, eh?—But then, dear me, dear me, We would not eat our flock up, little lamb!— But come,” he added, “come; enough of this; How fares it with your prayers?”

Soon after that, One day, while troubled much, I met by chance, My Haydn, half restored, outside his room. For once, he sat alone; and, seeing me,— “Why, friend, what accident is this?” he ask’d. “In tears, too, tears?—Tell now, what sullen storm Has left such heavy drops? Did it not know That these too tender lids might droop? if droop, What rare views they might close to some one here?— What can have happen’d? “Why not speak to me?— You seem the very statue of yourself.— Why, what has chill’d you so?—Not I?—Not I?— Pauline, I know, if I to you were cold, A certain rosy face with opening lips Could come with power to bring me summer air, Dispelling sweetly my most wintry wish, Despite myself!—Why will you trust me not?” And then I spoke to him. I hinted first My moods were odd; not moods for him to mind. “Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a family Where all the children grew so very odd,— Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste. Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they, And not enough of summer in their home.— I know that you are not so very odd That you would keep apart from one you love. And I, can I not hope that I am one?”

At these words then (how could I help myself?) My heart-gates flew wide open; emptied all,— The whole the priest had told me of my sin; And how we should not talk together more. How wild it made him! Never had I seen One shaken so. His anger frighten’d me. “This crafty priest,” he said, “you ask’d of God: He answer’d you about the Church, ‘of course.’ And of the Church about the priests, ‘of course,’ And of the priests about himself, ‘of course.’ I tell you this is cursèd selfishness; I tell you it is downright sacrilege!— To strain the oceans of the Infinite Down through that sieve, man’s windpipe, wheezing out, ‘I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest.’” “O Haydn,” said I, “How—how can you dare?” “How dare?” he cried out, “dare? Am I a dog, A dog or woman cringing to a man, Because of kicks or curses?” “Nay,” I sobb’d, “I kneel before his office, not to him.” “Poor girl,” he said, “forgive me—stop—I beg— What? can you think that I would make you weep? Not, darling, not of you, I meant to speak, But of the system.” “System,” I replied; “Why, Haydn, are you not a Christian, then?” “And wherefore not?” he ask’d. “Because,” I said, “You speak so of the Church.” “But I,” said he, “Was arguing not of that, but of the priest.” “And he has been ordain’d,” I said: “And you, You reverence not the ministers of God?” “Of God,” he mutter’d,—“yes, when that they are. I reverence the princeship; not the prince Who doffs his regal robes, and leaves his throne, And lowers his aims and slaves it with mere serfs.”

“What can you mean?” I ask’d. “I mean that priests Are not ordain’d for work in every sphere. A prince dispenses, does not mine, his gold. A priest administers the truth reveal’d; What power has he to delve divine designs, Or minister dictation, in the spheres Where God, to train our reason, leaves us free? Your priest who tampers with our home-life here,— What warrant holds he, human or divine? Whatever move him—if he serve your father, Or deem that gifts like those he fancies mine, May worthier prove, devoted to the Church, Is he in this our final arbiter?— Have I no judgment?—are not you of age? Pauline, but heed me; let no power, I beg, Succeed in sundering us. Heaven hears my words I fear some plot may crush, or make your soul (God save you if you yield) a mere bent truck To bear some weight of meanness on to ill.” “But I,” I said, “had ask’d the priest’s advice.” “He handled ill th’ occasion,” answer’d he. “I would not dare to mould another thus. Nay, though I knew that I could model thence The best-form’d manhood of my mind’s ideal. Who knows?—My own ideal, my wisest aim, May tempt myself, and others, too, astray. If I be made one soul to answer for, And make myself responsible for two, I may be doubly damn’d. How impious,— The will that thus would manage other wills; As though we men were puppets of a show, Not spirits, restless and irresolute, Poised on a point between the right and wrong From which a breath may launch for heaven or hell!— You dare submit to this impiety?” “But, Haydn,” said I, “you, too, heed advice.” “Advice?” he answer’d. “What?—is this the ground On which these base authority?—Nay, nay, Base where they may, their ground is wilfulness, Years back invested; not disrobed, because Old forms are reverenced.—Yes, but are they right? Think you God gives to strength of will the right To say what is right? And if not, what then? If one obey then, how can he be sure That he obeys not sin?” “They may have will,” I said, “but you forget; the priests are wise.” “About what life?” he cried. “In every path Experience is the warrant for advice. But life for them—what know they real of life?— Naught, naught; and if they give you their advice They give you naught, or else they give you whims;— A bachelor teaching dames about their babes! Or matrons how to guide their grown-up girls! Alas, their counsels ignorant, partial, false, Repel toward infidelity the wise; And half of those they hope will follow them Make hypocrites or hypochondriacs.”

