Kitobni o'qish: «The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1»

WITHIN AND WITHOUT:
A Dramatic Poem

 
  What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather—
  With outward maker's force, or like an inward father.
 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S Arcadia.

Written December and January, 1850-51.

TO L.P.M.D

 
  Receive thine own; for I and it are thine.
  Thou know'st its story; how for forty days—
  Weary with sickness and with social haze,
  (After thy hands and lips with love divine
  Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine,
  Though with a watery lustre,) more delays
  Of blessedness forbid—I took my ways
  Into a solitude, Invention's mine;
  There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee.
  Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book;
  My child, developed since in limb and look.
  It came in shining vapours from the sea,
  And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me,
  When the red life-blood labour would not brook.
 

May, 1855.

WITHIN AND WITHOUT

PART I

 
  Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door;
  And pray to Him in secret: He will hear.
  But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear
  The numberless ascensions, more and more,
  Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before
  Thou comest to the Father's likeness near,
  And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear
  That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er.
  Be thou content if on thy weary need
  There falls a sense of showers and of the spring;
  A hope that makes it possible to fling
  Sickness aside, and go and do the deed;
  For highest aspiration will not lead
  Unto the calm beyond all questioning.
 

SCENE I.—A cell in a convent. JULIAN alone

 
  Julian.
  Evening again slow creeping like a death!
  And the red sunbeams fading from the wall,
  On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars
  Of the poor window-pane that let them in,
  For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven!
  Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come.
  But what is light to me, while I am dark!
  And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues,
  Reflected flushes from the Evening's face,
  Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched,
  Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left
  His chamber in the dim deserted east.
  Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea!
  The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light,
  As the blue globe had by a blow been broken,
  And the insphered glory bubbled forth!
  Or the sun were a splendid water-bird,
  That flying furrowed with its golden feet
  A flashing wake over the waves, and home!
  Lo there!—Alas, the dull blank wall!—High up,
  The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night
  Come on me like a thief!—Ah, well! the sun
  Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray:
  The terror of the night begins with prayer.
 
 
  (Vesper bell.)
  Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons;
  My knees would not so pain me when I kneel,
  If only at thy voice my prayer awoke.
  I will not to the chapel. When I find Him,
  Then will I praise him from the heights of peace;
  But now my soul is as a speck of life
  Cast on the deserts of eternity;
  A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more.
  I am as a child new-born, its mother dead,
  Its father far away beyond the seas.
  Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him:
  He goeth by me, and I see him not.
  I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes,
  My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul.
 
 
  (Choir and organ-music.)
  I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting.
  What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies
  Have just departed in the sun's bright coach,
  And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me,
  Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness.
  Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold!
  How should my cell be filled with wavering forms!
  Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher;
  Trembling and hesitating to float off,
  As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy
  Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues,
  Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die.
  —Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves!
  Is it for this that I have left the world?—
  Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes
  Of that night when the closing door fell dumb
  On music and on voices, and I went
  Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance,
  Under the clear cope of the moonless night,
  Wandering away without the city-walls,
  Between the silent meadows and the stars,
  Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit,
  And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God;
  When straight within my soul I felt as if
  An eye was opened; but I knew not whether
  'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me?
  It closed again, and darkness fell; but not
  To hide the memory; that, in many failings
  Of spirit and of purpose, still returned;
  And I came here at last to search for God.
  Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content
  Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free!
 

A knock at the door. Enter Brother ROBERT with a light.

 
  Robert.
  Head in your hands as usual! You will fret
  Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.
  Come, it is supper-time.
 
 
  Julian.
  I will not sup to-night.
 
 
  Robert.
  Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.
 
 
  Julian.
   A saint! The devil has me by the heel.
 
 
  Robert.
  So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,
  Which ever struggles higher for his hold.
  It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;—
  He should let go his hold, and then he has you.
  If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you.
  Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.
 
 
    Chorus. Always merry, and never drunk.
          That's the life of the jolly monk.
 

SONG

 
      They say the first monks were lonely men,
      Praying each in his lonely den,
      Rising up to kneel again,
      Each a skinny male Magdalene,
      Peeping scared from out his hole
      Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;
      But years ring changes as they roll—
 
 
Cho. Now always merry, &c.
 
