Griselda: a society novel in rhymed verse

Griselda: a society novel in rhymed verse

Title: Griselda Subtitle: a society novel in rhymed verse Author: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Release Date: June 30, 2013 [EBook #43066] Language: English Credits: Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) An idle story with an idle moral! Why do I tell it, at the risk of quarrel With nobler themes? The world, alas! is so, And who would gather truth must bend him low, Nor fear to soil his knees with graveyard ground, If haply there some flower of truth be found. For human nature is an earthy fruit, Mired at the stem and fleshy at the root, And thrives with folly's mixon best o'erlaid, Nor less divinely so, when all is said. Brave lives are lived, and worthy deeds are done Each virtuous day, 'neath the all-pitying sun;6 But these are not the most, perhaps not even The surest road to our soul's modern heaven. The best of us are creatures of God's chance (Call it His grace), which works deliverance; The rest mere pendulums 'twixt good and ill, Like soldiers marking time while standing still. 'Tis all their strategy, who have lost faith In things Divine beyond man's life and death, Pleasure and pain. Of heaven what know we, Save as unfit for angels' company, Say rather hell's? We cling to sins confessed, And say our prayers still hoping for the best. We fear old age and ugliness and pain, And love our lives, nor look to live again. I do but parable the crowd I know, The human cattle grazing as they go, Unheedful of the heavens. Here and there Some prouder, may be, or less hungry steer Lifting his face an instant to the sky, And left behind as the bent herd goes by,7 Or stung to a short madness, tossing wild His horns aloft, and charging the gay field, Till the fence stops him, and he vanquished too, Turns to his browsinglost his Waterloo. The moral of my tale I leave to others More bold, who point the finger at their brothers, And surer know than I which way is best To virtue's goal, where all of us find rest, Whether in stern denial of things sweet, Or yielding timely, lest life lose its feet And fall the further. A plain tale is mine Of naked fact, unconscious of design, Told of the world in this last century Of man's (not God's) disgrace, the XIXth. We Have made it all a little as it is In our own images and likenesses, And need the more forgiveness for our sin.8 Therefore, my Muse, impatient to begin, I bid thee fearless forward on thy road: Steer thou thy honest course 'twixt bad and good. Know this, in art that thing alone is evil Which shuns the one plain word that shames the devil. Tell truth without preamble or excuse, And all shall be forgiven theeall, my Muse! ***** In London then not many years ago There lived a lady of high fashion, who For her friends' sake, if any still there be Who hold her virtues green in memory, Shall not be further named in this true tale Than as Griselda or the Lady L., Such, if I err not, was the second name Her parents gave when to the font she came, And such the initial letter bravely set On her coach door, beneath the coronet,9 Which bore her and her fortunesbore, alas! For, as in this sad world all things must pass, However great and nobly framed and fair: Griselda, too, is of the things that were. But while she lived Griselda had no need Of the world's pity. She was proudly bred And proudly nurtured. Plenty her full horn Had fairly emptied out when she was born, And dowered her with all bounties. She was fair As only children of the noblest are, And brave and strong and opulent of health, Which made her take full pleasure of her wealth. She had a pitying scorn of little souls And little bodies, levying heavy tolls On all the world which was less strong than she. She used her natural strength most naturally, And yet with due discretion, so that all Stood equally in bondage to her thrall.10 She was of that high godlike shape and size Which has authority in all men's eyes: Her hair was brown, her colour white and red, Nor idly moved to blush. She held her head Straight with her back. Her body, from the knee Tall and clean shaped, like some well-nurtured tree, Rose finely finished to the finger tips; She had a noble carriage of the hips, And that proportionate waist which only art Dares to divine, harmonious part with part. But of this more anon, or rather never. All that the world could vaunt for its endeavour Was the fair promise of her ankles set Upon a pair of small high-instepped feet, In whose behalf, though modestly, God wot, As any nun, she raised her petticoat One little inch more high than reason meet Was for one crossing a well-besomed street. This was the only tribute she allowed To human folly and the envious crowd;11 Nor for my part would I be found her judge For her one weakness, nor appear to grudge What in myself, as surely in the rest, Bred strange sweet fancies such as feet suggest. We owe her all too much. This point apart, Griselda, modesty's own counterpart, Moved in the sphere of folly like a star, Aloof and bright and most particular. By girlish choice and whim of her first will She had espoused the amiable Lord L., A worthy nobleman, in high repute For wealth and virtue, and her kin to boot; A silent man, well mannered and well dressed, Courteous, deliberate, kind, sublimely blessed With fortune's favours, but without pretence, Whom manners almost made a man of sense. In early life he had aspired to fame In the world of letters by the stratagem Of a new issue, from his private press, Of classic bards in senatorial dress,12 "In usum Marchionis." He had spent Much of his youth upon the Continent, Purchasing marbles, bronzes, pictures, gems, In every town from Tiber unto Thames, And gaining store of curious knowledge too On divers subjects that the world least knew: Knowledge uncatalogued, and overlaid