What could I say? I rose to leave him then. “And have they really separated us?” He ask’d. And I, “What mean you?” “Are you then My friend or not?” he went on, mournfully. “What is a friend?” I ask’d. “What else,” he said, “But, in a world, where all misjudge one so, A soul to whom one dares to speak the truth?” “Ah, Haydn,” ask’d I, “must we speak all truth?” “Why not?” he said, “is ill less ill when hid?— Is not the penitent a sinner frank, The hypocrite a sinner not so frank?”— “But yet,” protested I, “the truth may harm.” “How so?” he ask’d. “If one show naked sin,— Who knows?—it then may shame men from the sin. And could the naked good accomplish more? Must not we Christians here confess our faults? Why should we not? Has wrong such lovely smiles And loving tones, that men should long for it? The harm is in the lie that masks the sin.” “And yet,” I said, “the young—the prejudiced”— “For their sake,” said he, “wisdom may be wise In what it screens from folly.—Yet you know The crime of Socrates,—‘corrupting youth’? The tale is old; this lying world wants liars, But what of that? The Christs lie not: they die. Our God is great. I deem Him great enough His truth to save without subverting ours. True sovereignty has truth: ’tis not a sham That holds high rank because we courteous men, Considerate men, allow it seeming rank. Who lies to save the truth, distrusts the truth, Disowns the soul, and does despite to God. Who strives to save his life thus, loses it, In evil trusting and the Evil One,— Salvation through the Devil, not through Christ!”

Then while he sat there, with his flushing cheeks, Himself defending thus,—I, charm’d the while,— The door flew open, and behind it stood My father and the priest. Then had they said But one harsh word, it had not been so sad. But kind they were, too kind. Ah, sister dear, Have you not felt how much more pain it gives, This pain from kindness? Love is like the sun: It brightens life, but yet may parch it too. And wind may blow, and man may screen himself; And rain may fall, and he may shelter find; And frost may chill, and he may clothing wear; But what can ward off sun-stroke?—Love, Its first degree may bring fertility; Its next one barrenness. It lights; it blights. The flames of heaven, flash’d far and spent, turn smoke To glut the gloom of hell. Words kind as these (We could have braced ourselves against them else) Threw wide, like spells, each passage to our hearts That caution should have guarded. “We knew not Our own minds, poor young pair,” they said. “At least, Our love could wait: meantime, whose love could claim Our trust, like theirs whose treasure lay in us?”

And then to me alone they spoke of Haydn:— “He passionate had been:—how knew I when His passion might be turn’d against myself? And he had sinn’d, so sorely, sorely sinn’d:— How could one thus defame the Church and priest? And did my love for him suggest such words, Or should my love hereafter sanction them, Might not his wrong prove mine?—If I should yield, Be won by his unbridled words, might not My act confirm his trust in thought uncheck’d? And thought uncheck’d,—it oft more danger fronts Than does the uncheck’d steed, whose frenzied flight Defies the rein, and, dashing down a road Straight deathward, trails his luckless driver on, Whirl’d powerless to prevent all as a babe.” I spake of Haydn’s love. They bade me think “How often love that loses earthly friends, Comes back from all things outward toward itself; And finding self, finds heaven’s design within? Did not I know that loss and gain are both Sent here to aid the worth of inner traits And change the phases of the spirit’s growth?— Each passing season circling round a tree Leaves, clasping it, a ring; the rings remain, So seasons past remain about the soul: And men can trace its former life far less By tales the tongue may tell, than by the range And reach of that which circumscribes the mood, Including or excluding right or wrong.”

And then they added: “Might it not be found That loss of my love was the very means Design’d by Providence for Haydn’s good?” To this I could but answer that “his love Seem’d Providential too, a holy thing.” They only frown’d, and said: “The Prince of Ill Came oft robed like an angel of the light;— Why not like love?—The only holy thing, Such proven to be, was Christ. And what of Him When moved by love?—of His great sacrifice!— And did I really prize this Haydn so, Would love prompt naught in me!” And thus they talk’d, Till, welcoming doubt, my faith succumb’d to it; And all the love once making me so proud, Whose growth, I thought, would be so sweet and fair, Stung like a very thistle in my soul; Each breath of theirs would blow its prickles keen, And sow its pestering seedlets far and wide O’er every pleasing prospect of my life.

And I recall my calling out in prayer, How long, how toilfully, how fruitlessly! At last, my doubt had made me leave my beads, And, moved as if to cool a feverish faith, Pass out, the night air seeking. There I saw The moon. It soothed me always with strange spells, The moon. But now, as though all things would join To rout my peace, I seem’d this moon to see Caught up behind an angry horde of clouds, Chased by the hot breath of a coming storm That clang’d his thunder-bugle through the west. When once the rude gust hit the moon, it tipt— Or so it seem’d—and with a deafening peal It spilt one blinding flash. Then, where this lit, Just in the path before me gleam’d a knife! Held o’er a form of white! To see the thing I scream’d aloud. It seem’d a ghost! My scream Awoke no echo save Doretta’s voice:— “Pauline?—and were you frighten’d?” Then to this, In part because the shock had stunn’d me much, In part because I felt me much provoked, But most because my ears were deaf to sport, I answer’d naught. Whereat, as now I think, Though then in that unnatural, nervous mood My mind surmised more horrid inference, Her voice, in still more mischievous caprice, Went on to vex me more. “What?—Fear you me! And have you done so much against me, then! And if you have, why fear you here a knife?— You think the blade might draw some little blood;— Would that much signify?—the body pain’d? Suppose that one should wield some subtler blade And draw some tears, mere watery tears, weak things;— Would they much signify?—a soul in pain? And did you never now do that?—draw tears?— And think, is not the soul much worse to harm Than is the body?—Fy! why fear a knife? If I supposed that through a lifetime long My soul should bleed its dear strength out in tears, Why would it not be mercy to myself For me to check the longer, stronger woe By shedding here some drops of weaker blood, Now, once for all?” “O dear Doretta mine,” I cried, and still more anxious, “do you mean”— “This,” answer’d she; “I mean that I would cut My body’s life in two parts, rather than My soul’s life.” “Sister,” I could only gasp, “Cease—do;—put by that knife”— “Why?” answer’d she;— “For what?—Your wish? Do you so often yield When I wish aught?—Say now what would you give?” “Give?—Any thing!” I answer’d. “Be not rash,” Came then. “It scarcely seems your way; besides, The light is dim. How know you? may not ears Not far off overhear us here? Beware!— But stay!” she added, “I will go my way, And you go yours. Who cares what either does?”