 
      When the moon gets up with her big round face,
      Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place,
      Down to the village below we pace;—
      We know a supper that wants a grace:
      Past the curtsying women we go,
      Past the smithy, all a glow,
      To the snug little houses at top of the row—
 
 
Cho. For always merry, &c.
 
 
      And there we find, among the ale,
      The fragments of a floating tale:
      To piece them together we never fail;
      And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail.
      And so we have them all in hand,
      The lads and lasses throughout the land,
      And we are the masters,—you understand?
 
 
Cho. So always merry, &c.
 
 
      Last night we had such a game of play
      With the nephews and nieces over the way,
      All for the gold that belonged to the clay
      That lies in lead till the judgment-day!
      The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch,
      But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.
      How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!
 
 
    Cho. Oh! always merry, and never drunk.
         That's the life of the jolly monk!
 
 
  Robert.
  The song is hardly to your taste, I see!
  Where shall I set the light?
 
 
  Julian.
  I do not need it.
 
 
  Robert.
  Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies.
  I wish you were at table, were it only
  To stop the talking of the men about you.
  You in the dark are talked of in the light.
 
 
  Julian.
  Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me.
 
 
  Robert.
  No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say,
  You would be thought a saint without the trouble;
  You do no penance that they can discover.
  You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart,
  Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon.
  You are a prince, say others, hiding here,
  Till circumstance that bound you, set you free.
  To-night, there are some whispers of a lady
  That would refuse your love.
 
 
  Julian.
  Ay! What of her?
 
 
  Robert.
  I heard no more than so; and that you came
  To seek the next best service you could find:
  Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.
 
 
  Julian.
  One part at least is true: I knock at God's;
  He has not yet been pleased to let me in.
  As for the lady—that is—so far true,
  But matters little. Had I less to think,
  This talking might annoy me; as it is,
  Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it;
  I keep in-doors.
 
 
  Robert.
  Gloomy as usual, brother!
  Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send
  The light that all day long gladdened the earth,
  Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire
  Transformed the weathercock into a star,
  That you should gloom within stone walls all day.
  At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come:
  We will salute the breezes, as they rise
  And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours
  Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss—
  Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring
  Lets forth in vapour through the genial air.
  Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light
  Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak,
  And thence descend triumphant, step by step,
  The stairway of the hills. Free air and action
  Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.
 
 
  Julian.
  My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,
  "There is your father's house: go in and rest;"
  Through every open room the child would pass,
  Timidly looking for the friendly eye;
  Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder
  At what he saw, until he found his sire;
  But gathered to his bosom, straight he is
  The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears.
  And so with me: not having seen Him yet,
  The light rests on me with a heaviness;
  All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;
  A voice is in the wind I do not know;
  A meaning on the face of the high hills
  Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.
  A something is behind them: that is God.
  These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;
  These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;
  And he is present, but I find him not.
  I have not yet been held close to his heart.
  Once in his inner room, and by his eyes
  Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,
  'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles,
  And sounds that never lose love's mystery.
  Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.
 
 
  Robert
  (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess). See, there
    is God revealed in human form!
 
 
  Julian (kneeling and crossing).
  Alas, my friend!—revealed—but as in nature:
  I see the man; I cannot find the God.
  I know his voice is in the wind, his presence
  Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth;
  And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,
  Not here, not here!
 

  (Pointing to his bosom.)

  [Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone—]

 
                     You do not understand me.
  Without my need, you cannot know my want.
  You will all night be puzzling to determine
  With which of the old heretics to class me.
  But you are honest; will not rouse the cry
  Against me. I am honest. For the proof,
  Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!
  Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!
  Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?
  I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show
  Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,
  And cannot bear but you should think me true.
  Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk
  Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,
  And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,
  Let out one stray beam of its living light,
  Or humbled that proud I that knows not God!
  You are my friend:—if you should find this cell
  Empty some morning, do not be afraid
  That any ill has happened.
 
 
  Robert.]
                            Well, perhaps
  'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,
  But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [Goes.
 
