| |
| IT was a dreary day in Padua. | |
| The Countess Laura, for a single year | |
| Fernando’s wife, upon her bridal bed, | |
| Like an uprooted lily on the snow, | |
| The withered outcast of a festival, | 5 |
| Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill, | |
| That struck her almost on her wedding day, | |
| And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down, | |
| Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips, | |
| Till in her chance, it seemed that with a year | 10 |
| Full half a century was overpast. | |
| In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art, | |
| And feigned a knowledge of her malady; | |
| In vain had all the doctors, far and near, | |
| Gathered around the mystery of her bed, | 15 |
| Draining her veins, her husband’s treasury, | |
| And physic’s jargon, in a fruitless quest | |
| For causes equal to the dread result. | |
| The Countess only smiled when they were gone, | |
| Hugged her fair body with her little hands, | 20 |
| And turned upon her pillows wearily, | |
| As though she fain would sleep no common sleep, | |
| But the long, breathless slumber of the grave. | |
| She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was, | |
| The rack could not have wrung her secret out. | 25 |
| The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth, | |
| Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy, | |
| “O blessèd soul! with nothing to confess | |
| Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes— | |
| So humble is she—for our human sins!” | 30 |
| Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed | |
| Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark | |
| That rocks upon one billow, and can make | |
| No onward motion towards her port of hope. | |
| At length, one morn, when those around her said, | 35 |
| “Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light | |
| Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face,”— | |
| One morn in spring, when every flower of earth | |
| Was opening to the sun, and breathing up | |
| Its votive incense, her impatient soul | 40 |
| Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven. | |
| When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace; | |
| Then turned with anger on the messenger; | |
| Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart | |
| Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears | 45 |
| As love sheds only, and love only once. | |
| Then he bethought him, “Shall this wonder die, | |
| And leave behind no shadow? not a trace | |
| Of all the glory that environed her, | |
| That mellow nimbus circling round my star?” | 50 |
| So, with his sorrow glooming in his face, | |
| He paced along his gallery of art, | |
| And strode among the painters, where they stood, | |
| With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head, | |
| Studying the Masters by the dawning light | 55 |
| Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups | |
| Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count, | |
| As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue, | |
| Packed with the secret of a coming storm, | |
| Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists, | 60 |
| Deadening their splendor. In a moment still | |
| Was Carlo’s voice, and still the prattling crowd; | |
| And a great shadow overwhelmed them all, | |
| As their white faces and their anxious eyes | |
| Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. | 65 |
| He paused, as one who balances a doubt, | |
| Weighing two courses, then burst out with this: | |
| “Ye all have seen the tidings in my face; | |
| Or has the dial ceased to register | |
| The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell, | 70 |
| That almost cracks its frame in utterance; | |
| The Countess,—she is dead!” “Dead!” Carlo groaned. | |
| And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck | |
| His splendid features full upon the brow, | |
| He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched. | 75 |
| “Dead!—dead!” He staggered to his easel-frame, | |
| And clung around it, buffeting the air | |
| With one wild arm, as though a drowning man | |
| Hung to a spar and fought against the waves. | |
| The Count resumed: “I came not here to grieve, | 80 |
| Nor see my sorrow in another’s eyes. | |
| Who ’ll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night | |
| In state within the chapel? Shall it be | |
| That earth must lose her wholly? that no hint | |
| Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips | 85 |
| That talked in silence, and the eager soul | |
| That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay, | |
| And scattering glory round it,—shall all these | |
| Be dull corruption’s heritage, and we, | |
| Poor beggars, have no legacy to show | 90 |
| That love she bore us? That were shame to love, | |
| And shame to you, my masters.” Carlo stalked | |
| Forth from his easel stiffly as a thing | |
| Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, | |
| And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, | 95 |
| And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes, | |
| Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back | |
| As though they let a spectre through. Then he, | |
| Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice | |
| Sounding remote and hollow, made reply: | 100 |
| “Count, I shall paint the Countess. ’T is my fate,— | |
| Not pleasure,—no, nor duty.” But the Count, | |
| Astray in woe, but understood assent, | |
| Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung | |
| His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast, | 105 |
| And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank; | |
| Perhaps ’t was at the honor. Then the Count, | |
| A little reddening at his public state,— | |
| Unseemly to his near and recent loss,— | |
| Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes | 110 |
| That did him reverence as he rustled by. | |
| Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay | |
| The Countess Laura at the altar’s foot. | |
| Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows; | |
| A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work, | 115 |
| Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers, | |
| Draped her still body almost to the chin; | |
| And over all a thousand candles flamed | |
| Against the winking jewels, or streamed down | |
| The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard | 120 |
| Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, | |
| Backward and forward, through the distant gloom. | |
