Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Now at the point I meant,’ said Maddalo,

  And bade the gondolieri cease to row.

  ‘Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well

  If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.’

  I looked, and saw between us and the sun

  A building on an island, — such a one

  As age to age might add, for uses vile, 100

  A windowless, deformed and dreary pile;

  And on the top an open tower, where hung

  A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung;

  We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue;

  The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled

  In strong and black relief. ‘What we behold

  Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,’

  Said Maddalo; ‘and ever at this hour

  Those who may cross the water hear that bell,

  Which calls the maniacs each one from his cell 110

  To vespers.’—’As much skill as need to pray

  In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they

  To their stern Maker,’ I replied. ‘O ho!

  You talk as in years past,’ said Maddalo.

  ‘‘T is strange men change not. You were ever still

  Among Christ’s flock a perilous infidel,

  A wolf for the meek lambs — if you can’t swim,

  Beware of Providence.’ I looked on him,

  But the gay smile had faded in his eye, —

  ‘And such,’ he cried, ‘is our mortality; 120

  And this must be the emblem and the sign

  Of what should be eternal and divine!

  And, like that black and dreary bell, the soul,

  Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll

  Our thoughts and our desires to meet below

  Round the rent heart and pray — as madmen do

  For what? they know not, till the night of death,

  As sunset that strange vision, severeth

  Our memory from itself, and us from all

  We sought, and yet were baffled.’ I recall 130

  The sense of what he said, although I mar

  The force of his expressions. The broad star

  Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill,

  And the black bell became invisible,

  And the red tower looked gray, and all between,

  The churches, ships and palaces were seen

  Huddled in gloom; into the purple sea

  The orange hues of heaven sunk silently.

  We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola

  Conveyed me to my lodgings by the way. 140

  The following morn was rainy, cold, and dim.

  Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him,

  And whilst I waited, with his child I played.

  A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made;

  A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being,

  Graceful without design, and unforeseeing,

  With eyes — oh, speak not of her eyes! — which seem

  Twin mirrors of Italian heaven, yet gleam

  With such deep meaning as we never see

  But in the human countenance. With me 150

  She was a special favorite; I had nursed

  Her fine and feeble limbs when she came first

  To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know

  On second sight her ancient playfellow,

  Less changed than she was by six months or so;

  For, after her first shyness was worn out,

  We sate there, rolling billiard balls about,

  When the Count entered. Salutations past —

  ‘The words you spoke last night might well have cast

  A darkness on my spirit. If man be 160

  The passive thing you say, I should not see

  Much harm in the religions and old saws,

  (Though I may never own such leaden laws)

  Which break a teachless nature to the yoke.

  Mine is another faith.’ Thus much I spoke,

  And noting he replied not, added: ‘See

  This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free;

  She spends a happy time with little care,

  While we to such sick thoughts subjected are

  As came on you last night. It is our will 170

  That thus enchains us to permitted ill.

  We might be otherwise, we might be all

  We dream of happy, high, majestical.

  Where is the love, beauty and truth we seek,

  But in our mind? and if we were not weak,

  Should we be less in deed than in desire?’

  ‘Ay, if we were not weak — and we aspire

  How vainly to be strong!’ said Maddalo;

  ‘You talk Utopia.’ ‘It remains to know,’

  I then rejoined, ‘and those who try may find 180

  How strong the chains are which our spirit bind;

  Brittle perchance as straw. We are assured

  Much may be conquered, much may be endured

  Of what degrades and crushes us. We know

  That we have power over ourselves to do

  And suffer — what, we know not till we try;

  But something nobler than to live and die.

  So taught those kings of old philosophy,

  Who reigned before religion made men blind;

  And those who suffer with their suffering kind 190

  Yet feel this faith religion.’ ‘My dear friend,’

  Said Maddalo, ‘my judgment will not bend

  To your opinion, though I think you might

  Make such a system refutation-tight

  As far as words go. I knew one like you,

  Who to this city came some months ago,

  With whom I argued in this sort, and he

  Is now gone mad, — and so he answered me, —

  Poor fellow! but if you would like to go,

  We ‘ll visit him, and his wild talk will show 200

  How vain are such aspiring theories.’

