Was Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween;
And she was as proud as any queen,
And as happy as she could be, too;
But her husband called her to him one day,
And said, "My dear, I am going away;
It will not be long that I shall stay;
There is business for me to see to.
"The keys of my castle I leave with you;
But if you value my love, be true,
And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue!
Farewell, Fatima! Remember!"
Fatima promised him; then she ran
To visit the rooms with her sister Ann;
But when she had finished the tour, she began
To think about the Blue Chamber.
Well, the woman was curiously inclined,
So she left her sister and prudence behind,
(With a little excuse) and started to find
The mystery forbidden.
She paused at the door;--all was still as night!
She opened it: then through the dim, blue light
There blistered her vision the horrible sight
That was in that chamber hidden.
The room was gloomy and damp and wide,
And the floor was red with the bloody tide
From headless women, laid side by side,
The wives of her lord and master!
Frightened and fainting, she dropped the key,
But seized it and lifted it quickly; then she
Hurried as swiftly as she could flee
From the scene of the disaster.
She tried to forget the terrible dead,
But shrieked when she saw that the key was red,
And sickened and shook with an awful dread
When she heard Blue Beard was coming.
He did not appear to notice her pain;
But he took his keys, and seeing the stain,
He stopped in the middle of the refrain
That he had been quietly humming.
"Mighty well, madam!" said he, "mighty well!
What does this little bloodstain tell?
You've broken your promise; prepare to dwell
With the wives I've had before you!
You've broken your promise, and you shall die."
Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh,
Fell on her knees and began to cry,
"Have mercy, I implore you!"
"No!" shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword;
"You shall die this very minute," he roared.
"Grant me time to prepare to meet my Lord,"
The terrified woman entreated.
"Only ten minutes," he roared again;
And holding his watch by its great gold chain,
He marked on the dial the fatal ten,
And retired till they were completed.
"Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower!
Look for release from this murderer's power!
Our brothers should be here this very hour;--
Speak! Does there come assistance?"
"No. I see nothing but sheep on the hill."
"Look again, sister!" "I'm looking still,
But naught can I see, whether good or ill,
Save a flurry of dust in the distance."
"Time's up!" shouted Blue Beard, out from his room;
"This moment shall witness your terrible doom,
And give you a dwelling within the room
Whose secrets you have invaded."
"Comes there no help for my terrible need?"
"There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed."
"Oh! tell them to ride very fast indeed,
Or I must meet death unaided."
"Time's fully up! Now have done with your prayer,"
Shouted Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair;
Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair,
Swung his glittering weapon around him;
But a loud knock rang at the castle gate,
And Fatima was saved from her horrible fate,
For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late;
And then the two soldiers found him.
They were her brothers, and quick as they knew
What the fiend was doing, their swords they drew,
And attacked him fiercely, and ran him through,
So that soon he was mortally wounded.
With a wild remorse was his conscience filled
When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed;
But quickly the last of his blood was spilled,
And his dying groan was sounded.
As soon as Fatima recovered from fright,
She embraced her brothers with great delight;
And they were as glad and as grateful quite
As she was glad and grateful.
Then they all went out from that scene of pain,
And sought in quietude to regain
Their minds, which had come to be quite insane,
In a place so horrid and hateful.
'Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had;
For the people knew he was very bad,
And, though they said nothing, they all were glad
For the fall of the evil-doer;
But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made,
And there the unfortunate ladies were laid,
And after some painful months, with the aid
Of her friends, her spirits came to her.
Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor,
And an acre of land around each door
And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more,
To her tenantry she granted.
So all of them had enough to eat,
And their love for her was so complete
They would kiss the dust from her little feet,
Or do anything she wanted.
_Samuel_.
Capital! Capital! Wasn't it good!
I should like to have been her brother;
If I had been one, you may guess there would
Have been little work for the other.
I'd have run him right through the heart, just so;
And cut off his head at a single blow,
And killed him so quickly he'd never know
What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe?
_Joseph_.
You are very brave with your bragging tongue;
But if you had been there, you'd have sung
A very different tune
Poor Blue Beard! He would have been afraid
Of a little boy with a penknife blade,
Or a tiny pewter spoon!