“Doretta, nay; but stop,” I cried again, “Put by the knife!—and if you will, then I— Then I and Haydn will not”— “You?” she laugh’d, “And Haydn?—Humph!—Who cares what you may do?— But ah—if planning thus to vent your thought, Could I have chosen, eh, a shrewder way?— Ha! ha!—to murder me, or you, or him! It starts all madness, yes, to tap your moods. But go in, simpleton,—the rain has come,— And trust the knife to me. It meant no harm Except to this beheaded cabbage here.” And, shaking this aloft, she flitted off, While I walk’d vaguely back, to find my room Still sadder than before. I could not think That my surmise was just; yet could not think That all her strange demean was meaningless; To this day yet, I pause and puzzle oft That scene to ponder; then, to moods confused, It seem’d the final blow, unsettling all.

What comes as direful as the direful night A spirit spends in trouble?—fill’d with fears That sleep may bring distressful nightmares now; And now, that morn may come before we sleep; Until, betwixt the two, distracted quite, Awake one dreams, and dreaming seems awake, And evermore does weep at what he dreams, And then does weep that he should dream no more. In darkest fancies all that night I lay, A murderess, guilty of Doretta’s death.

Alas! and after those long hours of woe, More woe awaited me when morning came. Our Haydn’s bed-worn frame, so frail before, New-rent by throes of passion yesterday, Once more lay prostrate in the arms of death: So thought we all: I, ere the fact I heard, Could feel its cold shade creeping over me. The shutters closed, the silence everywhere, The very coffin of our lively home, The sadden’d looks, the voices all suppress’d, The kind physician’s face, that wore no smile,— I did not need to ask the cause of all. I sought and saw my Haydn. How his face Gazed forth, a ghost’s, against my sense of guilt! For I, perhaps, had made his last thought sin; And I, perhaps, had lured him toward his doom. I thought then of my father, of the priest, What they of love had said, of genuine love, Such love as Christ had had. I ask’d myself If there was naught that I could sacrifice?

Ah, friend, do you recall that afternoon When first we met? How sad yet sweet it seem’d! So many kindly sisters with me spake, And for me prayed, and when the dusk had come, And hardly any eye but God’s could see, We knelt before the altar; and I rose, Content if like that light before the shrine Within my heart one light alone could burn; Though all the earth beside might loom as dark As those chill, shadowy chapels down the aisle. I felt another life when walking home. Such conflicts come but seldom; storms of spring, Uprooting much, and wracking much the soil, They find it frost-bound, and they leave it green. Alas, if grain or chaff grow then, depends Upon the germs their rains have wrought upon.

When Haydn grew less ill, could talk once more, And proved our prayers for him were not in vain, The kind physician urged that he and I Be kept no more apart. My father then, At first, would not consent. I went to him. “My father,” said I, “do not fear for me. If God will give our poor friend health once more Then have I vow’d that never will I take A veil, save one that weds me to the Church.” “My daughter,—what?” he ask’d, “you never take— Ay, what is this you say?—you wed the Church?— In God’s name, child, explain yourself.” “A vow,” I said, “A vow that I have made the Virgin.” “What strange, what thoughtless deed is this?” he ask’d. “You take a vow, one not to be recall’d, That you will thwart our hopes, our plans for you?— And shut away, away from all of us, This face, this form, so cherish’d all these years?— True?—Is it true?—I would not frighten you: Poor girl, God knows that you will have enough To shudder for.—Yet, it bewilders me: How could you, you who had been wont to be So trustful and considerate and calm, How could you do a thing so rash, so wrong, Nor once consult me?—Tell me this, my child: What false inducement could have tempted you?” “Woe me!” I sobb’d, “I marvell’d when you said I could do so, the time I told you here That I would rather be a nun than be That rich man’s wife.” “You dear, poor girl,” he sigh’d, “Those words were but a whiff, whiff light as breath One blows at flies that come to trouble him. And can it be that they?—I half believe (My words have conjured cursèd deeds before) The very atoms of the air, like pools, Hold spawn-strown vermin-eggs! If one but speak, But break the silence; if his breath but bear One faintest puff from passionate heat within, Lo, breaking open some accursèd shell, It hatches forth foul broods of venomous life That come, blown backward by the changing wind, To haunt him who provok’d their devilish birth! By day they sting our eyes, and make us weep; By night steal through unguarded gates of sense, And sting our souls in dreams!—My heart! and you?— How could you deem my thoughtless words to be The voice of so deform’d a wish as this?” “But father,” said I, “he, the priest, your friend,— At least, it seem’d—so thought.” “The priest!” he cried, “Has he been meddling with your malady?— My friend?—My friend is he no more.” “Nay, I,” I said, “had sought his counsel; even then He said but little.” “Little!” he rejoin’d; “That little was too much! Nay, never more— Yet hold.”—And here he paused.—“The priest has power— Yes, now I think of it, it need not all Be darkness; no.—The priest—one clew there is May clear this labyrinth.—The priest, he may,— He shall an absolution get; yes, yes, An absolution, that shall make us right.” And then my father, in his hopeful way, Recover’d somewhat. And he fondled me. “I see, my child, you love this Haydn, yes. Why, here you stand a woman when I thought You only were my pet, my little girl.— But do not cry: no, no; I honor you, My little woman!—There, forgive me now; Forgive my words. And when it comes, my child, The absolution, then, we then shall see, If your old father can be kind or not.” With this he kiss’d me. And at that, I wept; Nor could I tell him that his hopes were vain. I scarce could think myself that they were vain.

