Читать книгу The Saint's Tragedy - Charles Kingsley - Страница 9

Eliz.  No streak yet in the blank and eyeless east—

More weary hours to ache, and smart, and shiver

On these bare boards, within a step of bliss.

Why peevish?  ’Tis mine own will keeps me here—

And yet I hate myself for that same will:

Fightings within and out!  How easy ’twere, now,

Just to be like the rest, and let life run—

To use up to the rind what joys God sends us,

Not thus forestall His rod: What! and so lose

The strength which comes by suffering?  Well, if grief

Be gain, mine’s double—fleeing thus the snare

Of yon luxurious and unnerving down,

And widowed from mine Eden.  And why widowed?

Because they tell me, love is of the flesh,

And that’s our house-bred foe, the adder in our bosoms,

Which warmed to life, will sting us.  They must know—

I do confess mine ignorance, O Lord!

Mine earnest will these painful limbs may prove.

. . . . .

And yet I swore to love him.—So I do

No more than I have sworn.  Am I to blame

If God makes wedlock that, which if it be not,

It were a shame for modest lips to speak it,

And silly doves are better mates than we?

And yet our love is Jesus’ due,—and all things

Which share with Him divided empery

Are snares and idols—‘To love, to cherish, and to obey!’

. . . . .

O deadly riddle!  Rent and twofold life!

O cruel troth!  To keep thee or to break thee

Alike seems sin!  O thou beloved tempter,

Who first didst teach me love, why on thyself

From God divert thy lesson?  Wilt provoke Him?

What if mine heavenly Spouse in jealous ire

Should smite mine earthly spouse?  Have I two husbands?

The words are horror—yet they are orthodox!

How many many brows of happy lovers

The fragrant lips of night even now are kissing!

Some wandering hand in hand through arched lanes;

Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;

Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss;

Some nestling soft and deep in well-known arms,

Whose touch makes sleep rich life.  The very birds

Within their nests are wooing!  So much love!

All seek their mates, or finding, rest in peace;

The earth seems one vast bride-bed.  Doth God tempt us?

Is’t all a veil to blind our eyes from him?

A fire-fly at the candle.  ’Tis love leads him;

Love’s light, and light is love: O Eden!  Eden!

Eve was a virgin there, they say; God knows.

Must all this be as it had never been?

Is it all a fleeting type of higher love?

Why, if the lesson’s pure, is not the teacher

Pure also?  Is it my shame to feel no shame?

Am I more clean, the more I scent uncleanness?

Shall base emotions picture Christ’s embrace?

Rest, rest, torn heart!  Yet where? in earth or heaven?

Still, from out the bright abysses, gleams our Lady’s silver footstool,

Still the light-world sleeps beyond her, though the night-clouds fleet below.

Oh that I were walking, far above, upon that dappled pavement,

Heaven’s floor, which is the ceiling of the dungeon where we lie.

Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding silent,

Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical!

They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the secret fountains

Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison clay.

Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek’st the lowest hollows?

Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest blue.

Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence—

Joining praises through the ages—Is it all a minstrel’s dream?

Alas! he wakes.  [Lewis rises.]

Lewis.  Ah! faithless beauty,

Is this your promise, that whene’er you prayed

I should be still the partner of your vigils,

And learn from you to pray?  Last night I lay dissembling

When she who woke you, took my feet for yours:

Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.

Alas! what’s this?  These shoulders’ cushioned ice,

And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all,

And weeping furrows traced!  Ah! precious life-blood!

Who has done this?

Eliz.  Forgive! ’twas I—my maidens—

Lewis.  O ruthless hags!

Eliz.  Not so, not so—They wept

When I did bid them, as I bid thee now

To think of nought but love.

Lewis.  Elizabeth!

Speak!  I will know the meaning of this madness!

Eliz.  Beloved, thou hast heard how godly souls,

In every age, have tamed the rebel flesh

By such sharp lessons.  I must tread their paths,

If I would climb the mountains where they rest.

Grief is the gate of bliss—why wedlock—knighthood—

A mother’s joy—a hard-earned field of glory—

By tribulation come—so doth God’s kingdom.

Lewis.  But doleful nights, and self-inflicted tortures—

Are these the love of God?  Is He well pleased

With this stern holocaust of health and joy?

Eliz.  What!  Am I not as gay a lady-love

As ever clipt in arms a noble knight?

Am I not blithe as bird the live-long day?

It pleases me to bear what you call pain,

Therefore to me ’tis pleasure: joy and grief

Are the will’s creatures; martyrs kiss the stake—

The moorland colt enjoys the thorny furze—

The dullest boor will seek a fight, and count

His pleasure by his wounds; you must forget, love,

Eve’s curse lays suffering, as their natural lot,

On womankind, till custom makes it light.

I know the use of pain: bar not the leech

Because his cure is bitter—’Tis such medicine

Which breeds that paltry strength, that weak devotion,

For which you say you love me.—Ay, which brings

Even when most sharp, a stern and awful joy

As its attendant angel—I’ll say no more—

Not even to thee—command, and I’ll obey thee.

Lewis.  Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonder

Of wit and beauty, love and wisdom!  Canst thou

Beatify the ascetic’s savagery

To heavenly prudence?  Horror melts to pity,

And pity kindles to adoring shower

Of radiant tears!  Thou tender cruelty!

Gay smiling martyrdom!  Shall I forbid thee?

Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness?

Thy courage by my weakness?  Where thou darest,

I’ll shudder and submit.  I kneel here spell-bound

Before my bleeding Saviour’s living likeness

To worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things,

Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful blood

Tingled through every vein, and wept, and swore

’Twas beautiful, ’twas Christ-like—had I thought

That thou wert such:—

Eliz.  You would have loved me still?

Lewis.  I have gone mad, I think, at every parting

At mine own terrors for thee.  No; I’ll learn to glory

In that which makes thee glorious!  Noble stains!

I’ll call them rose leaves out of paradise

Strewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies dropped

From martyrs’ diadems, prints of Jesus’ cross

Too truly borne, alas!

Eliz.  I think, mine own,

I am forgiven at last?

Lewis.  To-night, my sister—

Henceforth I’ll clasp thee to my heart so fast

Thou shalt not ’scape unnoticed.

Eliz [laughing]  We shall see—

Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss,

And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss.

High among the lonely hills,

While I lay beside my sheep,