The Earthly Paradise (December-February): February: The Hill of Venus
THIS story tells of a certain man who by strange adventure fell into the power of Venus, and who, repenting of his life with her, was fain to return to the world and amend all, but might not; for his repentance was rejected of men, by whomsoever it was accepted. A CERTAIN summer afternoon day hung Such a tide brooded o’er the ancient wood, "Once I looked not for this and it has come; He looked around as thus he spake, and saw Now nigh the cliff a little river ran, There had he drawn rein, and his eyes were set And many a tale yet unforgot there was With that once more he hung his head adown; Yet, as he told them over one by one, Long dwelt he in such musings, though his beast And therewithal he stooped and caught the rein, And as he spake, slowly his horse ’gan move But strangely light therewith his heart did grow, Then therewithal louder the thunder rolled, He heeded not except to spur him on; And faced the wild white rain, and the wind's roar, Then, whirling o’er his head his glittering sword, WHAT, is the tale not ended then? Woe's me! And yet a flawless life indeed that seemed Unanswered and forgot!—forgot to-day, —Unanswered and forgot a little while;— How many questions asked, nor answered aught? And in that while the second thought was this: How long who knoweth?—and be sure meanwhile, For on a night, amid the lily and rose, So there for long he lay in happy rest, Then fled all peace, as in a blaze of flame, Ah me! the memory of the sunrise sweet So cried he, knowing well now what it meant, Therewith he stayed: midst a bright mead he was, "O me! if thou across the night wouldst cry, And with that word he rushed into the cave. INTO bright sun he woke up suddenly, But as he spake these words unwittingly, Scarce formed upon his lips, the word "Return" He answered not, nor moved; the man's words seemed But all had been a dream; all save the pain, He toward the night through hapless day-dreams passed, But as he spake, there came adown the wind So through the gate at last the pilgrims came, The old man turned to him: "My son," he said, Night passed, day dawned, and at the noon thereof Amid the tumult of his heart, they went But no more dead the grey old temples seemed For surely all things seemed but part of him; "Thou tremblest not; thou look’st as other men: Then silently he led him on again He looked up, and beside him still she stood, "Wilt thou kneel down, my son?" he heard him say, He knelt down, but all silent did abide Outside the sparrows twittered; a great tree Fearfully Walter raised his eyes, and turned, "Look at me, father! I have been a knight, "Man hates it and God scorns, and I, e’en I— "Some hope of peace at last that is not death? "Among all men, since best they cannot be, The strained lines of the kneeling wretch's face At last the Pope spake; well-nigh musical "How fair shall be the dawning of that day "All this thou gainest if to God thou turn, A strange look crossed the knight's face as he said: Then the Pope trembled, for, half-risen now, "Is it then so as I have deemed erewhile, But, cowering down again, cried out the knight: "Hast thou not heard about the gods, who erst "And did God hate the world, then, for their sake, "Belike I dreamed then! O belike some shade "What!—must I name her, then, ere thou mayst know Walter laughed loud, and knew not who was there, He knew not—though he wondered at all these, No ignorance, no wonder, and no hope "For he mayhap had things to say to me "O God, if I have done thee deadly wrong, The sun was sunken now, the west was red, "And yet, before I die, I needs must go With a great cry he sprang up; in his handARGUMENT.
Doubtful ’twixt storm and sunshine, and the earth
Seemed waiting for the clouds to spread, that clung
About the south-east, ere its morning mirth,
Ere all the freshness of its hopeful birth,
Should end in dreadful darkness, and the clash
Of rain-beat boughs and wildering lightning-flash.
Wild with sour waste and rough untended tree,
Which, long before the coming of the Rood,
Men held a holy place in Germany;
Yea, and still looked therein strange things to see,
Still deemed that dark therein was uglier
Than in all other wilds, more full of fear.
No word for me to speak, no blow to strike:
What shall the end be now I look for worse?
Woe worth the dull walls of mine ancient home,
The ragged fields laid ’neath the ancient curse!
Woe worth false hope that dead despair doth nurse
That he amidst his thoughts had ridden to where
The close wood backward for a space did draw,
Leaving a plain of sweet-grown sward all clear,
Till at the end thereof a cliff rose sheer
From the green grass, o’er which again arose
A hill-side clad with fir-trees dark and close.
And bright with sun were hill and mead, although
Already, far away, the storm began
To rumble, and the storm lift moving slow,
Over a full third of the sky to grow,
Though still within its heart the tumult stayed,
Content as yet to keep the world afraid.
Upon a dark place in the sheer rock's side,
A cavern's mouth; and some new thought did get
Place in his heart therewith, and he must bide
To nurse the thing; for certes far and wide
That place was known, and by an evil fame;
The Hill of Venus had it got to name.
