The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

SCENE III.—Kitchen of a small inn. Host and Hostess

  Host.   That's a queer customer you've got upstairs!   What the deuce is he?   Hostess.                        What is that to us?   He always pays his way, and handsomely.   I wish there were more like him.   Host.                        Has he been   At home all day?   Hostess.                    He has not stirred a foot   Across the threshold. That's his only fault—   He's always in the way.   Host.                    What does he do?   Hostess.   Paces about the room, or sits at the window.   I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,   To see what he's about: he looks annoyed,   But does not speak a word.   Host.                                  He must be crazed,   Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.   Hostess.   He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;   But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,   If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;   And though he does not say much, when he speaks   A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.   Host.   Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?

SCENE IV.—The inn; a room upstairs. JULIAN at the window, half hidden by the curtain

  Julian.   With what profusion her white fingers spend   Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!   It was so late this morning ere she came!   I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!   Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.   Do I not love he? more than when that beauty   Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond   The confines of her wondrous face and form,   And animated with a present power   Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!   Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest   In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,   As for her husband. Something will follow this.   And here he comes, all in his best like her.   They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,   With short steps down the street. Now I must wake   The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!

SCENE V.—A back street. Two Servants with a carriage and pair

  1st Serv.   Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!   That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,   I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;   We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten.   2nd Serv.   Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare   She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,   As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were   Under some roof or other. I fear this business   Is not of the right sort.   1st Serv.                         He looked as black   As if he too had lightning in his bosom.   There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!

SCENE VI.—Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without

  Julian.   Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone—no, there it flares!   I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.   Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm   Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind!   That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he   Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear   This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain   Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.   'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,   And take my stand in the corner by the door.   But if he comes while I go down the stairs,   And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently   Up the stair to the landing by her door.

[He goes quickly toward the door.]

Hostess (opening the door and looking in). If you please, sir—

[He hurries past]

The devil's in the man!

SCENE VII.—The landing

  Voice within.   If you scream, I must muffle you.   Julian (rushing up the stair).                                     He is there!   His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream!

[Flinging the door open, as NEMBRONI springs forward on the other side.]

Back! Nembroni. What the devil!—Beggar!

[Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at JULIAN, which he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he springs within NEMBRONI'S guard.]

  Julian (taking him by the throat).                      I have faced worse   storms than you.

[They struggle.]

Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force,

[He stabs him.]

Your ribs will not mail your heart!

  [NEMBRONI falls dead. JULIAN wipes his dagger on the  dead man's coat.]

  If men will be devils,   They are better in hell than here.

[Lightning flashes on the blade.]

  What a night   For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven!

[Approaches the lady within.]

  Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope   It will not pass too soon. It is not far   To the half-hidden door in my own fence,   And that is well. If I step carefully,   Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.   What! blood? He does not bleed much, I should think!   Oh, I see! it is mine—he has wounded me.   That's awkward now.

[Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window.]

Pardon me, dear lady;

[Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm.]

  'Tis not to save my blood I would defile   Even your handkerchief.

[Coming towards the door, carrying her.]

                         I am pleased to think   Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.

[Looking out of the window on the landing.]

For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.

[He goes down the stair]

SCENE VIII.—A room in the castle. JULIAN and the Nurse

  Julian.   Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.   You have put your charge to bed?   Nurse.   Yes, my dear lord.   Julian.   And has she spoken yet?   Nurse.                         After you left,   Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:   Where am I, mother?—then she looked at me,   And her eyes wandered over all my face,   Till half in comfort, half in weariness,   They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is   As feeble as a child.   Julian.                             Under your care   She'll soon be well again. Let no one know   She is in the house:—blood has been shed for her.   Nurse.   Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.   Julian.   That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.   Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.   Nurse.   Leave?   Julian.   Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again   Over the earth and sea. She must not know   I have been here. You must contrive to keep   My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke   When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.   She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;   Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.   Let her on no pretense guess where she is,   Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.   When she is well and wishes to be gone,   Then write to this address—but under cover

[Writing.]

      To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I       Will see to all the rest. But let her know       Her father is set free; assuredly,       Ere you can say it is, it will be so.   Nurse.   How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?   Julian.   I have thought of that. There's a deserted room   In the old west wing, at the further end   Of the oak gallery.   Nurse.                      Not deserted quite.   I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,   Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.   Julian.   You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:   I found a sliding panel, and a door   Into a room behind. I'll show it you.   You'll find some musty traces of me yet,   When you go in. Now take her to your room,   But get the other ready. Light a fire,   And keep it burning well for several days.   Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,   Take everything to make it comfortable;   Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,   Bind her to be as secret as yourself.   Then put her there. I'll let her father know   She is in safety.—I must change attire,   And be far off or ever morning break.

[Nurse goes.]

  My treasure-room! how little then I thought,   Glad in my secret, one day it would hold   A treasure unto which I dared not come.   Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—   But not with even a heavenly gift would I   Go begging love; that should be free as light,   Cleaving unto myself even for myself.   I have enough to brood on, joy to turn   Over and over in my secret heart:—   She lives, and is the better that I live!

