She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was, The rack could not have wrung her secret out. The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth, Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,
"O blessed soul ! with nothing to confess Save virtues and good deeds, which she mis- takes-
And elung 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, 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 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 That love she bore us? That were shame to love, And shame to you, my masters.' Carlo stalked Forth from his easel stifly as a thing Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, 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:
So humble is she- for our human sins!" 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, “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 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 As love sheds only, and love only once. Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die, "Count, I shall paint the Countess. And leave behind no shadow? not a trace Of all the glory that environed her,
That mellow nimbus circling round my star?" 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 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,
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. 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, That almost cracks its frame in utterance; The Countess, she is dead!"-"Dead!" Carlo groaned.
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, 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 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, 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 Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, Backward and forward, through th distant gloom When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet Searce bore him to the altar, and his head Drooped down so low that all his shining curls Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance Upon his easel a half-finished work,
And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck His splendid features full upon the brow, He could not have appeared more scathed and The secret labor of his studio,
“Dead ! -—- dead !" He staggered to his easelframe,
Said from the canvas, so that none might err, "I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled, And gazed upon the picture; as if thus,
Through those cleareyes, 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 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 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 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
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; 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 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 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!" 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, 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 A mortal function in the common world.
Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom, And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews
On its transplanted darling? Hear me now! 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 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
It fought with duty in your ravaged heart. I knew it ever since that summer day
I painted Lila, the pale beggar's child, At rest beside the fountain; when I felt- O Heaven!- the warmth and moisture of your breath
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 ? 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.
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, 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 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 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. not for honor's sake, 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! kiss the edges of your garment-hem,
"Now for my rights!" he muttered, and ap- You did your duty, proached
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 Without the pale of thy half-royal rank - When thou wast budding, and the streams of life
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 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 That wavers 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, With memories of terrible delight And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze.
Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand, And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head He bent in awful sorrow. 66 "Mortal, see-" "Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure 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, 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? I tell you that this tranquil dream may be
"You make what God makes, - beauty," said Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade
"And might not this, this second Eve, console The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast 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, 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 selfsame power, If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned,
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, 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 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, 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, 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 Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!
Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, And land you where the mountain-goat himself Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings, 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. 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. 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!" 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. 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, 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 His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?"
"I am that blessing which men fly from,
"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!
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 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, 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, 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.
THE Abbess was of noble blood, But early took the veil and hood, Ere upon life she cast a look, Or knew the world that she forsook. Fair too she was, and kind had been As she was fair, but ne'er had seen For her a timid lover sigh, Nor knew the influence of her eye. Love, to her ear, was but a name, Combined with vanity and shame; Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all Bounded within the cloister wall: The deadliest sin her mind could reach Was of monastic rule the breach; And her ambition's highest aim To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample dower To raise the convent's eastern tower; For this, with carving rare and quaint, She decked the chapel of the saint, And gave the relic-shrine of cost, With ivory and gems embost. The poor her convent's bounty blest, The pilgrim in its halls found rest.
Black was her garb, her rigid rule Reformed on Benedictine school; Her cheek was pale, her form was spare; Vigils, and penitence austere,
Had early quenched the light of youth, But gentle was the dame, in sooth;
While round the fire such legends go, Far different was the scene of woe, Where, in a secret aisle beneath, Council was held of life and death. It was more dark and lone, that vault, Than the worst dungeon cell; Old Colwulf built it, for his fault In penitence to dwell, When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown. This den which, chilling every sense
Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was called the Vault of Penitence,
Excluding air and light,
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made A place of burial for such dead As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within. 'T was now a place of punishment ; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent
As reached the upper air, The hearers blessed themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead
Bemoaned their torments there.
But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle
Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay; and still more few Were those who had from him the clew To that dread vault to go.
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