From this time onward no one check’d me more, Attending Haydn. All the household heard My sire “could trust his child to be discreet”; And e’en Doretta too had something learn’d That made her caution more than half relax. Then days and weeks and months pass’d quickly by In which, when Haydn’s prison’d love would start, E’en while I heard the trembling of its bars, My lips would check him, saying, gently, then, “But not now, Haydn; nay, but we will wait.” And thus a habit grew that our two lives Dwelt there like friends, made separate by war, Who out from hostile camps, wave now a hand, And now a kerchief, but who never speak. And yet I cannot say love never spoke.— We did not mean it; but I think that love May tell its tales, unconscious of the fact, For who is conscious when God touches him?— But littlest acts there were; yet spirits read From signs too fine for measurements of space; Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were; And yet what words of love yield more than these? They hit the sense of love, but fail of sense Where nothing loving waits to take the hint. This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how. And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth, We told our secrets, and none knew of them.

How swiftly sped the hours in happy nights When, after work, he rested there at home! Such winning ways he had to lure my trust! Such sweet pet names would call me, till I felt So fondly small, he well might be my lord! Would tease me so, anon to comfort me! Or rouse my temper that he mild might seem; Or tell such tales, that in my dreams I laugh’d At wit reflecting, though distorting, his; Or better still, would play for me,—such strains! The very thought of them would seem like sleep, While half the night I linger’d still awake, Half-conscious of the call of early birds And sparkling spray of light dash’d o’er the dews.

At last, one night, when no one else was by, Some new impatience moved him; and he spoke: “Pauline, my friend, allow me only once;— And say not, now, say not we still can wait: Have I not waited long? Pauline, my own, What forms the substance of this mystery Whose dark shade rests about you? Surely, friend, The slightest will on your part would have power To bid it off.” “Not so,” I answer’d him (I felt that I should tell him all at last); “Not if the shade that so you speak of fall From something you and I could not remove.” “That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be? Of old your father would not brook our love; But lately much has done to forward it.” “And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?” “His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?” “Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and paths Where conscientiousness and love may cross?” “There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!— Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend, Does not our conscience come from consciousness? And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell: Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed: A sound man lives unconscious of its flow. And so a morbid train of foul ideas Will vex a soul diseased. But if in health, Its aims all true to God and self,—what call For conscience, which we wear but as the curb Whereby God reins the thought that love reins not?— If right I be, then nothing needs to cross Pure love. It may have freedom.— “Or at most Our conscience is the leaven of character; And just enough of it may sweeten life, But too much keeps in ferment moods that work, Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment: The froth flies up and off to vex our friends; The rest sinks down in self, embittering Our own experience.” “And yet,” I said, “Our conscience, in religion”— “There,” he cried, “This too much conscience, overbalancing All wiser judgment, has wrought worse results, Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so much That, in the gap betwixt the two, was left No charity with which to do good here While on the earth.” “I hope that mine,” I said, “Will prompt to some small good in present life. What would you say, some day, were I a nun?” “‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,— “What say?—why this: that if those blooming looks Hid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trust Sound health again! “Pauline, I half believe The conscience of a nun is consciousness Of mere unrest—no more. In natures framed Of spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may be Some sin that clogs the current of the soul; But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one; Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased— No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured best By sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.”

His words I styled “irreverent, unjust!”— “I might be both of these,” he said, “in case I blamed the poor souls for the life they lead. But did I blame them? Nay, for in this world, Between youth’s immature credulity, That dares to think but what some guardian thinks, And manhood’s faith mature that thinks for itself, A realm there is where will must learn to act Through doubt and danger; where the character, First wean’d from oversight, must learn to choose. Then, like a tottering child it yearns to cling To one whose greater power can for it act. Its moods determine that to which they cling. Some girls are giddy:—they embrace a lover. And some are gloomy:—they beset a priest. He, like the first, may ply his own designs, May take advantage of their weaker state, And capture them for veils, if not for vice.” “But marriage is a capture, too,” I said. “If so,” he answer’d, “yet a natural state, Made statelier through authority of law, That, otherwise, might authorize the wrong;— A state to which, as not to convent life, All social instincts prompt; may prompt the more The more one’s years. Who then can it forswear?— Think you a maid, with half her moods unform’d At twenty, can conceive what thoughts may come To turn or torture her at thirty-five?— “But what, Pauline, Pauline,—you turning pale!— In earnest, were you!—Had you really thought?— In God’s name, darling, this could never be!— Think only—Wherefore now?” “Because,” I said, “I hoped some good to do.” “And do you deem,” He ask’d, “that then the Virgin did no good, When nursing her sweet babe?—and was no saint? And what of Christ, who ate and drank with all, Call’d glutton and a bibber, yes, of wine?— Was He no saint?—What think you mortals need— To learn of life that never can be theirs? Nay, nay, to learn of life, inspired by love, Which all can live, made better by its power. If you a saint would be, oh, do not seek For truth so sunder’d from the common thought, For love that knows no common sympathies.”