Of what a devilish world, dream-like, but true,
Ah me! despite the worst Love threateneth,
Still would I cling on to the skirts thereof,
If I could hope his sadness still could move
My heart for evermore. A little taste
Of the king's banquet, then all bare and waste
That they more hunger therewithal may win!
Ah me! what skill for dying love to yearn?
Yet, O my yearning! though my heart should burn
Into light feathery ash, blown here and there,
After one minute of that odorous flare."
The name of Love such thoughts in him had stirred,
That somewhat sweet his life to him was grown,
And like soft sighs his breathing now he heard;
His heart beat like a lover's heart afeard;
Of such fair women as he erst had seen,
The names he named, and thought what each had been.
But dimly might he see their forms, and still
Some lack, some coldness, cursed them all, and none
The void within his straining heart might fill;
For evermore, as if against his will,
Words of old stories, turned to images
Of lovelier things, would blur the sight of these.
From out his hand had plucked the bridle-rein,
And, wandering slowly onward, now did feast
Upon the short sweet herbage of the plain;
So when the knight raised up his eyes again,
And turned his horse about till he did face
Amidst the dull world's hopeless, hurrying race,
Where the past gain each new gain makes a loss,
And yesterday's gold love to-day makes dross!"
Unto the hill: "To-morrow and to-day,
Why should I name you, so I once hold Love
Close to my heart? If others fell away,
That was because within their souls yet lay
Some hope, some thought of making peace at last
With the false world, when all their love was passed."
He knew not why; and yet again he said:
"A wondrous thing that I this day must trow
In tales that poets and old wives have made!
Time was when duly all these things I weighed.
Yet, O my heart—what sweetens the dull air?
What is this growing hope, so fresh and fair?"
And the world darkened, for the sun was down;
A fitful wind ’gan flicker o’er the wold,
And in scared wise the woods began to moan,
And fast the black clouds all the sky did drown;
But his eyes glittered,—a strange smile did gleam
Across his face, as in a happy dream.
Like a sweet scent, the nearness of thine home
Is shed around; it lighteth up God's sky—
O me, thy glory!" Therewith suddenly
The lightning streamed across the gathering night,
And his horse swerved aside in wild affright.
He drew his sword as if he saw a foe,
And rode on madly till the stream he won,
And, even as the storm-wind loud ’gan blow,
And the great drops fell pattering, no more slow,
Dashed through the stream and up the other bank,
And leaped to earth amid his armour's clank,
The swift wide-dazzling lightning strange of hue,
The griding thunder, saying: "No more, no more,
Helpless and cruel, do I deal with you,
Or heed the things the false world calleth true.
Surely mine eyes in spite of you behold
The perfect peace Love's loving arms enfold."
Into the night he cast it far away;
And turning round, without another word
Left the wild tumult of the ruined day,
And into the darkness that before him lay
Little there was of joy or mirth;
About the borders of the sea
The sea folk wandered heavily;
About the wintry river side
The weary fishers would abide.
How many tales on earth have such an end:
I longed, I found, I lived long happily,
And fearless in death's fellowship did wend?'
—On earth,—where hope is that two souls may blend
That God has made but she—who made her then
To be a curse unto the sons of men?
For a long while: as flowers, not made to die
Or sin, they were: no dream was ever dreamed,
How short soe’er, wherein more utterly
Was fear forgot or weariness worn by;
Wherein less thought of the world's woe and shame,
Of men's vain struggles, o’er the sweet rest came.
Folk on the earth fear they may love in vain,
Ere first they see the love in answering eyes,
And still from day to day fresh fear doth rise."
Because too close they clung for sight or sound;
But yet to-morrow:—"Changeless love, O say
Why, since love's grief on earth doth so abound,
No heart my heart that loveth so ere found
That needed me?—for wilt thou say indeed
That thou, O perfect one, of me hast need?"
Asked and unanswered many a time and oft;
Till something gleamed from out that marvellous smile,
And something moved within that bosom soft,
As though the God of Love had turned and scoffed
His worshipper, before his feet cast down,
To tell of all things for his sake o’erthrown.
How many longings met still by that same
Sweet face, by anguish never yet distraught,
Those limbs ne’er marred by any fear or shame;
How many times that dear rest o’er him came—
And faded mid the fear that nought she knew
What bitter seed within his bosom grew?
And what then with the others hast thou done?
Where is the sweetness of their sick love gone?"
—Ah me! her lips upon his lips were laid,
And yet awhile the dreadful dawn was stayed.
