Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  So, on the same evening, Lily and her husband entered on their public duties, and Melice took leave for ever of a nation of admirers.

  When the prince and princess appeared in the theatre, the whole house stood up, answering their smiles and blushes by acclamations of welcome. They took their places on chairs of state under an emblazoned canopy, and the performance commenced.

  A moonless night: three transparent ghosts flit across the scene, bearing in their bosoms unborn souls. They leave behind tracks of light from which are generated arums. Day breaks — Melice enters; she washes her hands in a fountain, singing to the splash of the water; she plucks arums, and begins weaving them into a garland, still singing.

  Lily bent forward to whisper something to her husband; but he raised his hand, enforcing ‘Hush!’ as through eyes and ears his soul drank deep of beauty. The young wife leaned back with good-humoured acquiescence; but Hero?

  In another moment Hero was singing in the unrivalled songstress, charming and subduing every heart. The play proceeded; its incidents, its characters developed. Melice outshone, out-sang herself; warbling like a bird, thrilling with entreaty, pouring forth her soul in passion. Her voice commanded an enthusiastic silence, her silence drew down thunders of enthusiastic applause. She acknowledged the honour with majestic courtesy; then, for the first time, trembled, changed colour: would have swept from the presence like a queen, but merely wept like a woman.

  It was her hour of supreme triumph.

  Next day she set out for her uncle’s residence, her own selected home.

  Many a long day’s journey separated her from her mother’s village, and her transit thither assumed the aspect of a ceremonial progress. At every town on her route orations and emblems awaited her; whilst from the capital she was quitting, came, pursuing her, messages of farewell, congratulation, entreaty. Often an unknown cavalier rode beside her carriage some stage of the journey; often a high-born lady met her on the road, and, taking a last view of her countenance, obtained a few more last words from the most musical mouth in the world.

  At length the goal was reached. The small cottage, surrounded by its disproportionately extensive garden, was there; the complex forcing-houses, pits, refrigerators, were there; Uncle Treeh was there, standing at the open door to receive his newly-found relative.

  Uncle Treeh was rather old, rather short, not handsome; with an acute eye, a sensitive mouth, and spectacles. With his complexion of sere brown, and his scattered threads of white hair, he strikingly resembled certain plants of the cactus tribe, which, in their turn, resemble withered old men.

  All his kind face brightened with welcome as he kissed his fair niece, and led her into his sitting-room. On the table were spread for her refreshment the choicest products of his gardens: ponderous pine-apples, hundred-berried vine clusters, currants large as grapes and sweet as honey. For a moment his eyes dwelt on a human countenance with more admiration than on a vegetable; for a moment, on comparing Melice’s complexion with an oleander, he awarded the palm to the former.

  But a week afterwards, when Melice, leaning over his shoulder, threatened to read what he was writing, Treeh looked good-naturedly conscious, and, abandoning the letter to her mercy, made his escape into a neighbouring conservatory.

  She read as follows: —

  My Friend, —

  You will doubtless have learned how my solitude has been invaded by my sister’s long-lost daughter, a peach-coloured damsel, with commeline eyes, and hair darker than chestnuts. For one whole evening I suspended my beloved toils and devoted myself to her: alas! next day, on revisiting Lime Alley, house B, pot 37, I found that during my absence a surreptitious slug had devoured three shoots of a tea-rose. Thus nipped in the bud, my cherished nursling seemed to upbraid me with neglect; and so great was my vexation, that, on returning to company, I could scarcely conceal it. From that hour I resolved that no mistaken notions of hospitality should ever again seduce me from the true aim of my existence. Nerved by this resolution, I once more take courage; and now write to inform you that I am in hourly expectation of beholding pierce the soil (loam, drenched with liquid manure) the first sprout from that unnamed alien seed, which was brought to our market, three months ago, by a seafaring man of semi-barbarous aspect. I break off to visit my hoped-for seedling.

  At this moment the door, hastily flung open, startled Melice, who, looking up, beheld Treeh, radiant and rejoicing, a flowerpot in his hand. He hurried up to her, and, setting his load on the table, sank upon his knees. ‘Look!’ he cried.