  ‘I hope to prove the induction otherwise,

  And that a want of that true theory still,

  Which seeks “a soul of goodness” in things ill,

  Or in himself or others, has thus bowed

  His being. There are some by nature proud,

  Who patient in all else demand but this —

  To love and be beloved with gentleness;

  And, being scorned, what wonder if they die

  Some living death? this is not destiny 210

  But man’s own wilful ill.’

  As thus I spoke,

  Servants announced the gondola, and we

  Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea

  Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands.

  We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands,

  Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,

  And laughter where complaint had merrier been,

  Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers,

  Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs

  Into an old courtyard. I heard on high, 220

  Then, fragments of most touching melody,

  But looking up saw not the singer there.

  Through the black bars in the tempestuous air

  I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,

  Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing,

  Of those who on a sudden were beguiled

  Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled

  Hearing sweet sounds. Then I: ‘Methinks there were

  A cure of these with patience and kind care,

  If music can thus move. But what is he, 230

  Whom we seek here?’ ‘Of his sad history

  I know but this,’ said Maddalo: ‘he came

  To Venice a dejected man, and fame

  Said he was wealthy, or he had been so.

  Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe;

  But he was eve
r talking in such sort

  As you do — far more sadly; he seemed hurt,

  Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,

  To hear but of the oppression of the strong,

  Or those absurd deceits (I think with you 240

  In some respects, you know) which carry through

  The excellent impostors of this earth

  When they outface detection. He had worth,

  Poor fellow! but a humorist in his way.’

  ‘Alas, what drove him mad?’ ‘I cannot say;

  A lady came with him from France, and when

  She left him and returned, he wandered then

  About yon lonely isles of desert sand

  Till he grew wild. He had no cash or land

  Remaining; the police had brought him here; 250

  Some fancy took him and he would not bear

  Removal; so I fitted up for him

  Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim,

  And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers,

  Which had adorned his life in happier hours,

  And instruments of music. You may guess

  A stranger could do little more or less

  For one so gentle and unfortunate;

  And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight

  From madmen’s chains, and make this Hell appear 260

  A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.’

  ‘Nay, this was kind of you; he had no claim,

  As the world says.’ ‘None — but the very same

  Which I on all mankind, were I as he

  Fallen to such deep reverse. His melody

  Is interrupted; now we hear the din

  Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin.

  Let us now visit him; after this strain

  He ever communes with himself again,

  And sees nor hears not any.’ Having said 270

  These words, we called the keeper, and he led

  To an apartment opening on the sea.

  There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully

  Near a piano, his pale fingers twined

  One with the other, and the ooze and wind

  Rushed through an open casement, and did sway

  His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;

  His head was leaning on a music-book,

  And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;

  His lips were pressed against a folded leaf, 280

  In hue too beautiful for health, and grief

  Smiled in their motions as they lay apart.

  As one who wrought from his own fervid heart

  The eloquence of passion, soon he raised

  His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed,

  And spoke — sometimes as one who wrote, and thought

  His words might move some heart that heeded not,

  If sent to distant lands; and then as one

  Reproaching deeds never to be undone

  With wondering self-compassion; then his speech 290

  Was lost in grief, and then his words came each

  Unmodulated, cold, expressionless,

  But that from one jarred accent you might guess

  It was despair made them so uniform;

  And all the while the loud and gusty storm

  Hissed through the window, and we stood behind

  Stealing his accents from the envious wind

  Unseen. I yet remember what he said

  Distinctly; such impression his words made.

  ‘Month after month,’ he cried, ‘to bear this load, 300

  And, as a jade urged by the whip and goad,

  To drag life on — which like a heavy chain

  Lengthens behind with many a link of pain! —

  And not to speak my grief — oh, not to dare

  To give a human voice to my despair,

  But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on

  As if I never went aside to groan;

  And wear this mask of falsehood even to those

  Who are most dear — not for my own repose —

  Alas, no scorn or pain or hate could be 310

  So heavy as that falsehood is to me!

  But that I cannot bear more altered faces

  Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,

  More misery, disappointment and mistrust

  To own me for their father. Would the dust

  Were covered in upon my body now!

  That the life ceased to toil within my brow!