“Are some,” I said, “not call’d in special ways To nurse and tend the aged, sick, and poor?” “Are some not call’d,” he ask’d, “in special ways To tend like this the men they love the best?— Whate’er old age may need, needs it the most The young who old have grown before their time?— Need sick men nurses pale?—or poor men, those Whose moods have never stored the rich results Mined from a world the world’s heir should explore?— Nay, nay, these all would be more ably served By spirits free to live their own love’s life. Who gains aught where the spirit is not free? Think you the veil, too hastily assumed, May never change the hues and views of life, Perverting them?—or cause beclouded love That might have bloom’d in light, to fade in gloom? ’Tis only when those knowing what they leave Turn calmly from all else to convent walls That love should not dissuade them. Let them find Large, sunny, healthful halls; and dwell therein: From thence deal forth that gentle charity So potent coming from a woman’s hand. Not strange it were if sickness, tended thus, Enliven’d by her smiles of light, should flush Or blush to perfect health! if wickedness, Beneath incrusted woes of years of wrong, Should feel the earlier faith of childhood waked By woman’s voice, and thus be born again!— And find a life renew’d within the soul As well as body. Let the convent thrive. But rid it of all circumscribing vows.” “Of all its vows?” I ask’d. “Why not?” he said: “No character, I think, grows wholly ripe Save that which grows as nature guides its growth; And nature made us pairs. I know some say The soul should conquer nature; but this means That spirits all should claim their rights,—be lords Of forms that spring from earth. But are they so When by a vow they swear to serve a form, And don the life and livery of a slave? Would men look’d Godward more! ’Twould save their souls From many a hell that their own hands have made. One time when young I stood before a tree, And vow’d that, till an hour had pass’d away, My eye should see it not. What came of it?— The vow in misery kept me through the hour. And had it been a maid and not a tree, The vow had caused me more of misery. Yet God’s laws never bade me turn my back On tree or maid: nay, were my nature framed With any touch of truth, these both were made For souls like mine to look at and enjoy.”

“But, Haydn,” said I, “your strange convent, fill’d With age and vowless maids—you banish thence Christ’s life, self-sacrifice.” “And sacrifice But sates the worst of vanity,” he said, “Unless our yielding yield to higher good. Christ’s work here glorified humanity— I must believe that souls, not when outside The world but in the world, though not of it, And in the body acting bodily, The lives transfiguring our common lives And common cares, the most resemble His.— The one who seeks to glorify herself In feigning burial to human cares, Humiliates rather her humanity. She hints—not so?—that truest womanhood Is maidenhood?—By Eve and Mary, false!— The mother lives the model of her sex, And not the maid. And she who seeks to lower The mother’s rank that she may lift her own, Yields less than she bids others yield to her.” “But she serves God,” I said, “and others men.” “How serves one God in doing this?” he ask’d. “God made our nature. Who make way with it, Make way with manhood, turn to suicide. He made the world where works His Providence To train our life. Who leave the world, leave Him— May add but more damnation to their woe.” “But if men leave the world,” I said, “for this,— That they may serve the Church, how leave they God?— They rather go to him.” “What is the Church?” He ask’d. “The kingdom of the Lord,” I said. “Yes, yes,” he cried; “and add the Master’s words: ‘The kingdom is within you.’—And, if so, I own some right to heed the voice within; And none can rightly bid my spirit bend, A passive slave to laws outside of me.”

“O Haydn,” begg’d I, “say not this. Here speaks The same rebellion that was once my own. We must not judge for self, but reverence The words of men ordain’d to teach the world; The words of men so learnèd in the truth; The words of councils fill’d with just such men.— No reverence have you for authority?” “Mere common courtesy would teach me that,” He said. “And how could common piety, If awed before the Power above the sky, Deny a kindred awe to power on earth? The Church has power—and more. I reverence it. It may be God’s own storehouse of the truth. But ah, some truths have never yet been stored! Infinity is broad, and broad enough For truth to grow within me and without, In self as well as in the best about it. And I believe that all things God makes grow, Unfold in ways that work in harmony. And, when I love a soul as you I love, Did all the priests on earth assemble here, In front of them the pope, in front of him A shining form put forth by them as Christ, And tell me this pure love could lie to me, I would not”— “Haydn stop!—dare not!” I cried;— “And I have pray’d to God so much, so much, To make you more submissive.” “I submit To God,” he said; “but with my love to God, How can I yield the godliest thing I own?” And there he sat, so firm and yet so kind, I could not help but sigh, “You make me doubt.” “Would God,” he said, “I could do that for you! Then might you have true faith. Where springs from will One wise effect that does not follow doubt? One choice that does not weigh alternatives? Doubt comes with waverings of the balances Before the heavier motive settles down. Let those who feel so sure their views are right, Dissolve my doubt:—I dare to doubt if they Walk not by knowledge rather than by faith. I read that Jesus answer’d him who pray’d, ‘Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief’; That on the cross itself even He could cry: ‘My God, O why hast thou forsaken me?’ And so I think, at times, these doubts of ours May only rise like minor preludes here, Ere that triumphant cadence, ‘It is finished.’ But come, Pauline,” he added then with warmth, “And promise me that you will yield them up, These dark, sad thoughts. Why, they could make of me An infidel outright! Could faith destroy Our love, what good then might it not destroy?” A wonder is it, that to moods like this I could not say the thing I would?