With dust and lumber somewhere in his head. A slumberous man, in whom the lamp of life Had never quite been lighted for the strife And turmoil of the world, but flickered down In an uncertain twilight of its own, With an occasional flash, that only made A deeper shadow for its world of shade. When he returned to England, all admired The taste of his collections, and inquired To whose fair fortunate head the lot should fall To wear these gems and jewels after all. But years went by, and still unclaimed they shone,13 A snare and stumbling-block to more than one, Till in his fiftieth year 'twas vaguely said, Lord L. already had too long delayed. Be it as it may, he abdicated life The day he took Griselda to his wife. And then Griselda loved him. All agreed, The world's chief sponsors for its social creed, That, whether poor Lord L. was or was not The very fool some said and idiot, Or whether under cloak of dulness crass, He veiled that sense best suited to his case, Sparing his wit, as housewives spare their light, For curtain eloquence and dead of night; And spite of whispered tales obscurely spread, Doubting the fortunes of her nuptial bed, Here at this word all sides agreed to rest: Griselda did her duty with the best. Yet, poor Griselda! When in lusty youth A love-sick boy I stood unformed, uncouth,14 And watched with sad and ever jealous eye The vision of your beauty passing by, Why was it that that brow inviolate, That virginal courage yet unscared by fate, That look the immortal queen and huntress wore To frightened shepherds' eyes in days of yore Consoled me thus, and soothed unconsciously, And stilled my jealous fears I knew not why? How shall I tell the secret of your soul Which then I blindly guessed, or how cajole My boyhood's ancient folly to declare Now in my wisdom the dear maid you were, Though such the truth? Griselda's early days Of married life were not that fitful maze Of tears and laughter which betoken aught, Changed or exchanged, of pain with pleasure bought,15 Of maiden freedom conquered and subdued, Of hopes new born and fears of womanhood. Those who then saw Griselda saw a child Well pleased and happy, thoughtlessly beguiled By every simplest pleasure of her age, Gay as a bird just issued from its cage, When every flower is sweet. No eye could trace Doubt or disquiet written on her face, Where none there was. And, if the truth be told, Griselda grieved not that Lord L. was old. She found it well that her sweet seventeen Should live at peace with fifty, and was seen Just as she felt, contented with her lot, Pleased with what was and pleased with what was not. She held her husband the more dear that he Was kind within the bounds of courtesy, And love was not as yet within her plan, And life was fair, and wisdom led the van.16 For she was wiseoh, wise! She rose at eight And played her scales till breakfast, and then sat The morning through with staid and serious looks, Counting the columns of her household books, Her daily labour, or with puzzled head Bent over languages alive and dead, Wise as, alas! in life those only are Who have not yet beheld a twentieth year. Wealth had its duties, time its proper use, Youth and her marriage should be no excuse; Her education must be made complete! Lord L. looked on and quite approved of it. The afternoons, in sense of duty done, Went by more idly than the rest had gone. If in the country, which Lord L. preferred, She had her horse, her dogs, her favourite bird, Her own rose-garden, which she loved to rake, Her fish to feed with bread crumbs in the lake, Her schools, old women, poor and almshouses, Her sick to visit, or her church to dress.17 Lord L. was pleased to see her bountiful: They hardly found the time to find it dull. In London, where they spent their second year, Came occupations suited to the sphere In which they lived; and to the just pretence Of our Griselda's high-born consequence, New duties to the world which no excuse Admitted. She was mistress of L. House And heir to its traditions. These must be Observed by her in due solemnity. Her natural taste, I think, repelled the noise, The rush, and dust, and crush of London joys; But habit, which becomes a second sense, Had reconciled her to its influence Even in girlhood, and she long had known That life in crowds may still be life alone, While mere timidity and want of ease She never ranked among youth's miseries. She had her parents too, who made demand Upon her thoughts and time, and close at hand18 Sisters and friends. With these her days were spent In simple joys and girlish merriment. She would not own that being called a wife Should make a difference in her daily life. Then London lacks not of attractions fit For serious minds, and treasures infinite Of art and science for ingenious eyes, And learning for such wits as would be wise, Lectures in classes, galleries, schools of art: In each Griselda played conspicuous part Pupil and patron, ay, and patron-saint To no few poor who live by pens and paint. The world admired and flattered as a friend, And only wondered what would be the end. And so the days went by. Griselda's face, Calm in its outline of romantic grace, Became a type even to the vulgar mind Of all that beauty means when most refined,19 The visible symbol of a soul within, Conceived immaculate of human sin, And only clothed in our humanity That we may learn to praise and better be. Where'er she went, instinctively the crowd Made way before her, and ungrudging bowed To one so fair as to a queen of earth, Ruling by right of conquest and of birth. And thus I first beheld her, standing calm In the swayed crowd upon her husband's arm, One opera night, the centre of all eyes, So proud she seemed, so fair, so sweet, so wise. Some one behind me whispered "Lady L.! His Lordship too! and thereby hangs a tale." His Lordship! I beheld a placid man, With gentle