Menella Bute Smedley (Менелла Бьют Смедли)
Eremos and Eudæmon
Some souls go broadly up and down the world, Plucking full-fruited joys, and some are set Like trees that spread their unripening arms About the gentle air, endure the storm, Enrich themselves with luxury of leaves, Grow to the light, persuade all passing birds, And see the seasons pass them and are still; And some are captives, with a square of sky In a blank wall, their sole sad heritage Of the world's beauty. Unto such the stars Are precious, and the phantom-walk of clouds That ruffle no blue smoothness where they move, And all the marshalled silences of light, Warmth, darkness, dew, that make the growth of time, And winds that sing of liberty and distance, And tall grass-blooms, or air-blown chance of leaves, Whereby, as by strong argument, they learn That forests are which they shall never see. So they, like men who stand upon a cliff To watch the far keel trace in lucent fields 21Its long dim groove, imagine all the course Which they behold not, and desire their dreams. Eremos, in my parable, had watched For half a life the slow secluded years, Which gave him nothing, but received from him The fragments of those fine capacities That broke ere they were filled. Yet he lived on, And was afflicted by his inward strength Finding no outlet through the grey restraints That closed him round. But when the rush of youth Was past, and every pulse of hope had ceased, There came a stillness such as torrents leave In hollows by their course, smooth water-nests, Where ferns may brood and foam-bells linger long, And a whole delicate blossom-world may grow In breezeless leisure on unfretted banks. Then woke a second dawn of hope,—a hope Coveting nothing,—energies of patience,— A brooding patience that developes life In narrow limits and from little things, Discerning in its corner of the earth All powers and possibilities of being. As one long listening to a winded horn Hears the whole birth of music, while another Hears but the scant soon-ended monotone, So grew his senses quick. On his bare walls The shadows told him how transparently They lie where lawns are greenest; to his ears The distant dropping murmur of a brook Revealed the roar of ocean; the great sky Consoled him with its glory; and his heart Knew the first hidden softness in the wind Against his cheek, and woke to faith in summer. Appeased by this long courage, Circumstance Mutely began to drop into his days Some momentary jewels; first, a seed, Which, resolutely nursed, became a rose, And, fainting not among the prison airs, Beset him with the pleasure of its growth, Until it seemed his soul; for in his soul Each tender tiny promise of a bud Struck such a pang of joy. It talked to him As infants to new mothers,—with its face, Breath, blushes, kisses,—lovely modes of life Needing no words. He tended it by day, And saw its stature rise to his caress As if it stood on tiptoe till he stooped; And his night-dreams were fragrant with it. There Daily vicissitudes of light and air Were hopes and dangers in a long romance, Whereof his flower was heroine, and himself The slave who lived to shield and cherish her. This was not all. Across the narrow space Through which the sky beheld him, many shapes Began to pass,—women and men with hearts, Free steps, and large horizons. As they went To various aims of labour or delight, Some saw the lonely man and were content To grace him with the leisure of a pause. His still thought moved to meet them,—capable, Impulsive, sympathetic. Now, at last, O! now, at last, Eudæmon came to him And told him of the universe. Eudæmon, A king of life, who never knew a grief. Under the tearless sunshine of his face Some feeble things might fade; but, too much light Is not a common evil in the world; Call it a welcome danger, veil your eyes, But never wish the sun quenched! 'Tis no lamp To read by, but a fire to feed the spheres. Growth should be more than reading. The mere sight Of such august consistency in bliss Was to the gazer strength. “This is a man,” He said, “and I, the captive, am a man. The seed which angels set becomes a tree, But each lost germ that dwindles into dust Was born a future tree. I will be proud Of what I might have been if the great seasons Had made no compact to destroy me.” Thus He argued; but affection followed fast, Outstripping reason, grasping her cold hand, Lifting her up to unacknowledged heights Where the feet sink in fragrance, and far earth Seems luminous and placid as a sky. He loved Eudæmon; all his frost-bound springs Were loosened in this summer, and spread forth Into a ceaseless river. Never think, O! never think, Eudæmon's heart was cold! He went not like the others; he returned, Leaned through the casement, answered love with love, Gave himself largely, spoke his wonder out, Changing, so said he, coins for virgin gold; And grew so generous in his gratitude, You might have thought him evermore in debt. So in unwearied converse passed the hours. If one had gathered through a wider space, The other brought his