Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  Has sent me down to ask, is all not right? —

  Why was Magnificat not sung to-night?’

  Tranced in the joy the Angel’s presence brought,

  The Abbot answered: ‘All these weary years

  We have sung our best — but always have we thought

  Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears;

  And so to-night we found a clearer tongue,

  And by it the Magnificat was sung.’

  The Angel answered, ‘All these happy years

  In heaven has your Magnificat been heard;

  This night alone, the angels’ listening ears

  Of all its music caught no single word.

  Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong

  Enough to bear the burden of his song?’

  The Abbot named his name. ‘Ah, why,’ he cried,

  ‘Have angels heard not what we found so dear?’

  ‘Only pure hearts,’ the Angel’s voice replied,

  ‘Can carry human songs up to God’s ear;

  To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise

  That ever rises from earth’s mud-stained maze.

  ‘The monk who sang Magnificat is filled

  With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy;

  He sings for earth — in heaven his notes are stilled

  By muffling weight of deadening vanity;

  His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear

  His singing higher than the listening air!

  ‘From purest hearts most perfect music springs,

  And while you mourned your voices were not sweet,

  Marred by the accident of earthly things, —

  In heaven, God, listening, judged your song complete.

  The sweetest of earth’s music came from you,

  The music of a noble life and true!’

  LOVE’S SUICIDE

  Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.

  THIS treasure of love, these passion-flowers,

  Dear as desire, are dearly bought:

  The sweet unrest of seeing you

  For some too-happy hour or two,

  Is paid by such a wealth of tears,

  Such grief, such bitterness, such fears,

  Such wild remorse, such weak regret,

  Such tide of longing towards you set,

  As poison all my other hours,

  And murder every other thought.

  I cannot drink joy steeped in fears,

  I choose the cold unhurtful days;

  The roses you hold out to me

  Are red and sweet enough to be

  A crown one would so gladly wear

  If but one’s brows were strong to bear

  The weight, and did not ache and ache

  For the fair coronation’s sake,

  And dread of coming crownless years

  When tired feet shall tread thorny ways.

  There is a peace in sombre skies

  Where no sun even tries to shine,

  But not in these where transient glow,

  And passionate bursts of sunshine show

  Only life’s dull fields drenched with rain,

  And then the clouds set fast again

  Into a leaden sky like this is,

  Lit by no lightnings of warm kisses,

  Whence, while I look into your eyes,

  A thunderbolt may fall on mine.

  I give you back the rose I stole,

  Pluck but pale leaves that near me grow.

  I cannot love with half a heart,

  ’Tis all or nothing for my part;

  And since the all may not be ours,

  Since we may only pluck Love’s flowers,

  But may not in his temple stay,

  I choose the grey and lonely way —

  And you — be thankful from your soul

  That, loving you, I let you go.

  CHRISTMAS ROSES

  THE summer roses all are gone —

  Dead, laid in shroud of rain-wet mould;

  And passion’s lightning time is done,

  And Love is laid out white and cold.

  Summer and youth for us are dead,

  What do old age and winter bring instead?

  They bring us memories of old years,

  And Christmas roses, cold and sweet,

  Which, washed by not unhappy tears,

  I bring and lay beside your feet,

  With gifts that come with flowers like these —

  Friendship, remembrance of our past, and peace!

  A CHOICE

  THE flood of utter change is loosed. A space

  Is ours yet, for its coming to prepare.

  Shall we build dams with cautious, clumsy care,

  Or stand with idle hands and frightened face,

  And so be whirled all broken from our place,

  And perish with the dams we builded there?

  Or shall we dig a broad, deep channel, where

  Most fields may feel the flood’s benign embrace?

  Thus turned ‘twill be a calm majestic flood

  Of plenty, peace, and fertilising power,

  Whose banks fresh flowers of love and joy shall deck.

  Oppose it: at the inevitable hour,

  Tumultuous, black with ruin, red with blood,

  ‘Twill come — and you shall have no chance but wreck!

  A LIFE’S STORY

  THE morning broke in a pearly haze,

  Then the east grew duskly red:

  ‘Oh, my only day, oh, my day of days,

  To-day he will come,’ I said.

  As the sun climbed up in the clearer sky,

  The mists fell down at his feet;

  ‘There is sunshine too in my heart,’ said I,

  ‘For to-day is the day we meet;

  Perhaps even now he is journeying fast —

  Perhaps he is almost here.’

  And my heart leaped up at each foot that passed,

  With the thought that he might be near.

  In my garden the fairest flowers that grew

  I plucked for him, sweet, dew-wet,

  And held them ready, the whole day through,

  To gladden him when we met.

  The sun shone warm on the longing earth,

  That thrilled to his fervent kiss;

  But what to me was the sun’s smile worth,

  When I longed for that smile of his?