_Samuel_.
It makes no difference what you say
(Pretty little boy, afraid to play!)
But it served him rightly any way,
And gave him just his due.
And wasn't it good that his little wife
Should live in his castle the rest of her life,
And have all his money, too?
_Rebekah_.
I'm thinking of the ladies who
Were lying in the Chamber Blue,
With all their small necks cut in two.
I see them lying, half a score,
In a long row upon the floor,
Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore.
I know the sweet Fatima would
Have put their heads on if she could;
And made them live--she was so good;
And washed their faces at the sink;
But Blue Beard was not sane, I think:
I wonder if he did not drink!
For no man in his proper mind
Would be so cruelly inclined
As to kill ladies who were kind.
_Ruth_.
[_Stepping forward with_ DAVID.]
Story and comment alike are bad;
These little fellows are raving mad
With thinking what they should do,
Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had
Given her heart--and her head--to a lad
Like the man with the Beard of Blue.
Each little jacket
Is now a packet
Of murderous thoughts and fancies;
Oh, the gentle trade
By which fiends are made
With the ready aid
Of these bloody old romances!
And the little girl takes the woman's turn,
And thinks that the old curmudgeon
Who owned the castle, and rolled in gold
Over fields and gardens manifold,
And kept in his house a family tomb,
With his bowling course and his billiard-room,
Where he could preserve his precious dead,
Who took the kiss of the bridal bed
From one who straightway took their head,
And threw it away with the pair of gloves
In which he wedded his hapless loves,
Had some excuse for his dudgeon.
_David_.
We learn by contrast to admire
The beauty that enchains us;
And know the object of desire
By that which pains us.
The roses blushing at the door,
The lapse of leafy June,
The singing birds, the sunny shore,
The summer moon;--
All these entrance the eye or ear
By innate grace and charm;
But o'er them, reaching through the year,
Hangs Winter's arm.
To give to memory the sign,
The index of our bliss,
And show by contrast how divine
The Summer is.
From chilling blasts and stormy skies,
Bare hills and icy streams,
Touched into fairest life arise
Our summer dreams.
And virtue never seems so fair
As when we lift our gaze
From the red eyes and bloody hair
That vice displays.
We are too low,--our eyes too dark
Love's height to estimate,
Save as we note the sunken mark
Of brutal Hate.
So this ensanguined tale shall move
Aright each little dreamer,
And Blue Beard teach them how to love
The sweet Fatima.
They hate his crimes, and it is well;
They pity those who died;
Their sense of justice when he fell
Was satisfied.
No fierce revenges are the fruit
Of their just indignation;
They sit in judgment on the brute,
And condemnation;
And turn to her, his rescued wife,
Her deeds so kind and human,
And love the beauty of her life,
And bless the woman.
_Ruth_.
That is the way I supposed you would twist it;
And now that the boys are disposed of,
And the moral so handsomely closed off,
What do you say of the girl? That she missed
When she thought of old Blue Beard as some do of Judas,
Who with this notion essay to delude us:
That when he relented,
And fiercely repented,
He was hardly so bad
As he commonly had
The fortune to be represented?
_David_.
The noblest pity in the earth
Is that bestowed on sin.
The Great Salvation had its birth
That ruth within.
The girl is nearest God, in fact;
The boy gives crime its due;
She blames the author of the act,
And pities too.
Thus, from this strange excess of wrong
Her tender heart has caught
The noblest truth, the sweetest song,
The Saviour taught.
So, more than measured homily,
Of sage, or priest, or preacher,
Is this wild tale of cruelty
Love's gentle teacher.
It tells of sin, its deep remorse,
Its fitting recompense,
And vindicates the tardy course
Of Providence.
These boyish bosoms are on fire
With chivalric possession,
And burn with just and manly ire
Against oppression.
The glory and the grace of life,
And Love's surpassing sweetness,
Rise from the monster to the wife
In high completeness;
And thence look down with mercy's eye
On sin's accurst abuses,
And seek to wrest from charity
Some fair excuses.
_Ruth_.
These greedy mouths are watering
For the fruit within the basket;
And, although they will not ask it,
Their jack-knives all are burning
And their eager hands are yearning
For the peeling and the quartering.