Months pass’d. My time drew nigh. My vows must be fulfill’d. I told my father of it, and he wept. Poor man, he spent his hours alternately. At times he urged; at times he chided me; At times he kiss’d my cheek and look’d at me; At times he took me by the hand, and said: “My daughter, dear, we will defer the deed”; At times he moaned: “My daughter will do right.”

Then slowly dawn’d on Haydn’s mind the fact, Though not, as yet, the reason of my vow. And all the household grew so mild with me, And all the neighbors gazed so piteously: If they had clothed my body in a shroud, And I had loiter’d round it there, a ghost, Life scarce had seem’d more lonely or more chill. But yet more sad than all it seem’d for me To shun poor Haydn. To his attic driven, Who knew his grief? Alas, who knew it not? Did ever harpsichord so crave a voice To utter forth a cry of full despair? Did ever aught that human hands could touch So tremble to reveal such agony As wrung the frame of him whose fingers wrought, Along the sympathetic key-board there, The counterpoint still pointing out his woe?

Through all those days how heeded I each sound, That broke the stillness in that room of his! Would hold my breath between the notes to feel His own suspense before the impending strain When fell, anon, the spirit’s overflow. I never so had trembled at the peals Of thunder as beneath the chords he struck; Nor felt my cheek so moist by rains as there By tears that flow’d as flow’d his melodies; While all the air about appear’d surcharged With dangerous force electric, touch’d alone To flash keen suffering from his heart to mine. And yet, each day, his music sweeter swell’d. Ere that, it may have lack’d in undertone, The pleading pathos of half-utter’d grief: Since then, I never hear it but it seems As if the heavens had been bereaved of love, And pour’d their sad complaint on earth beneath; And I who listen to the sweetness of it Can never tell if I should smile or weep To think that it has come so far below, Or feel that it has left so much above.

One night I found my father still more sad Than was his wont. I knelt before him then, And “O my father, why is this?” I ask’d. But he said nothing. Then I question’d him: And found the cause out. Haydn was the cause. My father loved him so, as men love sons; And long had hoped he might a son become. But they had talk’d in confidence, and talk’d About Doretta. “Ah,” my father sigh’d; “My plans for all of you are vain!— “Why now?” He cried, “in this my old age, now, too late To be replaced again, should I have lost My aims, my home, my hope, my happiness?— And who has brought it on? has done such wrong His deeds deserve it?—Here am I, myself,— I loved you, loved you both, but plann’d your good: The priest loved (so he says) the Church and you: Doretta loved; sought only love’s full fruit: And Haydn loved; wish’d but to show his love: And you, child, loved, were but obedient: We all of us were loving, were we not? Yet working outward, wisely, as we deem’d, We all have done the thing to doom us all. Alas what power has wrought to thwart us thus? I do believe, though long I doubted it, There lives a Devil! Hell-scorch’d hands alone Could weave such death-black shrouds from thread so bright, Drawn from sleek skeins of love. That spider-fiend, Feeding on our sweet plans, emits this web, To trip and trap us in like flies!—Ah me, It may be well that one should suffer here Until a wish bereaved shriek prayers for death; But through what fearful pangs earth peels away This withering flesh from off the worthier soul! The scales about my own grow thin, how thin! Pauline and Haydn gone, and home, and hope,— What further shred invests the love so stript!— Is this, then, being freed from earth?—Yet where Are signs of heaven?—My God, I see them not.” “O father, rave not thus,” I cried. “O if— If Haydn,—if I had some power with him.”— “Nay, daughter, nay,” he said. Yet o’er his face Flush’d hope like hues at dawn. I kiss’d his brow, Said, “Father, I will try,” and went my way.

And Haydn then, when found, appear’d so sad. “Ah,” sigh’d he, “we two souls were fitted so To match each other. Here, where jars the world, And all goes contrary, where every sun That ripes this, withers that; and every storm That brings refreshment here, sends deluge there, We two, exceptions to the general rule, Like living miracles (is love fulfill’d A miracle indeed?), seem’d born to draw The self-same tale of weal or woe from each. I saw but last night, darling, in my dreams, Our spirits journeying through this under gloom: And hand in hand they walk’d; and over them, As over limner’d seraphs, did there hang A halo, love reflected. By its glow The gloom about grew brightness: while far off, In clearest lines, the path passed up and on.— Pauline, but heed me: once again, I pray (If ever once I pray’d to God above), Blot not this light from all my future life.”