  The hours in their flight seemed strangely slow

  For the sake of the hour to be;

  ‘Go swiftly now — and more slowly go

  When he shall be here with me.’

  But the level light of late afternoon

  Fell cold on me, still alone;

  My flowers were dying, gathered too soon,

  And my whole day’s work undone.

  With empty heart and unsatisfied

  I turned from the red sunset:

  ‘Short time for his coming is left,’ I cried,

  ‘It shall not be evening yet.’

  But the sky grows pale, and a weak wind wakes,

  And long flights of birds go home,

  And slowly and surely the day’s spell breaks,

  And I know that he will not come.

  Perhaps he has never turned my way,

  Nor known how my heart would wait;

  Perhaps he has sought me the whole long day,

  And has failed at my very gate;

  Perhaps all these hours of increasing pain

  Have been only a dream of a day,

  And after the night I shall wake again,

  And ‘To-day he comes,’ I shall say.

  ABSOLUTION

  THREE months had passed since she had knelt before

  The grate of the confessional, and he,

  — The priest — had wondered why she came no more

  To tell her sinless sins — the vanity

  Whose valid reason graced her simple dress —

  The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads �
��

  The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds,

  Which made the sum of her unrighteousness.

  She was the fairest maiden in his fold,

  With her sweet mouth and musical pure voice,

  Her deep grey eyes, her hair’s tempestuous gold,

  Her gracious graceful figure’s perfect poise.

  Her happy laugh, her wild unconscious grace,

  Her gentle ways to old, or sick, or sad,

  The comprehending sympathy she had,

  Had made of her the idol of the place.

  And when she grew so silent and so sad,

  So thin and quiet, pale and hollow-eyed,

  And cared no more to laugh and to be glad

  With other maidens by the waterside —

  All wondered, kindly grieved the elders were,

  And some few girls went whispering about,

  ‘She loves — who is it? Let us find it out!’

  But never dared to speak of it to her.

  But the priest’s duty bade him seek her out

  And say, ‘My child, why dost thou sit apart?

  Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt?

  Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart.

  God’s absolution can assuage all grief

  And all remorse and woe beneath the sun.

  Whatever thou hast said, or thought, or done,

  The Holy Church can give thy soul relief.’

  He stood beside her, young and strong, and swayed

  With pity for the sorrow in her eyes —

  Which, as she raised them to his own, conveyed

  Into his soul a sort of sad surprise —

  For in those grey eyes had a new light grown,

  The light that only bitter love can bring,

  And he had fancied her too pure a thing

  For even happy love to dare to own.

  Yet all the more he urged on her—’Confess,

  And do not doubt some comfort will be lent

  By Holy Church thy penitence to bless.

  Trust her, my child.’ With unconvinced consent

  She answered, ‘I will come;’ and so at last

  Out of the summer evening’s crimson glow,

  With heart reluctant and with footsteps slow

  Into the cool great empty church she passed.

  ‘By my own fault, my own most grievous fault,

  I cannot say, for it is not!’ she said,

  Kneeling within the grey stone chapel’s vault;

  And on the ledge her golden hair was spread

  Over the clasping hands that still increased

  Their nervous pressure, poor white hands and thin,

  While with hot lips she poured her tale of sin

  Into the cold ear of the patient priest.

  ‘Love broke upon me in a dream; it came

  Without beginning, for to me it seemed

  That all my life this thing had been the same,

  And never otherwise than as I dreamed.

  I only knew my heart, entire, complete,

  Was given to my other self, my love —

  That I through all the world would gladly move

  So I might follow his adorèd feet.

  ‘I dreamed my soul saw suddenly appear

  Immense abysses, infinite heights unknown;

  Possessed new worlds, new earths, sphere after sphere,

  New sceptres, kingdoms, crowns, became my own.

  When I had all, all earth, all time, all space,

  And every blessing, human and divine,

  I hated the possessions that were mine,

  And only cared for his belovèd face.

  ‘I dreamed that in unmeasured harmony,

  Rain of sweet sounds fell on my ravished sense,

  And thrilled my soul with swelling ecstasy,

  And rose to unimagined excellence.

  And while the music bade my heart rejoice,

  And on my senses thrust delicious sway,

  I wished the perfect melody away,

  And in its place longed for his worshipped voice.

  ‘And at the last I felt his arms enfold,

  His kisses crown my life — his whispered sighs

  Echo my own unrest — his spirit hold

  My spirit powerless underneath his eyes,

  My face flushed with new joy, and felt more fair:

  He clasped me close, and cried, ‘My own, my own!’

  And then I woke in dawn’s chill light, alone,

  With empty arms held out to empty air.

  ‘I never knew I loved him till that dream

  Drew from my eyes the veil and left me wise.

