As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there stirr'd Through his voice an emotion that swept every word Into one angry wail; as, with feverish change, He continued his monologue, fitful and strange.
"Woe to him in whose nature, once kindled, the torch Of Passion burns downward to blacken and scorch!
But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me!
Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine!
Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so divine!
My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep:
And if tears I mistrust, 'tis that thou too canst weep!
Well! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake In the love of a man, what more change need it make In the steps of his soul through the course love began, Than all other mistakes in the life of a man?
And I said to myself, 'I am young yet: too young To have wholly survived my own portion among The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its joys;
What is broken? one only of youth's pleasant toys!
Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, For one passion survived? No! the roses will blow As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from Spring!
Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet remains All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains And the hills with each summer their verdure renew.
Wouldst thou be as they are? do thou then as they do, Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living divine Where they slumber? Let only new flowers be the sign!'
"Vain! all vain! . . . For when, laughing, the wine I would quaff, I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh.
Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me they stirr'd, In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of even, In the ardors of earth, and the languors of heaven, I could trace nothing more, nothing more through the spheres, But the sound of old sobs, and the track of old tears!
It was with me the night long in dreaming or waking, It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking, The burthen of the bitterness in me! Behold, All my days were become as a tale that is told.
And I said to my sight, 'No good thing shalt thou see, For the noonday is turned to darkness in me.
In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.'
And I said to the grave, 'Lo, my father!' and said To the worm, 'Lo, my sister!' The dust to the dust, And one end to the wicked shall be with the just!"
VII.
He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct light A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone Of ineffable pity, replied to his own.
"And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your life?
Alas! Duc de Luvois, had I been your wife By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone For the love in your nature a lie in my own, Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse?
Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, For I then should have wrong'd you!"
"Wrong'd! ah, is it so?
You could never have loved me?"
"Duke!"
"Never? oh, no!"
(He broke into a fierce, angry laugh, as he said)
"Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you: you led My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power Shut up in that cold face of yours! was this well?
But enough! not on you would I vent the wild hell Which has grown in my heart. Oh, that man! first and last He tramples in triumph my life! he has cast His shadow 'twixt me and the sun . . . let it pass!
My hate yet may find him!"
She murmur'd, "Alas!
These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply.
Enough, Duc de Luvois! farewell. I shall try To forget every word I have heard, every sight That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched night Which must witness our final farewell. May you, Duke, Never know greater cause your own heart to rebuke Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had!
Adieu!"
"Stay, Lucile, stay!" . . . he groaned, "I am mad, Brutalized, blind with pain! I know not what I said.
I mean it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his head)
"Forgive me! I--have I so wrong'd you, Lucile?
I . . . have I . . . forgive me, forgive me!"
"I feel Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, "far, Far too sad for resentment."
"Yet stand as you are One moment," he murmur'd. "I think, could I gaze Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days Would come back upon me, and this scorching heart Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart Thus, Lucile! stay one moment. I know why you shrink, Why you shudder; I read in your face what you think.
Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will, Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still.
I lied. And the truth, now, could justify nought.
There are battles, it may be, in which to have fought Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to feel--"
"Could I help you," she murmur'd, "but what can I say That your life will respond to?" "My life?" he sigh'd. "Nay, My life hath brought forth only evil, and there The wild wind hath planted the wild weed: yet ere You exclaim, 'Fling the weed to the flames,' think again Why the field is so barren. With all other men First love, though it perish from life, only goes Like the primrose that falls to make way for the rose.
For a man, at least most men, may love on through life:
Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth is rife With labor, and therefor, with love, for a man.
If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan Of man's life includes love in all objects! But I?
All such loves from my life through its whole destiny Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas!
Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that pass!
It perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition?
Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition.
Fame? But fame in itself presupposes some great Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State?
I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to draw From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of Luvois To defend usurpation? Books, then? Science, Art?