Re-enter Nurse.

  Nurse.   My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;   She's in a dreadful fever. We must send   To Arli for the doctor, else her life   Will be in danger.   Julian   (rising disturbed).                     Go and fetch your daughter.   Between you, take her to my room, yours now.   I'll see her there. I think you can together!   Nurse.   O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!

[Nurse goes.]

  Julian.   I ought to know the way to treat a fever,   If it be one of twenty. Hers has come   Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.   I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!

SCENE IX.—The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot

  Abbot.   'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.   One hope remains: that fellow has a head!

Enter STEPHEN.

  Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told   You said to-day, if I commissioned you,   You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.   Stephen.   I did, my lord.   Abbot.                     How would you do it, Stephen?   Stephen.   Try one plan till it failed; then try another;   Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes   And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:   Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.   I have no plan; but, give me time and money,   I'll find him out.   Abbot.                 Stephen, you're just the man   I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.

SCENE X.—Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LILIA in bed. JULIAN watching

  Julian.   I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then   She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!   My heart is beating as if it would spend   Its life in this one night, and beat it out.   And well it may, for there is more of life   In one such moment than in many years!   Pure life is measured by intensity,   Not by the how much of the crawling clock.   Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across   The window-blind? or is it but a band   Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed   Upon the other?—'Tis the moon herself,   Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this—   Lilia   (half-asleep, wildly).   If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!—   Julian! Julian!

[Half-rising.]

  Julian   (forgetting his caution, and going up to her).                               I am here, my Lilia.   Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,   A terrible dream. Gone now—is it not?

  [She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on the pillow. He leaves her.]

  How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!   But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long   She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead   In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,   And leave her to console my solitude.   Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it!   And what a grief! I will not think of that!   Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own!   O God, I did not know thou wast so rich   In making and in giving; did not know   The gathered glory of this earth of thine.   What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy?   Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take   Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born   In thee, and send it home to dwell with me?

[He leans on the wall.]

  Lilia   (softly).   Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad,   As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am.   I see the flashing of ten thousand glories;   I hear the trembling of a thousand wings,   That vibrate music on the murmuring air!   Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool   Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!—   What is it, though, that makes me glad like this?   I knew, but cannot find it—I forget.   It must be here—what was it?—Hark! the fall,   The endless going of the stream of life!—   Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,—I am so thirsty!

[Querulously.]

[JULIAN gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him again, with large wondering eyes.]

Ah! now I know—I was so very thirsty!

[He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window.]

  Julian.   The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;   With its obtrusive I am written large   Upon its face!

  [Approaches the bed, and gazes on LILIA silently with clasped hands; then returns to the window.]

                 She sleeps so peacefully!   O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.   Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.

Enter Nurse.

  Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep.   You must be near her when she wakes again.   I think she'll be herself. But do be careful—   Right cautious how you tell her I am here.   Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep!

[JULIAN goes.]

  Nurse.   Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,   That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,   And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!—   Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life   From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see   Your shutters open, for I then should know   Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,   To peep at morning from her own bright windows.   Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,   To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams   Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!   Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!

SCENE XI.—A hilly road. STEPHEN, trudging alone, pauses to look around him

  Stephen.   Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound   would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged   good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length—mind   thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not   hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not.   Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.—It is a poor man   that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not   follow thee.

[Sings.]

      Oh, many a hound is stretching out       His two legs or his four,       And the saddled horses stand about       The court and the castle door,       Till out come the baron, jolly and stout,       To hunt the bristly boar!       The emperor, he doth keep a pack       In his antechambers standing,       And up and down the stairs, good lack!       And eke upon the landing:       A straining leash, and a quivering back,       And nostrils and chest expanding!       The devil a hunter long hath been,       Though Doctor Luther said it:       Of his canon-pack he was the dean,       And merrily he led it:       The old one kept them swift and lean       On faith—that's devil's credit!       Each man is a hunter to his trade,         And they follow one another;       But such a hunter never was made         As the monk that hunted his brother!       And the runaway pig, ere its game be played,         Shall be eaten by its mother!

Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and precipices! But the flea may be caught, and so shall the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave his plaything, and wants it back!—I wonder whereabouts I am.

SCENE XII.—The Nurse's room. LILIA sitting up in bed. JULIAN seated by her; an open note in his hand

  Lilia.   Tear it up, Julian.   Julian.                    No; I'll treasure it   As the remembrance of a by-gone grief:   I love it well, because it is not yours.   Lilia.   Where have you been these long, long years away?   You look much older. You have suffered, Julian!   Julian.   Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much,   Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself,   I'll tell you all you want to know about me.   Lilia.   Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong;   It will not hurt me.   Julian.                      Wait a day or two.   Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all.   Lilia.   And I have much to tell you, Julian. I   Have suffered too—not all for my own sake.

[Recalling something.]