  And then these thoughts would at the least be fled;

  Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.

  ‘What Power delights to torture us? I know 320

  That to myself I do not wholly owe

  What now I suffer, though in part I may.

  Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way

  Where, wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain,

  My shadow, which will leave me not again.

  If I have erred, there was no joy in error,

  But pain and insult and unrest and terror;

  I have not, as some do, bought penitence

  With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence;

  For then — if love and tenderness and truth 330

  Had overlived hope’s momentary youth,

  My creed should have redeemed me from repenting;

  But loathèd scorn and outrage unrelenting

  Met love excited by far other seeming

  Until the end was gained; as one from dreaming

  Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state

  Such as it is —

  ‘O Thou my spirit’s mate!

  Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,

  Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes

  If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see — 340

  My secret groans must be unheard by thee;

  Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know

  Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.

  ‘Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed

  In friendship, let me not that name degrade

  By placing on your hearts the secret load

  Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road

  To peace, and that is truth, which follow ye!

  Love sometimes leads astray to misery.

  Yet think not, though subdued — and I may well 350

  Say that I am subdued — that the full hell

  Within me would infect the untainted breast

  Of sacred Nature with its own unrest;

  As some perverted beings think to find

  In soorn or hate a medicine for the mind

  Which soorn or hate have wounded — oh, how vain!

  The dagger heals not, but may rend again!

  Believe that I am ever still the same

  In creed as in resolve; and what may tame

  My heart must leave the understanding free, 360

  Or all would sink in this keen agony;

  Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry;

  Or with my silence sanction tyranny;

  Or seek a moment’s shelter from my pain

  In any madness which the world calls gain,

  Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern

  As those which make me what I am; or turn

  To avarice or misanthropy or lust.

  Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!

  Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, 370

  And Poverty and Shame may meet and say,

  Halting beside me on the public way,

  “That love-devoted youth is ours; let ‘s sit

  Beside him; he may live some six months yet.”

  Or the red scaffold, as our country bends,

  May ask some willing victim; or ye, friends,

  May fall under some sorrow, which this heart

  Or hand may share or vanquish or avert;

  I am prepared — in truth, with no
proud joy,

  To do or suffer aught, as when a boy 380

  I did devote to justice and to love

  My nature, worthless now! —

  ‘I must remove

  A veil from my pent mind. ‘T is torn aside!

  O pallid as Death’s dedicated bride,

  Thou mockery which art sitting by my side,

  Am I not wan like thee? at the grave’s call

  I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball,

  To greet the ghastly paramour for whom

  Thou hast deserted me — and made the tomb

  Thy bridal bed — but I beside your feet 390

  Will lie and watch ye from my winding-sheet —

  Thus — wide-awake though dead — yet stay, oh, stay!

  Go not so soon — know not what I say —

  Hear but my reasons — I am mad, I fear,

  My fancy is o’erwrought — thou art not here;

  Pale art thou, ‘t is most true — but thou art gone,

  Thy work is finished — I am left alone.

  . . . . . . . . .

  ‘Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast,

  Which like a serpent thou envenomest

  As in repayment of the warmth it lent? 400

  Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?

  Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought

  That thou wert she who said “You kiss me not

  Ever; I fear you do not love me now” —

  In truth I loved even to my overthrow

  Her who would fain forget these words; but they

  Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.

  . . . . . . . . .

  ‘You say that I am proud — that when I speak

  My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break

  The spirit it expresses. — Never one 410

  Humbled himself before, as I have done!

  Even the instinctive worm on which we tread

  Turns, though it wound not — then with prostrate head

  Sinks in the dust and writhes like me — and dies?

  No: wears a living death of agonies!

  As the slow shadows of the pointed grass

  Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass,

  Slow, ever-moving, making moments be

  As mine seem, — each an immortality!

  . . . . . . . . .

  ‘That you had never seen me — never heard 420

  My voice, and more than all had ne’er endured

  The deep pollution of my loathed embrace —

  That your eyes ne’er had lied love in my face —

  That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out

  The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root

  With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne’er

  Our hearts had for a moment mingled there

  To disunite in horror — these were not

  With thee like some suppressed and hideous thought

  Which flits athwart our musings but can find 430