So let us have done with our talk;
For they are too tired to say their prayers,
And the time is come they should walk
From the story below to the story upstairs.
THE THIRD MOVEMENT.
LOCALITY.--_The Kitchen_.
PRESENT.-DAVID, RUTH, JOHN, PETER, PRUDENCE,
_and_ PATIENCE,
THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE
DENOUEMENT.
_John_.
Since the old gentleman retired to bed,
Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Ruth,
Have wasted thirty minutes underground
In explorations. One would think the house
Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave,
And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace
Still hold their chamber and their conference,
And pour into each other's greedy ears
Their stream of talk, whose low monotonous hum,
Would lull to slumber any storm but this.
The children are play-tired and gone to bed;
And one may know by looking round the room
Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk,
Who have no gift of speech, especially
On themes which we and none may understand,
Have yawned and nodded in the great square room,
And wondered if the parted family
Would ever meet again.
_Ruth_.
John, do you see
The apples and the cider on the hearth?
If I remember rightly, you discuss
Such themes as these with noticeable zest
And pleasant tokens of intelligence;
Rather preferring scanty company
To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead,
And help yourself.
_John_.
Aye! That I will, and give
Your welcome invitation currency,
In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves!
_David_.
[_Looking out from the window_.]
The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls!
The atmosphere is plunging like the sea
Against the woods, and pouring on the night
The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray
O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on
In lines as level as the window-bars.
What curious visions, in a night like this,
Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees
And zigzag fences! I was almost sure
I saw a man staggering along the road
A moment since; but instantly the shape
Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call--
A human voice? There's a conspiracy
Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks,
Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul
Who needs assistance. There he stands again,
And with unsteady essay strives to breast
The tempest. Hush! Did you not hear that cry?
Quick, brothers! We must out, and give our aid.
None but a dying and despairing man
Ever gave utterance to a cry like that.
Nay, wait for nothing. Follow me!
_Ruth_.
Alas!
Who can he be, who on a night like this,
And on this night, of all nights in the year,
Holds to the highway, homeless?
_Prudence_.
Probably
Some neighbor, started from his home in quest
Of a physician; or, more likely still,
Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome
By his sad keeping of the holiday.
I hope they'll give him quarters in the barn;
If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me.
_Patience_.
I'll not believe it was a man at all;
David and Ruth are always seeing things
That no one else sees.
_Ruth_.
I see plainly now
What we shall all see plainly, soon enough.
The man is dead, and they are bearing him
As if he were a log. Quick! Stir the fire,
And clear the settle! We must lay him there.
I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs
With which to chafe him; open wide the door.
[_The men enter bearing a body apparently
lifeless, which they lay upon the settle.]
_David_.
Now do my bidding, orderly and swift;
And we may save from death a fellow-man.
Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes,
And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth!
Administer that cordial yourself.
John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours
Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I say!
* * * * *
My hand is on his heart, and I can feel
Both warmth and motion. If we persevere,
He will be saved. Work with a will, I say!
* * * * *
A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan?
Better and better!
_Ruth_.
It is down at last!--
A spoonful of the cordial. His breath
Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand.
_David_.
Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, too;
And we shall be rewarded presently,
For there is life in him.
* * * * *
He moves his lips
And tries to speak.
* * * * *
And now he opes his eyes.
What eyes! How wandering and wild they are!
[_To the stranger_.]
We are your friends. We found you overcome
By the cold storm without, and brought you in.
We are your friends, I say; so be at ease,
And let us do according to your need.
What is your wish?
_Stranger_.
My friends? O God in Heaven!
They've cheated me! I'm in the hospital.
Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus!
No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain
Racks my poor body!
_David_.
Poor man, how he raves!
Let us be silent while the warmth and wine
Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow,
And each dead sense comes back to life again,
O'er the same path of torture which it trod
When it went out from him. He'll slumber soon,
And, when he wakens, we may talk with him.
_Prudence_.
[Sotto voce_.]
Shall I not call the family? I think
Mary and Grace must both be very cold;
And they know nothing of this strange affair.
I'll wait them at the landing, and secure
Their silent entrance.