pearls from such a deep That you must practise diving all your life If you would reach it. When Eudæmon talked From tropic pageantries to polar glooms, Or told what cities suffer, do, and think, Making a banquet of his garnered stores To tempt his friend, that other ate and drank, Alert, insatiate, joyful. Afterwards, Not roughly, but in some mild natural pause, He asked,“O brother, have you seen the moon?” “Ay, friend” (amazedly), “some thousand times.” “But do you know the moon?” Eremos said, And then revealed such wonders of the moon, Such fine suggestions, such eventful clouds, Such long gradations of remembered change Wrought with slow touches, every touch a truth, That, while he spoke, lifting astonished palms. “Nay, on my soul, I never learned the moon!” Eudæmon cried; “I prithee tell me more.” So each to each gave honour and delight, One with no need, the other needing all, Yet seemed the richer soul to gain the most, Being eloquent with wide comparisons; While he, who scarcely felt a joy before, Was shy with his new glory and confused, Holding his breath to watch it. So the spring Flowed into breadths of summer and was still; And summer's passionate arms gave up the world Out of their clasp, and autumn carried it With pomp of splendid sorrow to its grave, Where the white silence covers it for long, But not for ever, and the friends were blessed. Then Time, the powerful enemy, who keeps His surest shaft till it can wound the most, Gave his dark signal, and Eudæmon went. O! what unequal pain in that farewell! Grieving he went, but warm expectancy Dried the scarce-fallen tears, and the quick hand, Loosing its strong regretful hold, reached up After new gifts of life. But in the cell Was tumult and resistance and despair. For many days before the day of fate Each momentary joy became a terror Coming to say, “I go;” and all the while, By night, by day, one never-answered thought Roamed up and down, a caged and furious wish Seeking release, “What can I do for him? O brother, benefactor, saviour, friend, What can I do for thee?” There was no room For the other thought, “How can I live without him?” Which some might deem more natural; but this love Had made an end of self. So, even at last, When the hearts brake asunder and the hands Shrank from and then prolonged the final clasp, The same unanswerable wish arose, “O! for my comfort, can I give him nothing? Can I do nothing for him?”—With a spring Like one on whom a revelation breaks, Leaving no choice, he caught his growing rose (A slender plant) and plucked it by the roots, And laid it on that deprecating breast Ere the vain gesture checked him. “For my sake.” He cried, “receive it. If I give not all, I have given nothing. Nothing now to me Is all I had. Only the thought of you Shall fill and cover every part of life; And when I know my rose has died with you, Its unforgotten bloom shall comfort me More than its presence.” With that word they parted, And he that went was blind with gentle tears, Tender with kind regrets, and not forgetful, But constant, speaking much across the seas, And telling where he went and what he did And how he loved, and sending gifts and flowers And all atonements possible for pangs Which cannot be appeased. But he that stayed Wept little and sat still, watching his dead With that sad vigilance which only ceases When the grave shuts. We know what follows Death. Why, even in happy households such a loss Strikes all the music from our daily talk, Nay, half the language; for we use not freely Words full of memory. He looked no more For change or hope or comfort. He sat still. In all his life was nothing but this loss. Years melted, and Eudæmon came again. The links of that long chain across the sea Had dwindled; for the periodic task Of written talk is hard to many hearts; Few only warm it with such living breath That it becomes a voice. The links had failed; But with his first light spring upon the shore He caught the broken chain and hurried on, Love in his face and tokens in his hands And histories on his lips,—to cast them all Upon the turf of a forgotten grave. He filled the winds with sorrow. “Here lies one Who loved me with immeasurable love, Giving me all he had. O, see your rose! Will you not stretch your hand to take your rose? I have it on my heart. You have not known How I remembered you. Your days were cold And your death lonely. I am come at last, But that ‘Too late’ which slays the souls of men Has sundered us for ever.” One stood by And, partly understanding why he wept, Gave him this comfort: “Have you brought a rose (I think you said so) to this flowerless grave? The poor soul murmured much about a rose Before he died, and once I heard him say How, through the long mist of his many griefs, He saw one moment of such pure delight That all the distant Past was bright with it,— The moment when he gave away a rose. I know not what he meant; I saw him smile When that remembrance settled on his face, And, with the smile upon his lips, he died.”
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