“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “would you have me change? What soul shall dwell on God’s most holy hill But he ‘that sweareth to his own hurt,’ yes, ‘And changeth not’?” “But yet,” he said, “but yet If you were wrong to swear? How can it be That any project so against the soul— Each instinct of one’s nature—should be right?” “Yet nature,” said I, “may be but corrupt. What is this instinct, that it should not lie? If one should feel the instinct of the lamb While skipping to welcome the butcher’s knife That waits to slaughter it, would he be wise To follow instinct?” “Why not?” answer’d he: “The lamb was made that it might die for man: It follows instinct and dies easily. The soul was made that it might live for God: It follows instinct and lives happily. The cases differ thus. May there not be Some depth, beyond the reach of mortal sight, Within whose grooves unseen our spirits glide Unconscious of the balancings of will? God’s touch may be too subtle to be sensed. May it not stir beneath all conscious powers, A spontaneity that moves the soul As instinct moves the body?—Ah, to me, Love seems an instinct that impels them both.” “How so?” I ask’d, in hope to guide his thought Toward sacrifice. “You wish me then,” he said, “To turn philosopher for you?—I will. This love, in morals based on faith in man, And in religion on our faith in God, Seems, in its essence, an experience Not wholly feeling, yet not wholly thought,— Not all of body, yet not all of soul, Of what we are or what we are to be,— But more akin to marriage, within self, Of our two separate natures, form and spirit. God meant them to be join’d: when wedded thus, One rests content, the other waits in hope.” “To rest, to wait,” I said to this; “and if Such ends displaced were, would there not remain The work that forms our earthly heritage?” “And may not God,” rejoin’d he, “grant us more Than that which we inherit?” “He may grant His rest,” I said. “Yet rest, the Paradise Of work, is yet the Purgatory, too, Of indolence.” “The soul’s true Paradise Is nothing earn’d,” he said. “It is a gift. With Eden lost, insolvent made by sin, Work, as I view it, is a loan from Hope With which man pays the debt of Memory. But if I reckon right, a pauper still, He scarce can earn enough to pay them both. And so our rest, I take it, is a gift That crowns our strife, yet is not won by it; Which, as we live not conscious how ’tis earn’d, We live not conscious how it may be lost. Things out of consciousness are out of care. We rest not as in death that furthers naught; We rest as in a dream, in sleep,—a state Wherein God watches while the soul regales. We rest not from the healthful stir of work, But from the slavery proportioning Our pleasure to our pain—a law for serfs, But not for sons. Our rest is peaceful, hush’d, The very church of choice, as different From other joy as prayer may be from sport.” “And does not choice,” I ask’d, “feel often moved To spurn a lesser for a greater good? For greater good, too, may not Love on high Unseat some idol of our ignorance?”—

With this, I pictured for him brightest life; And, like a blot on every scene, myself; I claim’d my character was not the one That best could aid his own; show’d how my sire, The priest, Doretta, all agreed in this. And then, in contrast with myself, I sketch’d A nature all deem’d fitted for his moods. I may have sinn’d in it; but, grim as fate, My father’s face, recall’d, would urge me on; I noted all Doretta’s nobler traits; And when I thought he must my aim surmise, And while he held his gaze upon the floor, As though he gave assent, at last I spake Doretta’s name. And if the solid earth Had quaked, he had not started more. O God, Why did I not accept his instinct then! He look’d at me, first pale, then flush’d, then firm; And then with tremulous, painful breath, he said:— “And this device from you? from you, so pure? So free from guile? You should have spared me this. That Jesuit has train’d you well! Ah, now, I know how Adam grieved that Eve could fall; How Eve herself, when round her soul first crept The serpent’s cautious coils of smooth deceit, To strap her inch by inch! I read it now, That tale: ’tis all an allegory, ay;— That serpent means the world. The world steals round, Intent to seize and own each heir of heaven. Not long are souls allow’d ideal life, Not long unfetter’d sense or hearts unbound: Our smiles grow stiffer, till, some fatal day, The last is clutch’d and held, a hideous grin. Then, when the body stirs not with the soul, The last nerve wrested from the Spirit’s rule, Naught in us left of love, the world unwinds: Our capturer dissolves in mist or dust:— And we, for its embrace, have lost our God!”

His mood alarm’d me, yet could I protest: “Nay, Haydn, nay! I do not love the world: I long to leave it; yes, all thought of it.” “How much less worldliness is found,” he ask’d, “Within the Church than in your world so call’d?— The Prince of this World is not nice in choice Of equipages; where he cannot check, He mounts the car of truth and grasps the rein; And when the Devil drives, he drives for home. ‘The world,’ what means this, but the world alone,— The mass, devoid of mind, truth, spirit, love?— But holds no church the same?—A mass?—ay, ay. Devoid of mind?—Why not?—But show the place It crowds not reason out to edge in faith.— But ‘faith,’ say you, ‘is reasonable’?—Ay, When in it there is reason; when the thing In which it trusts is truth. But ah! too oft Just prick the forms, and back of them you find— What?—truth?—nay, nay, a priest—a man, forsooth, Who differs from the rest of men in clothes, In wearing worn-out habits, which the need And progress of our times have cast aside;— Ay, wearing them o’er body, mind, and soul; Though all who think know well that moods, whose range Is girt by customs past, (which could alone Prejudge thought’s present range) fit prejudice; And this is in behind your Church’s forms. “You say, perhaps, ‘the Spirit formed the forms To fit the life’?—they fitted life that was; But life, if life, will grow; the life of love Has not yet fill’d the scope around, above, Of heavens that for it wait. What form’d the forms Can still be forming them.—If forms exist Wherein no Spirit works, no present life,— The things are hollow; and a hollow form The Devil flies for, like a flying squirrel For hollow tree-trunks; and when once within, But half disguised inside his robes of white, Loud chanting out mere ceremonious cant, He tempts toward his hypocrisy an age That knows too much of Christian life, at last, For heathen life to tempt it. “Judge by fruits: Here you—God gave you beauty—to be seen! And grace to bless this dear, sweet home. What power Would snatch you from us? make a very hell Of what might else be heaven?—Think you ’tis love? Not so; it only hates love; plays the part— Not of the Christ who yielded up his life, But of the world that made him yield it up; It only trusts in force, in force that lies; And now that it can hold you with a vow Which but deceit could claim that God enjoin’d, It seizes you to plunge you down, down, down, To feel the full damnation of a faith That can believe the voice within the soul A lying guide which cannot be obey’d Without foul consciousness of inward sin,— To plunge you down, and hold you till the cells Of your pure, guileless heart, all stain’d and steep’d, Drip only dregs of stagnant viciousness!”