"And if, wrapped in her love, I linger here
Till God's last justice endeth all our bliss,
Shall my eyes then, by hopeless pain made clear,
See that a vile dream my vain life held dear,
And I am lone? "—Ah, cheek to his cheek laid!
And yet awhile the dreadful dawn was stayed.
That could man's heart imagine, man's tongue say,
The strange delights that did his heart beguile
Within that marvellous place from day to day,
Whoso might hearken should cast clean away
Is there no love amid earth's sorrowing folk?"
So glared the dreadful dawn—and thus it broke.—
Peaceful he woke from dreams of days bygone;
Peaceful at first; and, seeing her lying close
Beside him, had no memory of deeds done
Since long before that eve he rode alone
Amidst the wild wood; still awhile himseemed
That of that fair close, those white limbs he dreamed.
As one too full of peace to wish to wake
From dreams he knows are dreams. Upon her breast
The soft wind did the dewy rose-leaves shake;
From out a gleaming cloud the moon did break;
Till, mid her balmy sleep, toward him she turned,
And into his soul her touch his baseness burned.
Rushed dreadful memory back; and therewithal,
Amid the thoughts that crowding o’er him came,
But if thou have heed, of thy love and faith."
After that warning little understood,
When stole the golden sun unto her feet,
As she lay sleeping by the myrtle-wood,
Watched by his sleepless longing!—"O how good
Those days were! fool, go back, go back again,
Shalt thou have lived and wilt thou die in vain?"
That long-passed warning; that there gaped the gate
Whereby lost souls back to the cold earth went:
Then through his soul there swept a rush of hate
‘Gainst hope, that came so cruel and so late
To drive him forth from all the joys he knew,
Yet scarcely whispering why or whereunto.
Whose flowers across her feet full oft had met
While he beheld; a babbling stream did pass
Unto the flowery close that held her yet.
—O bliss grown woe that he might ne’er forget!
No help, no cry to come back!—Ah, at last
I know that no real love from me I cast;
Nought but a dream; and that God knoweth too;
And no great gift He deems this deed I do.
If through this dusky twilight of the moon
Thou wouldst glide past and sob a-going by,
Nor think us worthy of more hell or pain
Than such a never-ending, hopeless day!—
No sign yet breaketh through the glimmering grey!
Nought have I, God, for thee to take or leave,
Unless this last faint hope thou wilt receive!"
But when the depths of its chill dark he gained,
Turning he saw without the black boughs wave;—
—And oh, amidst them swayed her form unstained! '
But as he moved to meet her, all things waned;
A void unfathomed caught him as he fell
Into a night whereof no tongue can tell.
And sprang up like a man with foes beset
Amidst of sleep; and crying an old cry
Learned in the tilt-yard, blind and tottering yet,
He stretched his hand out, that a tree-trunk met,
Nought have I, God, for thee to take or leave,
Unless that last faint hope thou didst receive."
He moaned; for once again the moonlit place
Where last he said them did he seem to see,
And in his heart such longing did that raise,
That a bright flush carne o’er his haggard face,
When folk fled not from me, nor knew me cursed,
And yet who knoweth that I know the worst?"
Rang in his heart once more; but a cold cloud
Of all despair, however he might yearn,
All pleasure of that bygone dream did shroud,
And hopes and fears, long smothered, now ’gan crowd
About his heart: nor might he rest in pain,
But needs must struggle on, howe’er in vain.
To life at last, and hope of rest and peace;
I whom my dreadful crime hath hunted so
For years, though I am young—O long and slow
Nor be confounded at aught man can do.—
—And thou, who seemest too with ill down-weighed,
Come on with us, nor be too much afraid,
Though some men deem there is but left small space,
Or ere the world shall see the Judge's face."
An echo of his thoughts, and, as he passed,
Word and touch both might well be only dreamed.
Yea, when the vine-clad terraced hill at last
Had hid them all, and the slim poplars cast
Blue shadows on the road, that scarce did show
A trace of their passed feet, he did not know
That, mingling with the palpable things around,
Showed them to be not wholly vague and vain,
And him not dead, in whatso hard bonds bound,
Of wandering fate, whose source shall ne’er be found.
He shivered, turned away, and down the same
Deep lane he wandered, whence e’en now he came.
From out the town the sound of pilgrims’ song,
And other thoughts were borne across his mind,
And hope strove with desire so hopeless strong,
Till in his heart, wounded with pain and wrong,
Something like will was born; until he knew
Now, ere they came, what thing he meant to do.
Led by an old priest, fiery-eyed and grey;
Then Walter held no parley with his shame,
But stood before him midmost of the way.
