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Yet to the
wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda,
Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,
Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world
seems above us,
Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is
meaner around us;
Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber
remain;
Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in
resistance.--
Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the
oak-trees immingle,
Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet
sparkles,
Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,
Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still
repeated,
Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,--
Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets
of the city,
Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--on the way to
Florence.
Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.--We don't
know,
You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican
marbles;
But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual
reason,--
He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and
escort us.
Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so
Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the
party,--
Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:
I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title
to be so.
Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina
distinctly
Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness.
But, oh, my
Pen will not write any more;--let us say nothing further
about it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him
repulsive;
So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the
expression
Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel
me.
Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told
you?
Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of
ideas
That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive,
and easy;
I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual
being.--
When does he make advances?--He thinks that women should
woo him;
Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and
disgusted.
She that should love him must look for small love in
return,--like the ivy
On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard
support, and
E'en to get that must go searching all round with her
humble embraces.
II. Claude to Eustace,--from Rome
. Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would
sprout in the furrow,
Did it not truly accept as its summum and ultimum bonum
That mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set
in?
Would it have force to develop and open its young
cotyledons,
Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing
with another?
Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural
functions
Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of
existence?
While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita
Vecchia,
Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,
Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the
vessel,
Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious
billows,
'This is Nature,' I said: 'we are born as it were from
her waters;
Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring
uncared-for,
Casting one single regard of a painful victorious
knowledge,
Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are
swallowed.'
This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop
of the steamer;
And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed
Ariadne,
Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in
marble.
It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the
truer.
Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous
Ages.
III. Claude to Eustace.
Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannot
Fight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And
although I
Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your
English papers,
What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend
matters?
Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is
idle;
No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget
it.
Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And
what's the
Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?
Why not fight?--In the first place, I haven't so much as
a musket;
In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use
it;
In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient
marbles;
In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country;
In the fifth--I forget, but four good reasons are ample.
Meantime, pray let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight
in devotion.
So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of
martyrs!
Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiae; though it would seem
this
Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come
kind:
Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then,
elsewhere!
Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from
the pother!
IV. Claude to Eustace.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time
inspiration,
Are there two several trees in the place we are set to
abide in;
But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the
Garden,
Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering
ever,
Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of
Knowledge,--
Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful
blossom.
Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream
Hellespontine,
Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus
Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia,
Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the
prospect attaining,
Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,
Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to
encounter.
Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless
faces,
Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,
Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we
discern not,
Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the
crested billow,
Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the
tide shall return to,
Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!
Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous
Ages.
V. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--from Florence.
Dearest Miss Roper,--Alas! we are all at Florence quite
safe, and
You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly
distressing!
We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did
from the troubles.
Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will
be over;
Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.
Do you see Mr. Claude?--I thought he might do something
for you.
I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be
useful.
What is he doing? I wonder;--still studying Vatican
marbles?
Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is
better.
VI. Claude to Eustace.
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?
Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or
steamer,
And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be
ended,
Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is
next one;
And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in
prospect,
Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.
Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the
illusion!
Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the
Only!
Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion
of passion,
Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light
of our knowledge!
But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in
the distance,
Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the
marriage procession?
But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in
that service?
But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous
contract?
But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous
doorway?--
Ah, but the bride, meantime,--do you think she sees it
as he does?
But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger
existence,
Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed
here into action?
But for assurance within a limitless ocean divine, o'er
Whose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost
surface
Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and
endure not,--
But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and
know it,
Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do
here?
Ah, but the women,--God bless them! they don't think at
all about it.
Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited
beings
Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual
Abstract,
Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge
confiding,
Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies
not,
Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular
doings,--
Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has
provided.
Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.
Ah, but the women, alas! they don't look at it that way.
Juxtaposition is great;--but, my friend, I fear me, the
maiden
Hardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought
to obtain her,
Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must
even put up with,--
Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly
told her
That she is but for a space, an ad-interim solace and
pleasure,--
That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and
absolute something,
Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,--
Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not,
forsake not
Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting,
Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive
you?
Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts
you,
Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter
and--leave you?
VII. Claude to Eustace.
Juxtaposition is great,--but, you tell me, affinity
greater.
Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and
lesser,
Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of
juxtaposition,
Potent, efficient, in force,--for a time; but none, let
me tell you,
Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the
will, ah,
None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and
perfect.
Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to
the princess,
Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,--
Vir sum, nihil faeminei,--and e'en to the uttermost
circle,
All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are
Nature's.
Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large
intuition,
That I can be and become anything that I meet with or
look at:
I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff
panniers;
I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in
the window,
On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive
lizard,
Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing
about me;
Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful
assurance,
E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or
trees of the forest,
Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality,
greets me;
And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths,
and perversions,
Fain could demand to return to that perfect and
primitive silence,
Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid
embraces.
VIII. Claude to Eustace.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and
coupling;
Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably
faithful,
All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and
unmingled.
Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to
look at;
As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage
is changing,
As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite
pictures,
Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only
This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of
craving,
Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine
satisfaction.
IX. Claude to Eustace.
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:
So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, a
Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can
honour.
But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of
drumming and shouting,
Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or
the falsehood,
And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings
Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction
that reign o'er
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters.
Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you
should not,
No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens,
I repel it!
Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly
Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and
dishonour,
Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own
signature! Ah, no!
I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind
me.
No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above
all things,
This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held
me to nothing.
No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties,
as I fancied;
Bind and engage myself deep;--and lo, on the following
morning
It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played
for nothing.
Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a
semi-performance
At the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of
evasion,
When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet,
engagements,
Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing
of it,--
Stood unexpecting, unconscious. She spoke not of
obligations,
Knew not of debt--ah, no, I believe you, for excellent
reasons.
X. Claude to Eustace.
Hang this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and
what evil!
Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's
chamber,
Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of
slumber pursuing.
What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have
compassion;
Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal
knowledge;
Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the
fields, my brothers,
Tranquilly, happily lie,--and eat grass, like
Nebuchadnezzar!
XI. Claude to Eustace.
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the
Anio
Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;
Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,
With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian
fountain,
Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of
Horace:--
So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,
Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of
the Sibyl,
Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus
beside me;*
Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,
Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous
waters,
Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro
(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of
the shadows,
Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and
the Graces).
Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing
creations,
Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of
Horace:--
So not seeing I sang; so now--Nor seeing, nor hearing,
Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan
embraces,
Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte
Gennaro,
Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,
But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad
streets, the
Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and
kitchen-gardens,
Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves
Rome of the Romans,--
But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapoury
mountains,
Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and
fancy,--
But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by
me,
Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and
Tourist.
* -- domus Albuneae resonantis,
Et praeceps Anio, et Tibuni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis
XII. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper.
Dear Miss Roper,--It seems, George Vernon, before we
left Rome, said
Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his
attentions.
Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this
from Georgina.
It is so disagreeable and so annoying to think of!
If it could only be known, though we may never meet him
again, that
It was all George's doing, and we were entirely
unconscious,
It would extremely relieve--Your ever affectionate Mary.
P.S. (1)
Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I
wanted.
So you have seen him,--indeed, and guessed,--how
dreadfully clever!
What did he really say? and what was your answer
exactly?
Charming!--but wait for a moment, I haven't read through
the letter.
P.S. (2)
Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about
it.
If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do
so.
Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I
could manage.
It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled
for.
Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.
Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.
Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a
secret,
That I should like very well to show him myself I forget
it.
P.S. (3)
I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for
Tuesday.
Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manage
Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.
It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it
exactly
As if it had not occurred: and I do not think he would
like it.
I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is
over
We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to
Milan;
There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce
di Malta
Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to
England.
XIII. Claude to Eustace.
Yes, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the
city,--
So it appears; though then I was quite uncertain about
it.
So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding.
I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to
Florence.
Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon
Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging
together,
As to intentions forsooth, and so forth. I was
astounded,
Horrified quite; and obtaining just then, as it
happened, an offer
(No common favour) of seeing the great Ludovisi
collection,
Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must
excuse me.
How could I go? Great Heavens! to conduct a permitted
flirtation
Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers!
Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic
inquiries,
Find from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman,
Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for
removal,
That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown,--not, I think,
by Georgina:
She, however, ere this,--and that is the best of the
story,--
She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and
gone--honey-mooning.
So--on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the
city.
Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had
dreamt of;
Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep en-
Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of
Horace;
Tibur I shall not see;--but something better I shall
see.
Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the
horses;
Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be
a failure.
Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyarded
ruins!
Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and
domes!
Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic
Albano,
Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and Aesula's hills!
Ah, could we once, ere we go, could we stand, while, to
ocean descending,
Sinks o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the yellow broad
sun,
Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once in
the champaign,
Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts umbrageous and
old,
E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy
beautiful hollow,
Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill!--
Therefore farewell, ye plains, and ye hills, and the
City Eternal!
Therefore farewell! We depart, but to behold you again!
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