  ‘Why, uncle,’ rejoined Melice, when curious examination revealed to her eyes a minute living point of green, ‘this marvel quite eclipses me!’

  A pang of humiliation shot through Hero, an instantaneous sharp pang; the next moment she was burrowing beneath the soil in the thirsty sucking roots of a plant not one-eighth of an inch high.

  Day by day she grew, watched by an eye unwearied as that of a lover. The green sheath expanded fold after fold, till from it emerged a crumpled leaf, downy and notched. How was this first-born of an unknown race tended; how did fumigations rout its infinitesimal foes, whilst circles of quicklime barricaded it against the invasion of snails! It throve vigorously, adding leaf to leaf and shoot to shoot: at length, a minute furry-bud appeared.

  Uncle Treeh, the most devoted of foster-fathers, revelled in ecstasy; yet it seemed to Hero that his step was becoming feebler, and his hand more tremulous. One morning he waited on her as usual, but appeared out of breath and unsteady: gradually he bent more and more forward, till, without removing his eyes from the cherished plant, he sank huddled on the conservatory floor.

  Three hours afterwards hurried steps and anxious faces sought the old man. There, on the accustomed spot, he lay, shrunk together, cold, dead; his glazed eyes still riveted on his favourite nursling.

  They carried away the corpse — could Treeh have spoken he would have begged to lie where a delicate vine might suck nourishment from his remains — and buried it a mile away from the familiar garden; but no one had the heart to crush him beneath a stone. The earth lay lightly upon him; and though his bed was unvisited by one who would have tended it — for Melice, now a wife, had crossed ‘the sea to a distant home — generations of unbidden flowers, planted by winds and birds, blossomed there.

  During one whole week Hero and her peers dwelt in solitude, uncared for save by a mournful gardener, who loved and cherished the’vegetable family for their old master’s sake. But on the eighth day came a change: all things were furbished up, and assumed their most festive aspect; for the new owners were hourly expected.

  The door opened. A magnificently attired lady, followed by two children and a secondary husband, sailed into the narrow passage, casting down with her robe several flower-pots. She glanced around with a superior air, and was about to quit the scene without a word, when the gardener ventured to remark, ‘Several very rare plants, madam.’.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she cried, ‘we knew his eccentric tastes, poor dear old man!’ and stepped doorwards.

  One more effort: ‘This madam,’ indicating Hero, ‘is a specimen quite unique.’

  ‘Really,’ said she; and observed to her husband as she left the house, ‘These useless buildings must be cleared away. This will be the exact spot for a ruin: I adore a ruin!’

  A ruin? — Hero’s spirit died in the slighted plant. Was it to such taste as this she must condescend? such admiration as this she must court? Merely to receive it would be humiliation. A passionate longing for the old lost life, the old beloved love, seized her; she grew tremulous, numbed: ‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘this is death!’

  A hum, a buzz, voices singing and speaking, the splash of fountains, airy laughter, rustling wings, the noise of a thousand leaves and flower-cups in commotion. Sparks dancing in the twilight, dancing feet, joy and triumph; unseen hands loosing succous, interlacing stalks from their roots beneath the water; towing a lily-raft across the lake, down a tortuous inland creek, through Fairy-
harbour, out into the open sea.

  On the lily-raft lay Hero, crowned with lilies, at rest. A swift tide was running from Fairycoast to Man-side: every wave heaving her to its silver crest bore her homewards; every wind whistling from the shore urged her homewards. Seals and unicorns dived on either hand, unnoticed. All the tumbling porpoises in the ocean could not have caught her eye.

  At length, the moon-track crossed, she entered the navigable sea. There all was cold, tedious, dark; not a vessel in sight, not a living sound audible. She floated farther: something black loomed through the obscurity; could it be a boat? yes, it was certainly a distant boat; then she perceived a net lowered into the water; then saw two fishermen kindle a fire, and prepare themselves to wait, it might be for hours. Their forms thrown out against the glare struck Hero as familiar: that old man, stooping more than his former wont; that other strong and active figure, not so broad as in days of yore; — Hero’s heart beat painfully: did they remember yet? did they love yet? was it yet time?