| When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet | |
| Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head | |
| Drooped down so low that all his shining curls | 125 |
| Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance. | |
| Upon his easel a half-finished work, | |
| The secret labor of his studio, | |
| Said from the canvas, so that none might err, | |
| “I am the Countess Laura.” Carlo kneeled, | 130 |
| And gazed upon the picture; as if thus, | |
| Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven. | |
| Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes | |
| Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside, | |
| Emerging from his dream, and standing firm | 135 |
| Upon a purpose with his sovereign will. | |
| He took his palette, murmuring, “Not yet!” | |
| Confidingly and softly to the corpse, | |
| And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art | |
| Against his fancy, he addressed himself | 140 |
| With stolid resolution to his task, | |
| Turning his vision on his memory, | |
| And shutting out the present, till the dead, | |
| The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard, | |
| And all the meaning of that solemn scene | 145 |
| Became as nothing, and creative Art | |
| Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed | |
| The elements according to her law: | |
| So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand | |
| Were Heaven’s unconscious instruments, and worked | 150 |
| The settled purpose of Omnipotence. | |
| And it was wondrous how the red, the white, | |
| The ochre, and the umber, and the blue, | |
| From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque, | |
| Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines; | 155 |
| How just beneath the lucid skin the blood | |
| Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart | |
| Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life; | |
| How the light glittered through and underneath | |
| The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes | 160 |
| Became intelligent with conscious thought, | |
| And somewhat troubled underneath the arch | |
| Of eyebrows but a little too intense | |
| For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise | |
| Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot | 165 |
| Suggested life just ceased from motion; so | |
| That any one might cry, in marvelling joy, | |
| “That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soul | |
| To win God’s love or dare hell’s subtleties!” | |
| The artist paused. The ratifying “Good!” | 170 |
| Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch | |
| To give or soften. “It is done,” he cried,— | |
| “My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth | |
| Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!” | |
| The lofty flame, which bore him up so long, | 175 |
| Died in the ashes of humanity; | |
| And the mere man rocked to and fro again | |
| Upon the centre of his wavering heart. | |
| He put aside his palette, as if thus | |
| He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed | 180 |
| A mortal function in the common world. | |
| “Now for my rights!” he muttered, and approached | |
| The noble body. “O lily of the world! | |
| So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou | |
| To those who came thus near thee—for I stood | 185 |
| Without the pale of thy half-royal rank— | |
| When thou wast budding, and the streams of life | |
| Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom, | |
| And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews | |
| On its transplanted darling? Hear me now! | 190 |
| I say this but in justice, not in pride, | |
| Not to insult thy high nobility, | |
| But that the poise of things in God’s own sight | |
| May be adjusted; and hereafter I | |
| May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven | 195 |
| Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.— | |
| Laura you loved me! Look not so severe, | |
| With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips! | |
| You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,— | |
| Let it consume you in the wearing strife | 200 |
| It fought with duty in your ravaged heart. | |
| I knew it ever since that summer day | |
| I painted Lilla, the pale beggar’s child, | |
| At rest beside the fountain; when I felt— | |
| O Heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breath | 205 |
| Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul— | |
| Forgetting soul and body go as one— | |
| You leaned across my easel till our cheeks— | |
| Ah me! ’t was not your purpose—touched, and clung! | |
| Well, grant ’t was genius; and is genius naught? | 210 |
| I ween it wears as proud a diadem— | |
| Here, in this very world—as that you wear. | |
| A king has held my palette, a grand-duke | |
| Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged | |
| The favor of my presence in his Rome. | 215 |
| I did not go; I put my fortune by. | |
| I need not ask you why: you knew too well. | |
| It was but natural, it was no way strange, | |
| That I should love you. Everything that saw, | |
| Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet, | 220 |
| And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,— | |
| I see the halo curving round your head,— | |
| I loved you once; but now I worship you, | |
| For the great deed that held my love aloof, | |
| And killed you in the action! I absolve | 225 |
| Your soul from any taint. For from the day | |
| Of that encounter by the fountain-side | |
| Until this moment, never turned on me | |
| Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong | |
| To nature by the cold, defiant glare | 230 |
| With which they chilled me. Never heard I word | |
| Of softness spoken by those gentle lips; | |
| Never received a bounty from that hand | |
| Which gave to all the world. I know the cause. | |
| You did your duty,—not for honor’s sake, | 235 |
| Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse, | |
| Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman’s shame, | |
| But for the sake of that pure, loyal love | |
| Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God, | |
| I bow before the lustre of your throne! | 240 |
| I kiss the edges of your garment-hem, | |
| And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,— | |
| If I had wronged you, you would answer me | |
| Out of the dusty porches of the tomb:— | |
| Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I | 245 |
| Spoken the very truth?” “The very truth!” | |
| A voice replied; and at his side he saw | |