deep-set eyes, and rather wan, And rather withered, yet on whose smooth face Time seemed to have been in doubt what lines to trace20 Of youth or age, and so had left it bare, As it had left its colour to his hair. An old young man perhaps, or really old, Which of the two could never quite be told. I judged him younger than his years gave right: His looks betrayed him least by candlelight. Yet, young or old, that night he seemed to me Sublime, the priest of her divinity At whose new shrine I worshipped. But enough Of me and my concerns! More pertinent stuff My tale requires than this first boyish love, Which never found the hour its fate to prove. My Lady smiling motions with her hand; The crowd falls back; his Lordship, gravely bland, Leads down the steps to where his footmen stay In state. Griselda's carriage stops the way! And was Griselda happy? Happy?Yes, In her first year of marriage, and no less21 Perhaps, too, in her second and her third. For youth is proud, nor cares its last sad word To ask of fate, and not unwilling clings To what the present hour in triumph brings. It was enough, as I have said, for her That she was young and fortunate and fair. The world that loved her was a lovely world, The rest she knew not of. Fate had not hurled A single spear as yet against her life. She would not argue as 'twixt maid and wife, Where both were woman, human nature, man, Which held the nobler place in the world's plan. Her soul at least was single, and must be Unmated still through its eternity. And, even here in life, what reason yet To doubt or question or despair of Fate? Her youth, an ample web, before her shone For hope to weave its subtlest fancies on, If she had cared to dream. Her lot was good Beyond the common lot of womanhood,22 And she would prove her fortune best in this, That she would not repine at happiness. Thus to her soul she argued as the Spring Brought back its joy to each begotten thing Begotten and begetting. Who shall say Which had the better reason, she or they? In the fourth year a half acknowledged grief Made its appearance in Griselda's life. Her sisters married, younger both than she, Mere children she had thought, and happily. Each went her way engrossed by her new bliss, Too gay to guess Griselda's dumb distress. Her home was broken. In their pride they wrote Things that like swords against her bosom smote, The detail of their hopes, and loves, and fears. Griselda read, and scarce restrained her tears. Her mother too, the latest fledgling flown, Had vanished from the world. She was alone.23 When she returned to London, earlier Than was her custom, in the following year, She found her home a desert, dark and gaunt; L. House looked emptier, gloomier than its wont. Griselda sighed, for on the table lay Two letters, which announced each in its way The expected tidings of her sisters' joy. Either was brought to bedand with a boy. Her generous heart leaped forth to these in vain, It could not cheat a first sharp touch of pain, But yielded to its sorrow. That same night, Lord L., whose sleep was neither vexed nor light, And who for many years had ceased to dream, Beheld a vision. Slowly he became Aware of a strange light which in his eyes Shone to his vast discomfort and surprise;24 And, while perplexed with vague mistrusts and fears, He saw a face, Griselda's face, in tears Before him. She was standing by his bed Holding a candle. It was cold, she said, And shivered. And he saw her wrap her shawl About her shoulders closely like a pall. Why was she there? Why weeping? Why this light, Burning so brightly in the dead of night? These riddles poor Lord L.'s half-wakened brain Tried dimly to resolve, but tried in vain. "I cannot sleep to-night," went on the voice, "The streets disturb me strangely with their noise, The cabs, the striking clocks." Lord L.'s distress Struggled with sleep. He thought he answered "Yes." "What can I do to make me sleep? I am ill, Unnerv'd to-night. This house is like a well.25 Do I disturb you here, and shall I go?" Lord L. was moved. He thought he answered "No." "If you would speak, perhaps my tears would stop. Speak! only speak!" Lord L. here felt a drop Upon his hand. She had put down the light, And sat upon his bed forlornly white And pale and trembling. Her dark hair unbound Lay on her knees. Her lips moved, but their sound Came strangely to his ears and half-unheard. He only could remember the last word: "I am unhappylisten L.!alone." She touched his shoulder and he gave a groan. "This is too much. You do not hear me. See, I cannot stop these tears. Too much!" And he Now well awake, looked round him. He could catch A gleam of light just vanished, and the latch26 Seemed hardly silent. This was all he knew. He sat some moments doubting what to do, Rose, went out, shivered, hearing nothing, crept Back to his pillow, where the vision wept Or seemed to weep awhile ago, and then With some disquiet went to sleep again. Next morning, thinking of his dream, Lord L. Went down to breakfast in intent to tell The story of his vision. But he met With little sympathy. His wife was late, And in a hurry for her school of art. His lordship needed time to make a start On any topic, and no time she gave. Griselda had appointments she must save, And could not stop to hear of rhyme or reason The dream must wait a more convenient season. And so it was not told. Alas, alas! Who shall foretell what wars shall come to pass, What woes be wrought, what fates accomplishd,27 What new dreams dreamt, what new tears vainly shed, What doubts, what anguish, what remorse, what fears Begotten in the womb of what new years! And all because of this, that poor Lord L. Was slow of speech, or that he slept too well! ......Buy Now (To Read More)

Product details

Ebook Number: 43066
Author: Blunt, Wilfrid Scawen
Release Date: Jun 30, 2013
Format: eBook
Language: English