"Will one man's sin so heavy on you weigh,"
He cried, "that ye shall never reach your end?
Unto God's pardon with you would I wend."
"Come with us, and be of us! turn not back
When once thine hand upon the plough is laid;
The telling of thy sin we well may lack,
Because the Avenger is upon our track,
And who can say the while we tarry here,
Amid this seeming peace, but God draws near?"
The days of this ill world are grown but few."
The priest came unto Walter: "Fair my son,
Now shalt thou know," he said, "of God's great love;
Moreover thou shalt talk with such an one
As hath heard told the worst deeds man hath done,
And will not start at thine or mock at thee:
Be of good heart, and come thy ways with me."
Through the calm day, by wonders wrought of old;
And fresh young folk they met, and men intent
On eager life; the wind and the sun's gold
Were fresh on bands of monks that did uphold
The carven anguish of the rood above
The wayfarers, who trusted in God's love.
To him than fresh-cheeked girl or keen-eyed man;
Therefore what help in them? Still on he passed
Through all, and still saw nothing blurred or dim,
Though with a dread air was the world o’ercast,
As of a great fire somewhere; till at last,
At a fair convent door the old priest stayed,
And touched his fellow's shoulder, as he said:
Come then, for surely all will soon be well,
And like a dream shall be that ill day, when
Thou hangedst on the last smooth step of hell!"
But from his shoulder therewith his hand fell,
And long he stared astonished in his place,
At a new horror fallen o’er Walter's face.
Through daintily wrought cloisters, to a door,
Whereby there stood a gold-clad chamberlain:
Then, while the monk his errand to him bore,
Walter turned round and cast a wild look o’er
Fair roof, and painted walls, and sunlit green,
That showed the slim and twisted shafts between.
Yet nowise is he with us visibly."
With eyes that seemed to question; What dost thou,
What wilt thou say? The fever of his blood
Abated not, because before him now
There sat an old man with high puckered brow,
Thin lips, long chin, and wide brown eyes and mild,
That o’er the sternness of his mouth still smiled.
"God is anigh, though not to give thee fear;
Folk tell me thou hast journeyed a long way,
That I the inmost of thine heart might hear;
It glads me that thou holdest me so dear.
While the Pope waited silent; on the ground
His eyes were fixed, but still anigh his side
He knew she stood; and all the air around
Was odorous with her, yea, the very sound
Of her sweet breath, moving of hair and limb,
Mixed with his own breath in the ears of him.
Stirred near the window, and the city's noise
Still murmured: long the Pope sat patiently
Amid that silence, till the thin weak voice
Spake out and said: "O son, have the world's joys
Made thee a coward? what is thy degree?
Despite thy garb no churl thou seem’st to me."
As though to ask that vision what to say,
And with a bitter pain his vexed heart burned,
When now he found all vanished clean away:
Great wrath stirred in him; shame most grievous lay
Upon his heart, and spreading suddenly
His hands abroad, he ’gan at last to cry:
And held my own mid men: such as I kneel
Not because God through thy thin pipe doth speak,
As all folk trow: but, rather, that man's hate,
Man's fear, God's scorn shall fall in all their weight
Upon my love when I have spoken out—
—Yea, let me bide a minute more in doubt!
—How shall I hate my love and scorn my love?
Weak, weak are words—but, O my misery!
More hate than man's hate in my soul doth move;
Greater my scorn than scorn of God above—
And yet I love on.—Is the pain enow
That thou some hope unto my heart mayst show?—
Because with all these things I know for sure
I cannot die, else had I stopped my breath
Long time agone—thereto hath many a lure
Drawn on my hand; but now God doth endure,
And this my love, that never more shall bring
Delight to me or help me anything."
As utterly o’erwhelmed in soul as thou,
Who, when awhile with words his mouth had striven,
Went forth from me at peace and well forgiven.
Fall we to talk; and let me tell thee first,
That there are such as fain would be the worst
So strong is that wild lie that men call pride;
And so to-day it is, perchance, with thee—
Cast it aside, son; cast it clean aside,
Nor from my sight thy utmost vileness hide;
Nought worse it makes thy sin, when all is done,
That every day men do the same, my son!"
Were softened; as to something far away
He seemed a-listening: silent for a space
The two men were—who knows what ’twixt them lay,
What world of wondrous visions, of a day
Passed or to come?—to one lost love so clear,
God's glory to the other present there.
His voice was grown, and in his thin dry cheek
There rose a little flush: "Tell of thy fall,
And how thy weak heart its vain lust must seek,
Cursing the kind and treading down the weak!