_David_.
If it please you--well.
[PRUDENCE _retires, and returns with_
GRACE _and_ MARY.]
_Mary_.
Why! We heard nothing of it--Grace and I:--
What a cadaverous hand! How blue and thin!
_David_.
At his first wild awaking he bemoaned
His fancied durance in a hospital;
And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought
He may have fled a mad-house. Matters not!
We've done our duty, and preserved his life.
_Mary_.
Shall I disturb him if I look at him?
I'm strangely curious to see his face.
_David_.
Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word
Whether he sleeps.
[MARY _rises, goes to the settle, and sinks
back fainting _]
Why! What ails the girl?
I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow,
And bathe her temples!
_Mary_.
There--there,--that will do.
'Tis over now.
_David_.
The man is speaking. Hush!
_Stranger_.
Oh, what a heavenly dream! But it is past,
Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more
Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams,
But everlasting wakefulness. The eye
Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh
May close no more in slumber.
* * * * *
I must die!
This painless spell which binds my weary limbs--
This peace ineffable of soul and sense--
Is dissolution's herald, and gives note
That life is conquered and the struggle o'er.
But I had hoped to see her ere I died;
To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss,
Pledge to my soul that in the coming heaven
We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin
Our hearts and lives so madly sundered here,
Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well!
God's will be done!
* * * * *
I dreamed that I had reached
The old red farmhouse,--that I saw the light
Flaming as brightly as in other times
It flushed the kitchen windows; and that forms
Were sliding to and fro in joyous life,
Restless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed
Of the dear woman who went out with me
One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring,
To--wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive--
Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong,
And let me die! Oh let me--let me die!
Mary! my Mary! Could you only know
How I have suffered since I fled from you.--
How I have sorrowed through long months of pain,
And prayed for pardon,--you would pardon me.
_David_.
[_Sotto voce_]
Mary, what means this? Does he dream alone,
Or are we dreaming?
_Mary_.
Edward, I am here!
I am your Mary! Know you not my face?
My husband, speak to me! Oh, speak once more!
This is no dream, but kind reality.
_Edward_.
[_Raising himself, and looking wildly around_.]
You, Mary? Is this heaven, and am I dead?
I did not know you died: when did you die?
And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth
Grown to a woman; are they all with you?
'Tis very strange! O pity me, my friends!
For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too;
Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold,
And look on me with sad severity.
Have you no pardoning word--no smile for me?
_Mary_.
This is not Heaven's, but Earth's reality;
This is the farm-house--these your wife and friends.
I hold your hand, and I forgive you all.
Pray you recline! You are not strong enough
To bear this yet.
_Edward_.
[_Sinking back_.]
O toiling heart! O sick and sinking heart!
Give me one hour of service, ere I die!
This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh,
And I am here where I have prayed to be.
My God, I thank thee! Thou hast heard my prayer,
And, in its answer, given me a pledge
Of the acceptance of my penitence.
How have I yearned for this one priceless hour!
Cling to me, dearest, while my feet go down
Into the silent stream; nor loose your hold,
Till angels grasp me on the other side.
_Mary_.
Edward, you are not dying--must not die;
For only now are we prepared to live.
You must have quiet, and a night of rest.
Be silent, if you love me!
_Edward_.
If I love?
Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour,
When power and passion, lust and pride are gone,
Have I perceived what wedded love may be;--
Unutterable fondness, soul for soul;
Profoundest tenderness between two hearts
Allied by nature, interlocked by life.
I know that I shall die; but the low clouds
That closed my mental vision have retired,
And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven.
I must talk now, or never more on earth;
So do not hinder me.
_Mary_.
[_Weeping_.]
Have you a wish
That I can gratify? Have you any words
To send to other friends?
_Edward_.
I have no friends
But you and these, and only wish to leave
My worthless name and memory redeemed
Within your hearts to pitying respect.
I have no strength, and it becomes me not,
To tell the story of my life of sin.
I was a drunkard, thief, adulterer;
And fled from shame, with shame, to find remorse.
I had but few months of debauchery,
Pursued with mad intent to damp or drown
The flames of a consuming conscience, when
My body, poisoned, crippled with disease,
Refused the guilty service of my soul,
And at midday fell prone upon the street.
