Volume 5 — Original. The Lady of La Garaye. [Footnote 49]
Reading edition
Two hundred years ago there dwelt in the lordly castle of Dinan, in Brittany, the chivalric Claud Marot, Count de la Garaye, and his gracious lady. Its fortress-like walls and majestic battlements reared themselves against the sky and frowned upon the woods and vales around as if with conscious dignity and power. Fair Dinan's town nestled in its protecting shadow as a gentle maid might seek security beside the burly form of some rough-appearing but tender-hearted giant. The porter kept its gates with a jealous yet a kindly eye, as should befit the keeper of his master's home, which was at once the sanctuary of his knightly honor and the hall of his knightly bounty. The gray-haired old seneschal, with shoulders slightly stooped by age and reverence, met the courtly guests, and bowed them welcome with a paternal smile and bustling orders to the underlings to prepare all needful things for their better cheer. The courtyard echoed to the baying of the hounds all eager for the chase, and men at arms in troublous times assembled here, mustered by the doughty
"Captains, then of warlike fame, Clanking and glittering as they came."
A retinue of well-fed servants and buxom maids prepared the goodly feast, and ordered well the halls and chambers with their quaint and comfortable furniture. Its noble master and mistress held sway within their castle with fitting grandeur of demeanor, albeit with that graciousness which marks the gentlefolk. Honored by all the country round, rich in worldly goods, yet richer in virtue, happy in each other's love, the young count and his lady had but one thing to mourn, and that was that God had left them childless. A cruel accident banished for ever all hope of any heir: and so they lived and died, yet leaving a name behind them "better than sons and daughters;" and on this our English poetess has weaved a poem of surpassing beauty. We propose to present some idea of it to our readers, merely saying by way of preface that if anyone will read it as it is, he may dispense himself the further perusal of this article, which cannot convey in partial extracts that charm which pervades these flowing pages when undisturbed by the rude comments of a stranger.
The poem opens with the preparations for the chase, in which the lady is to take a part, and at once the noble pair are described to us:
"Cheerful the host, whatever sport befalls, Cheerful and courteous, full of manly grace, His heart's frank welcome written in his face; So eager, that his pleasure never cloys, But glad to share whatever he enjoys; Rich, liberal, gaily dressed, of noble mien; Clear eyes—full, curving mouth—and brow serene; Master of speech in many a foreign tongue, And famed for feats of arms, although too young; Dexterous in fencing, skills in horsemanship— His voice and hand preferred to spur or whip; Quick at a jest and smiling repartee, With a sweet laugh that sounded frank and free, But holding satire an accursed thing, A poisoned javelin or a serpent's sting; Pitiful to the poor; of courage high; A soul that could all turns of fate defy; Gentle to woman; reverent to old age."—
We hasten at once to add the second portrait, painted with a delicacy of outline and warmth of coloring which display the touch of the master hand:
"Like a sweet picture doth the ladies stand, Still blushing as she bows; one tiny hand, Hid by a pearl-embroidered gauntlet, holds Her whip, and her long robe's exuberant folds. The other hand is bare, and from her eyes Shades now and then the sun, or softly lies, With a caressing touch, upon the neck Of the dear glossy steed she loves to deck With saddle-housings worked in golden thread, And golden bands upon his noble head. White is the little hand whose taper fingers Smooth his fine coat—and still the lady lingers, Leaning against his side; nor lifts her head, But gently turns as gathering footsteps tread; Reminding you of doves with shifting throats, Brooding in sunshine by their sheltering cotes. Under her plumèd hat her wealth of curls Falls down in golden links among pearls, And the rich purple of her velvet vest Slims the young waist and rounds the graceful breast."
The invited guests having all arrived, the merry party set off with cheers and laughter, little dreaming of the sad ending of so joyful a day. The game secured, Count Claud and his lady, returning together, meet with a roaring stream over which they must leap their horses:
"Across the water full of peakèd stones— Across the water where it chafes and moans— Across the water at its widest part— Which wilt thou leap, O lady of brave heart?"