| A form, half shadow and half substance, stand, | |
| Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth | |
| It had no footing, more than some dense mist | 250 |
| That waves o’er the surface of the ground | |
| It scarcely touches. With a reverent look | |
| The shadow’s waste and wretched face was bent | |
| Above the picture; as though greater awe | |
| Subdued its awful being, and appalled, | 255 |
| With memories of terrible delight | |
| And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze. | |
| “You make what God makes,—beauty,” said the shape. | |
| “And might not this, this second Eve, console | |
| The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast | 260 |
| The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh? | |
| Before that figure, Time, and Death himself, | |
| Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you ask | |
| More than God’s power, from nothing to create?” | |
| The artist gazed upon the boding form, | 265 |
| And answered: “Goblin, if you had a heart, | |
| That were an idle question. What to me | |
| Is my creative power, bereft of love? | |
| Or what to God would be that self-same power, | |
| If so bereaved?” “And yet the love, thus mourned, | 270 |
| You calmly forfeited. For had you said | |
| To living Laura—in her burning ears— | |
| One half that you professed to Laura dead, | |
| She would have been your own. These contraries | |
| Sort not with my intelligence. But speak, | 275 |
| Were Laura living, would the same stale play | |
| Of raging passion tearing out its heart | |
| Upon the rock of duty be performed?” | |
| “The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear | |
| Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith | 280 |
| From God’s fixed centre.” “If I wake for you | |
| This Laura,—give her all the bloom and glow | |
| Of that midsummer day you hold so dear,— | |
| The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul, | |
| The love of genius,—yea, the very love, | 285 |
| The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love, | |
| She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receive | |
| That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?” | |
| A smile of malice curled the tempter’s lips, | |
| And glittered in the caverns of his eyes, | 290 |
| Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook; | |
| A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame, | |
| Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face | |
| With nameless torture. But he cried aloud, | |
| Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke | 295 |
| Of very martyrdom, “O God, she is thine! | |
| Do with her at thy pleasure!” Something grand, | |
| And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head. | |
| He bent in awful sorrow. “Mortal, see—” | |
| “Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure | 300 |
| These vile abominations! Shall she bear | |
| Life’s burden twice, and life’s temptations twice, | |
| While God is justice?” “Who has made you judge | |
| Of what you call God’s good, and what you think | |
| God’s evil? One to him, the source of both, | 305 |
| The God of good and of permitted ill. | |
| Have you no dream of days that might have been, | |
| Had you and Laura filled another fate?— | |
| Some cottage on the sloping Apennines, | |
| Roses and lilies, and the rest all love? | 310 |
| I tell you that this tranquil dream may be | |
| Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade | |
| Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, | |
| And land you where the mountain-goat himself | |
| Struggles for footing.” He outspread his wings, | 315 |
| And all the chapel darkened, as though hell | |
| Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air | |
| Grew thick, and, like a current sensible, | |
| Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash, | |
| As of the waters of a nether sea. | 320 |
| Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure, | |
| Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist’s voice: | |
| “I dare not bring her spirit to that shame! | |
| Know my full meaning,—I who neither fear | |
| Your mystic person nor your dreadful power. | 325 |
| Nor shall I now invoke God’s potent name | |
| For my deliverance from your toils. I stand | |
| Upon the founded structure of his law, | |
| Established from the first, and thence defy | |
| Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!” | 330 |
| The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw | |
| The figure gathering, as from outer space, | |
| Brightness on brightness; and his former shape | |
| Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off, | |
| And show a core of mellow fire within. | 335 |
| Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood, | |
| That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell | |
| Upon the floor, enringing him with flame; | |
| And o’er the tresses of his beaming head | |
| Arose a stream of many-colored light, | 340 |
| Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stood | |
| Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up | |
| The outstretched palms of his untainted soul | |
| Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked, | |
| With reverential wonder quivering through | 345 |
| His sinking voice, “Who, spirit, and what, art thou?” | |
| “I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death.” | |
| “Then take my hand, if so God orders it; | |
| For Laura waits me.” “But, bethink thee, man, | |
| What the world loses in the loss of thee! | 350 |
| What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse! | |
| What unwon glories are in store for thee! | |
| What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks, | |
| Would shine upon the letters of thy name | |
| Graven in marble, or the brazen height | 355 |
| Of columns wise with memories of thee!” | |
| “Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs, | |
| I could but paint those features o’er and o’er: | |
| Lo! that is done.” A smile of pity lit | |
| The seraph’s features, as he looked to heaven, | 360 |
| With deep inquiry in his tender eyes. | |
| The mandate came. He touched with downy wing | |
| The sufferer lightly on his aching heart; | |
| And gently, as the skylark settles down | |
| Upon the clustered treasures of her nest, | 365 |
| So Carlo softly slid along the prop | |
| Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot | |
| As though he slumbered; and the morning broke | |
| In silver whiteness over Padua. | |
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