  Nearer and nearer she floated, nearer and nearer. The men were wakeful, restless; they stirred the embers into a blaze, and sat waiting. Then softly and sadly arose the sound of a boat-song: —

  PETER GRUMP.

  If underneath the water

  You comb your golden hair

  With a golden comb, my daughter,

  Oh, would that I were there.

  If underneath the wave

  You fill a slimy grave,

  Would that I, who could not save,

  Might share.

  FORSS.

  If my love Hero queens it

  In summer Fairyland,

  What would I be

  But the ring on her hand?

  Her cheek when she leans it

  Would lean on me: —

  Or sweet, bitter-sweet,

  The flower that she wore

  When we parted, to meet

  On the hither shore

  Anymore? nevermore.

  Something caught Forss’s eye; he tried the nets, and finding them heavily burdened began to haul them in, saying, ‘It is a shoal of white fish; no, a drift of white seaweed — but suddenly he cried out:’ Help, old father! it is a corpse, as white as snow!’

  Peter ran to the nets, and with the younger man’s aid rapidly drew them in. Hero lay quite still, while very gently they lifted the body over the boat-side, whispering one to another: ‘It is a woman — she is dead!’ They laid her down where the fire-light shone full upon her face — her familiar face.

  Not a corpse, O Peter Grump: not a corpse, O true Forss, staggering as from a death-blow. The eyes opened, the face dimpled into a happy smile; with tears, and clinging arms, and clinging kisses, Hero begged forgiveness of her father and her lover.

  I will not tell you of the questions asked and answered, the return home, the wonder and joy which spread like wildfire through the colony. Nor how in the moonlight Forss wooed and won his fair love; nor even how at the wedding danced a band of strangers, gay and agile, recognised by none save the bride. I will merely tell you how in after years, sitting by her husband’s fireside, or watching on the shingle for his return, Hero would speak to her children of her own early days. And when their eyes kindled while she told of the marvellous splendour of Fairyland, she would assure them, with a convincing smile, that only home is happy: and when, with flushed cheeks and quickened breath, they followed the story of her brief pre-eminence, she would add, that though admiration seems sweet at first, only love is sweet first, and last, and always.

  VANNA’S TWINS.

  THERE I stood on the platform at H — , girt by my three boxes, one carpet-bag, strapful of shawls and bundle of umbrellas; there I stood, with a courteous station-master and two civil porters assuring me that not one lodging was vacant throughout H — . At another time such an announcement might not have greatly signified, for London, whence I came, was less than three hours off; but on this particular occasion it did matter because I was weakened by recent illness, the journey down had shaken me, I was hungry and thirsty for my tea, and, through fear of catching cold, I had wrapped up overmuch; so that when those polite officials stated that they could not point out a lodging for me I felt more inclined to cry than I hope anybody suspected. One of the porters, noticing how pale and weak I looked, good-naturedly volunteered to go to the three best hotels, and see whether in one of them, I could be housed for the moment; and though the expensiveness of such a plan secretly dismayed me, I saw nothing better than to accept his offer. Meanwhile, I retreated into the waiting-room wishing him success; but wondering, should he not succeed, what would become of me for the night.

  Happily for me, my troubles were not aggravated by imaginary difficulties. I was turned forty-five, and looked not a day younger; an age at which there is nothing alarming in finding oneself alone in a strange place, or compelled to take a night journey by rail. So I sat on the waiting-room sofa, shut my eyes to ease, if possible, a racking headache, and made up my mind that, at the worst, I could always take the mail-train back to London.

  After all, I had not long to wait. Within ten minutes of leaving me., my porter returned with the news that, if I did not mind a very unfashionable, but quite respectable, quarter of H — , he had just heard of a first floor vacated half-an-hour before my arrival, and ready, if I pleased, to receive me. I merely asked, was it clean? and being assured that there was not a tidier young woman in all H — than ‘Fanny,’ that her husband was a decent optician and stone-cutter, and that for cleanliness any of their floors might be eaten off, I felt only too thankful to step into a fly, and accompany my boxes to an abiding place. Before starting, I happened to ask the name of my landlord, and was answered, somewhat vaguely, by my porter, ‘We call them Cole.’

