At last, one night, when no one else was by,
Some new impatience moved him; and he spoke:
“Pauline, my friend, allow me only once;—
And say not, now, say not we still can wait:
Have I not waited long? Pauline, my own,
What forms the substance of this mystery
Whose dark shade rests about you? Surely, friend,
The slightest will on your part would have power
To bid it off.”
“Not so,” I answer’d him
(I felt that I should tell him all at last);
“Not if the shade that so you speak of fall
From something you and I could not remove.”
“That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be?
Of old your father would not brook our love;
But lately much has done to forward it.”
“And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?”
“His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?”
“Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and paths
Where conscientiousness and love may cross?”
“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!—
Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend,
Does not our conscience come from consciousness?
And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell:
Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed:
A sound man lives unconscious of its flow.
And so a morbid train of foul ideas
Will vex a soul diseased. But if in health,
Its aims all true to God and self,—what call
For conscience, which we wear but as the curb
Whereby God reins the thought that love reins not?—
If right I be, then nothing needs to cross
Pure love. It may have freedom.—
“Or at most
Our conscience is the leaven of character;
And just enough of it may sweeten life,
But too much keeps in ferment moods that work,
Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment:
The froth flies up and off to vex our friends;
The rest sinks down in self, embittering
Our own experience.”
“And yet,” I said,
“Our conscience, in religion”—
“There,” he cried,
“This too much conscience, overbalancing
All wiser judgment, has wrought worse results,
Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so much
That, in the gap betwixt the two, was left
No charity with which to do good here
While on the earth.”
“I hope that mine,” I said,
“Will prompt to some small good in present life.
What would you say, some day, were I a nun?”
“‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,—
“What say?—why this: that if those blooming looks
Hid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trust
Sound health again!
“Pauline, I half believe
The conscience of a nun is consciousness
Of mere unrest—no more. In natures framed
Of spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may be
Some sin that clogs the current of the soul;
But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one;
Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased—
No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured best
By sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.”