  What I had thought was reverence grew to seem

  Only my lifelong love in thin disguise.

  And in my dream it looked so sinless too,

  So beautiful, harmonious, and right;

  The vision faded with the morning light,

  The love will last as long as I shall do.

  ‘But in the world where I have wept my tears,

  My love is sinful and a bitter shame.

  How can I bear the never-ending years,

  When every night I hear him call my name?

  For though that first dream’s dear delight is past,

  Yet since that night each night I dream him there

  With lips caressing on my brow and hair,

  And in my arms I hold my heaven fast!’

  ‘Child, have you prayed against it?’ ‘Have I prayed?

  Have I not clogged my very soul with prayer;

  Stopped up my ears with sound of praying, made

  My very body faint with kneeling there

  Before the sculptured Christ, and all for this,

  That when my lips can pray no more, and sleep

  Shuts my unwilling eyes, my love will leap

  To dreamland’s bounds, to meet me with his kiss?

  ‘Strive against this? — what profit is the strife?

  If through the day a little strength I gain,

  At night he comes and calls me “love” and “wife,”

  And straightway I am all his own again.

  And if from love’s besieging force my fight

  Some little victory have hardly won,

  What do I gain? As soon as day is done,

  I yield once more to love’s delicious might.’

  ‘Avoid him!’ ‘Ay, in dewy garden walk

  How often have I strayed, avoiding him.

  And heard his voice mix with the common talk,

  Yet never turned his way. My eyes grow dim

  With weeping over what I lose by day

  And find by night, yet never have to call

  My own. O God! is there no help at all —

  No hope, no chance, and no escapeful way?’

  ‘And who is he to whom thy love is given?’

  ‘What? Holy Church demands to know his name?

  No rest for me on earth, no hope of heaven

  Unless I tell it? Ah, for very shame

  I cannot — yet why not? — I will — I can!

  I have grown mad with brooding on my curse.

  Here! Take the name, no better and no worse

  My case will be. Father, thou art the man!’

  An icy shock shivered through all his frame —

  An overwhelming cold astonishment;

  But on the instant the revulsion came,

  His blood felt what her revelation meant,

  And madly rushed along his veins and cried:

  ‘For you too life is possible, and love

  No more a word you miss the meaning of,

  But all your life’s desire unsatisfied.’

  Then through his being crept a new strange fear —

  Fear of himself, and through himself, for her;

  His every fibre felt her presence near,

  Disquiet in his breast began to stir.

  ‘Lord Christ,’ his soul cried, while his
heart beat fast,

  ‘Give strength in this, my hour of utmost need.’

  And with the prayer strength came to him indeed,

  And with calm voice he answered her at last.

  ‘Child, go in peace! Wrestle, and watch, and pray,

  And I will spend this night in prayer for thee,

  That God will take thy strange great grief away.

  Thou hast confessed thy sin. Absolvo te.’

  Silence most absolute a little while,

  Then passed the whisper of her trailing gown

  Over the knee-worn stones, and soft died down

  The dim deserted incense-memoried aisle.

  She passed away, and yet, when she was gone,

  His heart still echoed her remembered sighs:

  What sin unpardonable had he done

  That evermore those grey unquiet eyes

  Floated between him and the dying day?

  How had she grown so desperately dear?

  Why did her love-words echo in his ear

  Through all the prayers he forced his lips to say?

  All night he lay upon the chancel floor,

  And coined his heart in tears and prayers, and new

  Strange longings he had never known before.

  Her very memory so thrilled him through,

  That to his being’s core a shiver stole

  Of utter, boundless, measureless delight,

  Even while with unceasing desperate might

  His lips prayed for God’s armour for his soul!

  The moon had bathed the chancel with her light,

  But now she crept into a cloud. No ray

  Was left to break the funeral black of night

  That closely hung around the form that lay

  So tempest-tossed within, so still without.

  ‘God! I love her, love her, love her so!

  Oh, for one spark of heaven’s fire to show

  Some way to cast this devil’s passion out!

  ‘I cannot choose but love — Thou knowest, Lord —

  Yet is my spirit strong to fly from sin,

  But oh, my flesh is weak, too weak the word

  I have to clothe its utter weakness in!

  I am Thy priest, vowed to be Thine alone,

  Yet if she came here with those love-dimmed eyes,

  How could I turn away from Paradise?

  Should I not wreck her soul, and blast my own?

  ‘Christ, by Thy passion, by Thy death for men,

  Oh, save me from myself, save her from me!’

  And at the word the moon came out again

  From her cloud-palace, and threw suddenly

  A shadow from the great cross overhead

  Upon the priest; and with it came a sense

  Of strength renewed, of perfect confidence

  In Him who on that cross for men hung dead.