Now comes one of the finest passages in the whole volume. Who can read it without finding at the last line that he has been holding his breath?
"He rides—reins in—looks down the torrent's course, Pats the sleek neck of his sure-footed horse— Stops—measures spaces with his eagle eye, Tries a new track, and yet returns to try. Sudden, while pausing at the very brink, The damp, leaf-covered ground appears to sink, And keen instinct of the wise dumb brute Escapes the yielding earth, the slippery root; With a wild effort as if taking wing, The monstrous gap he clears with one safe spring; Reaches—(and barely reaches)—past the roar Of the wild stream, the further lower shore— Scrambles—recovers—rears—and panting stands Safe 'neath his masters nerveless, trembling hands."
But one word mars the power of these lines; the word safe in the line,
"The monstrous gap he clears with one safe spring."
The safety of the unexpected leap is told us just one instant too soon. There is an indescribable pleasure derived by the mind in being held in suspense in the contemplation of one passing through imminent perils, and that suspense cannot be broken, though it were but for the short time that one takes to pass from one side of the page to the other, without loss of power in the description, and of interest to the reader.
But the lady! will she attempt to follow? Did she not mark his hair-breadth escape? The confusion of thought in the mind of the count caused by his own peril, the sudden, unlooked-for leap, the fear lest his wife should try to follow ere he can turn to warn her of the danger, the dumb horror which seizes him as he sees her horse in the air leaping to his certain death; are told in a few rapid lines, and then follows the thrilling tableau:
"Forward they leaped! They leaped—a colored flash Of life and beauty. Hark! A sudden crash— Blent with that dreadful sound, a man's sharp cry— Prone—'neath the crumbling bank—the horse and lady lie!"
Like a madman he rushes to her relief, clambering "as some wild ape" from branch to branch, trampling the lithe saplings under foot with giant tread. His love, his fear, his trembling excitement are told in one line:
"The strength is in his heart of twenty lives."
What a depth of meaning there is in that one sentence, and how happy the choice of words. When, in reading, we came upon the word heart where we expected to find "arm" or "frame," or some similar term which would express the increase of muscular and nervous power consequent upon strong mental emotion, we confess to having been startled by its originality, and we admire the line as it stands as a master stroke of true poetic genius.
Claud is so shocked at finding his beautiful and passionately loved wife apparently dead that he is struck deaf and dumb with grief. The noise of the passing hunt, the baying of the hounds, the cheery calls of the huntsmen, and shouts of the merry guests he neither hears nor heeds. It is some time ere he realizes the terrible accident. At last the thoughts shape themselves in his disordered brain, and, with one wild glance at her prostrate form, be catches her in his arms, and
"Parts the masses of her golden hair, He lifts her, helpless, with a shuddering care, He looks into her face with awe-struck eyes: She dies—the darling of his soul—she dies!"
Then follows one of those passages marked by that deep pathos for which this poem is so remarkable:
"You might have heard, through that thought's fearful shock, The beating of his heart, like some huge clock; And then the strong pulse falter and stand still When lifted from that fear with sudden thrill He bent to catch faint murmurs of his name, Which from those blanched lips low and trembling came: 'O Claud!' She said: no more— But never yet, Through all the loving days since first they met, Leaped his heart's blood with such a yearning vow That she was all in all to him, as now."
Some passing herdsmen came to their relief, and the bruised and corpse-like form of the lady is borne back to the castle on a rude litter of branches. It is impossible for us to refrain giving the strongly drawn contrast in the following description:
"The starry lights shine forth from tower and fall, Stream through the gateway, glimmer on the wall, And the loud pleasant stir of busy men In courtyard and in stables sounds again. And through the windows, as that death-bier passes, They see the shining of the ruby glasses Set at brief intervals for many a guest Prepared to share the laugh, the song, the jest; Prepared to drink, with many a courtly phrase, Their host and hostess—' Health to the Garayes!' Health to the slender, lithe, yet stalwart frame Of Claud Marot—count of that noble name; Health to the lovely countess: health—to her! Scarce seems she now with faintest breath to stir."