“You terrify me, Haydn!” I exclaim’d. “And you have done far more to me!” he cried. “You were—Ah me, what were you not?—so pure, Transparent as the mid-day atmosphere. Should some red thunderbolt from sunlight burst And burn all torturing blindness through my eyes, The night came less foretoken’d! I, who dream’d That here I gazed on truth, here bent these knees Upon the very battlements of heaven,— I to be tript thus from my dear proud trust, Sent reeling down by such foul-aim’d deceit!— Strange is it if my jolted brain should slip The grooves of reason?—if I rave or curse?— You, who had known my heart, and after that, And after I had warn’d you of the thing, And simulating all the while such love,— You, vowing to abjure me! more than this, To-day with such cold-blooded, soulless tact, Soft-stealing, through the door-ways left ajar, Within the inmost chambers of my heart, To snare,—as though the victim of a cat That could be play’d with, trick’d with, kill’d, cast off,— This heart of mine which, as you might have known, Was throbbing but to serve you!—Yes, once more, You gain your end! Once more, your wish is mine. How can I love?—God help me!—Go you free.”

How fiercely then did Haydn’s music storm! And soon he would have left our home in haste: My father spoke to stay him. Long they spoke; And sometimes wrathful were the words they used. But then, at last, my father told him all,— Why I had vow’d, that I his life might save, And he broke down before it. Never more May God permit me to behold again A broken man! Alas, how pleaded he! And pray’d me for my pardon o’er and o’er, Till wellnigh I believed he heard me not; And in the end sigh’d out: “It might be so, My plan be wisest; nay, he would not yield His manlier judgment, to fulfil my wish, To make me happy, or my sire or me:— Doretta surely was a housewife wise: It seem’d the older custom, thus to wed: He young had been, had whims.—God bless us all.”

Oft, after that, I urged him ne’er to wed One whom he could not love. He only sigh’d: “This heart of mine that once loved you, Pauline, How could it love again with love as true? Yet what, if not? My soul was immature, Romantic, young. It must be manly now. A man has breadth. I take it manly love Is love that yields most blessings to the most. And mine shall bless yourself, your father, her.”— And so he calm’d my doubt and cheer’d me much.

And oft I spoke with him about the Church. “Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d. “Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember once When young you were, when music scarce had lured Your soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies: Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him, And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d, Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords. Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now, Before you still, sweet chords allure you on. Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the path That open’d then beyond you. But those chords?— Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reach The choirs of heaven! “And thus, at times, I think That I too may have happen’d in your path; And this, your love, now looking toward myself, May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things, Ideal all.” “When you—alas,” he sigh’d, “When you are gone, then life will all become— I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.” “And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said, “From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seem To earth that hears it.” “Ah, I take the thought, You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God, To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?— Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”

One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much. “In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him, “My soul must know if it should praise or plead. A year from now, we two must meet once more. We cannot talk, and yet we may commune While I stand silent at the cloister bars. Then if your wedded life afford you joy— I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers; If else than this, bring but the wilted stems Of these I give you now.” Then soon had pass’d The last vague hours that saw me part from all. I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:— The organ moaning sweetly far away; The people whispering low amid the aisles; My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time; The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me; Doretta, and my father, still and sad; And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.

And two months after that I saw them wed, My Haydn and Doretta, in the church. And, since then, I have pray’d for him long days, And longer nights; and I have oft had hopes That my faint life new strength would gain from God. But now so white, so thin, my body seems, With scarce enough of substance left in it To be a ghost;—ah, what if, like a ghost, It soon should vanish? So I thought, to-night, If I could tell you this, confess my fault, Unload my heart of all her sweet, sad love, That God might give me rest. I did not, nay, I did not mean it, to excite myself. They told me it might bring my death; but oh! Have I not borne enough to merit life? How had I counted all these weeks and days, Up to the hour we two should meet again, And I should find how all my prayers were heard, And heaven had made my Haydn blest!— He came, Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?— He brought the wilted stems.— I do not know. I only know that I can earn no rest: And all our household so much else have earn’d. And now how can I?—I can try no more; But all my pathway has been block’d for me. They say such words are infidelity,— O Christ!—yet I can try no more. Hark! hark!— Is not that Haydn’s hymn we hear again?— How faint it sounds!—or I, I faint may be. The window—move me. There—look out—those clouds— The sunset?—Ah, what comes on earth so bright, So beautiful as clouds?—There were no clouds Where one could always look and see the heaven. The music, hear it—hear how sweet!—Say, say, Did I sing then?—Not so?—and only dream’d?— I thought that music mine, and then myself; And Haydn’s heart, it beat here, beat in me,— Ah me, so tired!—Yes, let me rest on you. O God, for but one hour to live!—For what? Have I not loved then?—Yes, and tell him so, Tell Haydn; thank him.—God, praise Him for it. Life, life—I did not know it—has been sweet.— Hark! music!—Does it not come from above?