And leave thee calm in thy pure second birth;
No sin, no lust forgotten, in the place
Where, litten by the glory of God's face,
The souls that He hath made for ever move
Mid never-dying, never-craving love.
When thy cleared eyes behold the thing thou wast,
Wherefore, and all the tale: hate cast away,
And all the yearning of thy love at last
Full satisfied, and held for ever fast!
O never-dying souls, how sweet to hear
Your laughter in the land that knows no fear!
Since nought but with thy fellows hast thou dealt,
And well He wotteth how vexed hearts may yearn,
Who in the very midst of them hath dwelt,
Whose own soul, too, the world's hard wrong hath felt,
The serpent's burning clutch upon his heel—
Speak, then, and pray, and earn unending weal!"
"Surely all these shall love their God full well;
In sore despite of reason, hope, and will,
Unto the false heart of an evil thing?—
—O me!" he cried, "that scarce heard murmuring
Beside me, and that faint sound of thy feet!
Must thou be wordless this last time we meet?"
Walter glared round him through the empty air;
"O man," he said, "speak out: what seest thou?
What ill thing ’twixt thy God and thee stands there?"
"Ah, me!" cried Walter, "kind thou wert and fair
In the past days, and now wilt thou be gone,
And leave me with this cruel God alone?
That thou fear’st God too, even as I fear?
That I shall see the death of thy kind smile,
When, hand in hand, amid the unshadowed air,
Unto God's face forgot we draw anear?
O mocking lie, that told me while ago,
One minute's bliss was worth unending woe!"
E’en as one man speaks to another one;
Or let me go, lest I begin to deem
That I myself spake thus in some ill dream!"
"Nay, leave me not! wait, father; thou shalt hear!
Lo, she is gone now!—surely thou said’st right;
For the whole world is trembling with my fear
And tainted with my sin—I will speak clear
And in few words, and know the end at last.
Yea, though e’en now I know myself outcast.
Held rule here where thou dwellest? dost thou think
That people ’neath their rule were so accurst
That they forgot in joy to eat and drink,
That they slept not, and loved not, and must shrink
From the world's glory?—how if they loved these
Thou tallest devils and their images?
When fair the sun rose up on every day,
And blade and bloom through the brown earth did break,
And children were as glad as now?—nay, nay,
But of their bodily shape most wondrous fair?
What—thinkest thou I tell thee of some dream,
Some wandering glimmer of the moon's grey beam,
Seen when men's hearts sink mid black-shadowed trees,
And unknown words are in the tangled breeze?
Of nought that is I saw with these mine eyes!—
—I saw her feet upon the blossoms laid,
The flowers o’er which no God-made sun shall rise!-
Belike I am a mad fool mid the wise,
But nothing therefor of God's wrath need fear,
Because my body and soul I gave her there.
What thing I mean? or say where she doth dwell—
A land that new life unto me did show
Which thou wilt deem a corner cut from Hell,
Set in the world lest all go there too well?
—Lo, from THE HILL OF VENUS do I come,
That now henceforth I know shall be my home!"
As on this dry staff fruit and flowers to see!"
And who was gone, nor how long he abode
Within that place, or why his feet must fare
Round about Rome that night—or why that load
Was on his heart; or why next morn the road
Beneath his hurrying feet was white and dry,
And no cloud flecked the sunny April sky.
And where he went—but nought seemed strange to him,
And nought unknown, when the great forest-trees
Around a cleared space of the wood were dim
In windless dawn, with white mist that did swim
About a pine-clad cliff, above a stream
Dark, scarcely seen, and voiceless as a dream.
Was in his heart, as his firm feet passed o’er
The shallow's pebbles, and the flowery slope,
He could not say then, knowing not what I was;
And I—God wot that there are things I see,
To tell of; if the words my lips would pass:
Things dimly seen, indeed, as in a glass—
Woe's me! for who shall help me if I erred!
Yet God, I deemed, had given me that last word.
And lost a soul thou wouldst have saved and blessed,
And still the birds poured forth their melody,
A marvellous scent about him seemed to spread,
Mid strange new bliss the tears his eyes drew nigh;
He smiled and said; "Too old to weep am I;
Unless the very end be drawing near,
And unimagined sounds I soon shall hear.
Back to my house, and try if I may write,
For there are some things left for me to do,
Ere my face glow with that ineffable light."
He moved and stooped down for his staff; still bright
The sky was, as he cast his eyes adown,
And his hand sought the well-worn wood and brown.
He held against the sky a wondrous thing,
That might have been the bright archangel's wand,
Who brought to Mary that fair summoning;
For lo, in God's unfaltering timeless spring,
Summer, and autumn, had that dry rod been,
And from its barrenness the leaves sprang green,