And thus the first part of this exquisite poem ends. The second part is the "Convalescence" of the wounded lady. Her life returns, but she learns that she is an incurable invalid, that while life lasts she must remain maimed and sick, and, most cruel thought of all,
"Never could she, at close or some long day Of pain that strove with hope, exulting lay A tiny new-born infant on her breast."
She draws her fate from the unwilling lips of the physician, in whose friendly eyes the tears are glimmering as he pronounces
"The doom that sounds to her like funeral bells."
And now she hurriedly glances in her mind at all the dreaded consequences, among which arises the jealous fear lest she should lose the love of her beloved Claud. His wife, indeed, but no longer his companion; only to have the hours his pity spared. Heart-broken and crushed, she murmurs against the holy will of God and prays for death.
The poetess here introduces a thought which shows her deep acquaintance with the human heart. We shrink from sympathy for our wounded pride, and strive to smile when our hearts are aching:
"Wan Shine such smiles; as the evening sunlight falls On a deserted house whose empty walls No longer echo to the children's play, Or voice of ruined inmates fled away; Where wintry winds alone, with idle state, Move the slow swinging of its rusty gate."
Her high-souled husband grieves to see her drooping under the jealous loss of her strength and beauty, and, in his undoubting love, unable to suspect that she fears to lose that love,
"Wonders evermore that beauty's loss To such a soul should seem so sore a cross, Until one evening in that quiet hush That lulls the failing day, when all the gush Of various sounds seem buried with the sun, He told his thought. As winter streamlets run, Freed by some sudden thaw, and swift make way Into the natural channels where they play, So leaped her young heart to his tender tone, So answering to his warmth, resumed her own; And all her doubt and all her grief confest."
The unburdening of the sore, doubting heart and the tender, comforting, loving assurance of Claud is one of the choicest scenes in the poem. Never did youthful lover pour forth more impassioned utterances than fell from the lips of that true man and noble husband. He tells her that her beauty was but one of the "bright ripples dancing to the sun" glancing upon the silver stream of his happy life, and continues the metaphor:
"River of all my hopes thou wert and art; The current of thy being bears my heart."
And last of all, when she, still incredulous of his unswerving faith, sighs her girlish doubts and moans for death, he with full heart and fervent words repeats his tale of love and makes profession of love's boldest offering, the sacrifice of his life, if it were the will of God, could she return again "to walk in beauty as she did before;" and then he whispers to her the thought that has arisen in his soul to answer the "wherefore" of the dreadful accident:
"It may be God, saw our careless life, Not sinful, yet not blameless, my sweet wife (Since all we thought of in our youth's bright May Was but the coming joy from day to day), Hath blotted out all joy to bid us learn Now this is not our home; and make us turn From the enchanted earth, where much was given, To higher aims and a forgotten heaven."
It is no little comfort in this age of sensual worldliness and practical unbelief in the providence of God to find the voice of Christian philosophy sounding yet clear above the grovelling utterances of a too often degraded muse.
The third part of our poem continues and exemplifies this thought. This world is God's world; we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand. Bereavement, pain, unforeseen and unexplained sorrow belong to life, and play their part in schooling the soul to higher aims. The heart must learn to wait on God. "Peace will come in that day which is known unto the Lord," says the author of the Imitation of Christ. We, too, can bring our own experience to the proof, and know that a stronger hand and a wiser heart has led and loved us. We quote but one extract from this third part; it is the summary of the whole:
"All that our wisdom knows, or ever can, Is this: that God hath pity upon man; And when his Spirit shines in Holy Writ, The great word COMFORTER comes after it."