 
  Julian.
  Amen.—A good man; but he has not waked,
  And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him.
  God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;
  And so he does, as possible for him.
  How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!
  He thinks me an enthusiast, because
  I seek to know God, and to hear his voice
  Talk to my heart in silence; as of old
  The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,
  He lay communing with his heart; and God
  With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until
  In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.
  My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,
  And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;
  And let me know the living Father cares
  For me, even me; for this one of his children.—
  Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.
  God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,
  And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.
  See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou
  Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.
  I am a child, a fool before thee, God;
  But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.
  I am an emptiness for thee to fill;
  My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie
  Diffused, abandoning myself to thee….
  —I will look up, if life should fail in looking.
  Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!
  Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!
 

SCENE II.—The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation. ROBERT enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in

 
  Stephen
  (speaking across the table).
  You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic;
  Or, if you like it better, stand to reason;
  For in this doctrine is involved a cause
  Which for its very being doth depend
  Upon its own effect. For, don't you see,
  He tells me to have faith and I shall live!
  Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall
  Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven;
  What is salvation else? If I believe,
  Then he will save me! But, so, this his will
  Has no existence till that I believe;
  And there is nothing for my faith to rest on,
  No object for belief. How can I trust
  In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo.
  Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence;
  To all intents save one, most plenary—
  And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.
 
 
  Monk.
  'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.
  And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling
  At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one
  Should find it poison. I have no pique at him—
  But there's that Julian!—
 
 
  Stephen.
                            Hush! speak lower, friend.
 

Two Monks farther down the table—in a low tone.

 
  1st Monk.
  Where did you find her?
 
 
  2nd Monk.
                           She was taken ill
  At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way,
  And so they called me in. I found her dying.
  But ere she would confess and make her peace,
  She begged to know if I had ever seen,
  About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man,
  Moody and silent, with a little stoop
  As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders,
  And a strange look of mingled youth and age,—
 
 
  1st Monk.
  Julian, by—
 
 
  2nd Monk.
                'St—no names! I had not seen him.
  I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes,
  And urged her to proceed; and she began;
  But went not far before delirium came,
  With endless repetitions, hurryings forward,
  Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past
  Was running riot in her conquered brain;
  And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group
  Held carnival; went freely out and in,
  Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed
  As some confused tragedy went on;
  Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant
  Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain
  Lay desolate and silent. I can gather
  So much, and little more:—This Julian
  Is one of some distinction; probably rich,
  And titled Count. He had a love-affair,
  In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.—
  Give me the woman; love is troublesome!—
  She loved him too, but falsehood came between,
  And used this woman for her minister;
  Who never would have peached, but for a witness
  Hidden behind some curtain in her heart—
  An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience,
  Who has appeared and blabbed—but must conclude
  His story to some double-ghostly father,
  For she is ghostly penitent by this.
  Our consciences will play us no such tricks;
  They are the Church's, not our own. We must
  Keep this small matter secret. If it should
  Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye—
  A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns!
  And so the world will have the benefit
  Of the said wealth of his, if such there be.
  I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else
  Until our Abbot comes.
 
 
  1st Monk.
                        That is to-morrow.
 

  Another group near the bottom of the table, in which is ROBERT.

 
  1st Monk.
  'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him.
  Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity,
  Which passes like a thought across his face,
  When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen,
  A while to our discourse?—he never joins.
 
 
  2nd Monk.
  I know quite well. I stood beside him once,
  Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking:
  He chanced to say the words, Our Holy Faith.
  "Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips,
  Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words
  Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure
  He is an atheist at the least.
 
 
  3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed).
                                 And I
  Fear he is something worse. I had a trance
  In which the devil tempted me: the shape
  Was Julian's to the very finger-nails.
  Non nobis, Domine! I overcame.
  I am sure of one thing—music tortures him:
  I saw him once, amid the Gloria Patri,
  When the whole chapel trembled in the sound,
  Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain,
  And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands,
  Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees.
 
 
  2nd Monk.
  He does not know his rubric; stands when others
  Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice
  With his missal upside down.
 
 
  4th Monk (plethoric and husky).
                              He blew his nose
  Quite loud on last Annunciation-day,
  And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat.
 
 
  Robert.
  When he returns, we must complain; and beg
  He'll take such measures as the case requires.