  The report of a coming lodger had travelled before me, and I found Mr. Cole and his Fanny awaiting me at their shop-door. But what a Mr. Cole and what a Fanny. He was a tall, stout foreigner, about thirty years Of age, ready with tucked-up shirt-sleeves and athletic arms to bear my boxes aloft; she was the comeliest of young matrons, her whole face one smile, her ears adorned by weighty gold pendents, and with an obvious twin baby borne in each arm. Husband and wife alike addressed me as ‘Meess,’ and displayed teeth of an enviable regularity and whiteness as they smiled or spoke. Thus much I saw at a first glance.

  Too tired for curiosity, I toiled up the narrow staircase after my boxes, washed my dusty face and hot hands, and stepped into my little sitting-room, intending to lie down on the sofa, and wait as patiently as might be whilst tea, which I had already ordered, was got ready. A pleasant surprise met me. I suppose the good-natured porter may have forewarned Mr. Cole of my weakness and wants; be this as it may, there stood the tea ready brewed, and flanked by pats of butter, small rolls, a rasher, and three eggs wrapped up in a clean napkin. After this, my crowning pleasure for the day was to step into a bed soft as down could make it, and drop to sleep between sheets fragrant of lavender.

  A few days’ convalescence at H — did more for me than as many weeks’ convalescence in London had effected. Soon I strolled about the beach without numbering the breakwaters, or along the country roads, taking no count of the milestones; and went home to meals as hungry as a school-girl, and slept at nights like a baby. One of my earliest street-discoveries was that my landlord’s name, as inscribed over his window, was not Cole, but Cola (Nicola) Piccirillo; and a very brief sojourn under his roof instructed me that the Fanny of my friend the porter was called Vanna (Giovanna) by her husband. They were both Neapolitans of the ex-kingdom, though not of the city, of Naples; whenever I asked either of them after the name of their native place, they invariably answered me in a tone of endearment, by what sounded more like ‘Vascitammô’ than aught else I know how to spell; but when my English tongue uttered ‘Vascitammô’ after them, they would shake their heads and repeat the uncatchable word; at last it grew to be a standing joke between us that when I became a millionnaire my courier Cola and my maid Vanna should take th
e twins and me to see Vascitammô.

  I never thought of changing my lodgings, though, as time went on, it would have been easy to do so, and certainly the quarter we inhabited was not fashionable. A laborious, not an idle, community environed our doors and furnished customers to the shop: it was some time before I discovered that l’amico Piccirillo held a store for polished stones and marine curiosities in the bazaar of H — .

  He liked to be styled an optician; but whilst he sold and repaired spectacles, driving a prosperous trade amongst the fishing population who surrounded us, and supplying them with cheap telescopes, compasses, and an occasional magic-lantern, he was not too proud to eke out his gains by picking up and preparing marine oddities, pebbles, or weeds. After we became intimate I more than once rose at three or four in the morning, as the turn of the tide dictated, and accompanied him on a ramble of exploration. He scrambled about slippery, jagged rocks as sure-footed as a wild goat; and if ever my climbing powers failed at some critical pass, thought nothing of lifting me over the difficulty, with that courteous familiarity which, in an Italian, does not cease to be respectful. I was rather lucky in spying eligible stones, which I contributed to his basket; and then, when we got home, he would point out to his wife what ‘la Signora’ had found ‘per noi due e per li piccini.’ I understood a little Italian and they a little English, so we generally, in spite of the Neapolitan blurring accent, made out each other’s meaning.

  Vanna was one of the prettiest women I ever saw, if indeed I ought to term merely pretty a face which, with good features, contained eyes softer and more lustrous than any others I remember; their colour I never made out, but when she lowered the large eyelids, their long black lashes seemed to throw half her face into shadow. I don’t know that she was clever except as a housewife, but in this capacity she excelled, and was a dainty cook over her shining pots and pans: her husband’s ‘due maccheroni’ often set me hankering, as I spied them done to a turn and smoking hot; though I confess that when Cola brought home a cuttle-fish and I saw it dished up as a ‘calamarello’ my English prejudice asserted’ itself.