To these sorrowing ones, bending beneath the cruel blow, and mourning over blighted hopes, God sent a friend; His friend, the minister of His counsel and His comfort, a holy monk. Let us transcribe his portrait:
"Tender his words and eloquently wise; Mild pure fervor of his watchful eyes; Meet with serenity of constant prayer The luminous forehead, high and broad and bare; The thin mouth, though not passionless, yet still; With the sweet calm that speaks an angel's will, Resolving service to his God's behest, And ever musing how to serve him best. Not old, nor young; with manhood's gentlest grace; Pale to transparency the pensive face, Pale not with sickness, but with studious thought, The body tasked, the fine mind overwrought; With something faint and fragile in the whole, As though 'twere but a lamp will hold the soul."
Words of holy counsel, lessons of humble sanctifying obedience, mingled with mild reproof, yet full of the deepest and friendliest sympathy, fall from the lips of the good priest and charm the unquiet spirit to rest. Such words had doubtless fallen upon her ears before, but she had only been a hearer; now she was perforce a learner. How natural her complaint:
"What had I done to earn such fate from Heaven?"
And how deftly does the priest, wise in the counsels of God and in the sorrows of the human heart, catch up the text and bring its argument home to the questioner! "What have the poor done?" he asks in return, "what has the babe done that is just born to die? .... what has the idiot done? .... what have the hard-worked factory girls done?" (the verse says not factory girls, but implies it, a pretty little anachronism which we blame not, for the lesson of the Lady of La Garaye was meant for our own times.).... "what have the slandered innocent done?" And then he tells her, in strong contrast to her own luxury and ease, of the number who sicken and die, forsaken, uncheered by kind words, unaided by kind hands, wanting the commonest comforts of health which become craving necessities for the sick, and bids her know that
"What we must suffer proves not what was done."
The lady listened, and in her heart arose the wish to help the sick, the aged, and the poor. God had chosen her to be one of his angels of mercy to the suffering, and a minister of benediction to those that mourn. And, choosing her, he called her to the trial, and led her, all unwilling yet, through the fire of affliction. How her wish was accomplished and what fruit it bore is quickly told:
"Where once the shifting throng Of merry playmates met, with dance and song, Long rows of simple beds the place proclaim A hospital, in all things but the name. In that same castle where the lavish feast Lay spread that fatal night, for many a guest The sickly poor are fed! Beneath that porch Where Claud shed tears that seemed the lids to scorch, Seeing her broken beauty carried by, Like a crushed flower that now has but to die, The self-same Claud now stands and helps to guide Some ragged wretch to rest and warm inside. But most to those, the hopeless ones, on whom, Early or late, her own sad-spoken doom Hath been pronounced—the incurables—she spends Her lavish pity, and their couch attends. Her home is made their home; her wealth their dole; Her busy courtyard hears no more the roll Of gilded vehicles, or pawing steeds, But feeble steps of those whose bitter needs Are their sole passport. Through that gateway press All varying forms of sickness and distress, And many a poor worn face that hath not smiled For years; and many a crippled child, Blesses the tall white portal where they stand, And the dear lady of the liberal hand."
Nothing, we think, could be added to increase the beauty of this picture. In noting the impressions made by the perusal of this charming poem one cannot help calling attention to its healthful, elevated tone, and the purity of thought which pervades the whole. It is a gem of poetic art which all lovers of the true and beautiful must admire. It were needless to say that even by our copious extracts we have not presented all that is worthy of comment. There are very few verses, indeed, in the poem which do not possess equal merit with those of our quotations. The deep pathos which reigns throughout as its flowing rhythm glides smoothly along, is like the murmuring of a brook through quiet woods on a sunny day, compelling the chance wanderer to stop and pass a dreamy hour away by its leafy banks. There is a singular air of peacefulness and repose pervading it that we think to be its peculiar charm, and we envy not the reader who can rise from its perusal without feeling that he has enjoyed a delightful feast for both mind and heart.