Thence I was carried to a hospital,
And there I woke to that delirium
Which none but drunkards this side of the pit
May even dream of.
But at last there came,
With abstinence and kindly medicines,
Release from pain and peaceful sanity;
And then Christ found me, ready for His hand.
I was not ready for Him when He came
And asked me for my youth; and when He knocked
At my heart's door in manhood's early prime
With tenderest monitions, I debarred
His waiting feet with promise and excuse;
And when, in after years, absorbed in sin,
The gentle summons swelled to thunderings
That echoed through the chambers of my soul
With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears;
And then He went away, and let me rush
Without arrest, or protest, toward the pit.
I made swift passage downward, till, at length,
I had become a miserable wreck--
Pleasure behind me; only pain before;
My life lived out; the fires of passion dead,
Without a friend; no pride, no power, no hope;
No motive in me e'en to wish for life.
Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sad
Reminders of His mercy and my guilt,
And the door fell before Him.
I went out,
And trod the wildernesses of remorse
For many days. Then from their outer verge,
Tortured and blinded, I plunged madly down
Into the sullen bosom of despair;
But strength from Heaven was given me, and preserved
Breath in my bosom, till a light streamed up
Upon the other shore, and I struck out
On the cold waters, struggling for my life.
Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees
Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence,
Till I could see, upon its distant brow,
The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran--I flew--
And grasped His outstretched hand. It lifted me
High on the everlasting rock, and then
It folded me, with all my griefs and tears,
My sin-sick body and my guilt-stained soul,
To the great heart that throbs for all the world.
_Mary_.
Dear Lord, I bless Thee! Thou hast heard my prayer,
And saved the wanderer! Hear it once again,
And lengthen out the life Thou hast redeemed!
_Edward_.
Mary, my wife, forbear! I may not give
Response to such petition. I have prayed
That I may die. When first the love Divine
Received me on its bosom, and in mine
I felt the springing of another life,
I begged the Lord to grant me two requests:
The first that I might die, and in that world
Where passion sleeps, and only influence
From Him and those who cluster at His throne
Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great life,
Bursting within me, might be perfected.
The second, that your life, my love, and mine
Might be once more united on the earth
In holy marriage, and that mine might be
Breathed out at last within your loving arms.
One prayer is granted, and the other waits
But a brief space for its accomplishment.
_Mary_.
But why this prayer to die? Still loving me,--
With the great motive for desiring life
And the deep secret of enjoyment won,--
Why pray for death?
_Edward_.
Do you not know me, Mary?
I am afraid to live, for I am weak.
I've found a treasure only life can steal;
I've won a jewel only death will keep.
In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl
Would not be safe. That which I would not take
When health was with me,--which I spurned away
So long as I had power to sin, I fear
Would be surrendered with that power's return
And the temptation to its exercise.
For soul like mine, diseased in every part,
There is but one condition in which grace
May give it service. For my malady
The Great Physician draws the blood away
That only flows to feed its baleful fires;
For only thus the balsam and the balm
May touch the springs of healing.
So I pray
To be delivered from myself,--to be
Delivered from necessity of ill,--
To be secured from bringing harm to you.
Oh, what a boon is death to the sick soul!
I greet it with a joy that passes speech.
Were the whole world to come before me now,--
Wealth with its treasures; Pleasure with its cup;
Power robed in purple; Beauty in its pride,
And with Love's sweetest blossoms garlanded;
Fame with its bays, and Glory with its crown,--
To tempt me lifeward, I would turn away,
And stretch my hands with utter eagerness
Toward the pale angel waiting for me now,
And give my hand to him, to be led out,
Serenely singing, to the land of shade.
_Mary_.
Edward, I yield you. I would not retain
One who has strayed so long from God and heaven,
When his weak feet have found the only path
Open for such as he.
_Edward_.
My strength recedes;
But ere it fail, tell me how fares your life.
You have seen sorrow; but it comforts me
To hear the language of a chastened soul
From one perverted by my guilty hand.
You speak the dialect of the redeemed--
The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so,
And you are happy.
_Mary_.