Read Ebook: Kathrina—A Poem by Holland J G Josiah Gilbert

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Ebook has 326 lines and 44475 words, and 7 pages

and led me to her niece, Who greeted me as if some special grace Of courtesy were due, to make amends For the familiar badinage her aunt Had poured upon me.

They had come without-- One with her work, the other with her book-- To taste the freshness of the evening air, Washed of the hot day's dust by rain; to hear The robin's hymn of joy; and watch the clouds That canopied with gold the sinking sun. The maiden in a pale-blue, muslin robe-- Dyed with forget-me-nots, I fancied then, And sweet with life in every fold, I knew-- A blush-rose at her throat, and in her hair A sprig of green and white, was lovelier Than sky or landscape; and her low words fell More musically than the robin's hymn. So, with my back to other scene and sound, I faced the faces, took the proffered chair And looked and listened.

"Tell us of yourself," Spoke the blunt aunt, with license of her years. "What are you doing now?"

"Nothing," I said.

"And were you not the boy who was to grow Into a great, good man, and write fine books, And have no end of fame?"

The question cut Deeper than she intended. The hot blush And stammering answer told her of the hurt, And tenderly she tried to heal the wound: "I know that you have suffered; but your hours Must not be told by tears. The life that goes In unavailing sorrow goes to waste."

"True," I replied, "but work may not be done Without a motive. Never worthy man Worked worthily who was not moved by love. When she I loved, and she who loved me died, My motive died; and it can never rise Till trump of love shall call it from the dust To resurrection."

I spoke earnestly, Without a thought that other ears than hers Were listening to my words; but when I looked, I saw the maiden's eyes were dim with tears. I knew her own experience was touched, And that her heart made answer to my own In perfect sympathy.

To change the drift, I took her book, and read the title-page: "So you like poetry," I said.

"So well my aunt Finds fault with me."

"You write, perhaps?"

"A happy woman!" I exclaimed; "in truth, The first I ever found affecting art Who shunned expression by it. If a girl Like painting, she must paint; if poetry, She must write verses. Can you tell me why . Men with a taste for art in finest forms Cherish the fancy that they may become, Or are, Art's masters? You shall see a man Who never drew a line or struck an arc Direct an architect, and spoil his work, Because, forsooth! he likes a tasteful house! He likes a muffin, but he does not go Into his kitchen to instruct his cook,-- Nay, that were insult. He admires fine clothes, But trusts his tailor. Only in those arts Which issue from creative potencies Does his conceit engage him. He could learn The baker's trade, and learn to cut a coat, But never learn to do that one great deed Which he essays."

"'Tis not a strange mistake-- These people make"--she answered, thoughtfully. "Art gives them pleasure; and they honor those Whose heads and hands produce it. If they see The length and breadth and beauty of a thought Embodied by another,--if they hold The taste, the culture, the capacity, To measure values in the things of art, Why cannot they create? Why cannot they Win to themselves the honor they bestow On those who feed them? Is it very strange That those who know how sweet the gratitude Which the true artist stirs, should burn to taste That gratitude themselves?"

"Not strange, perhaps," I said, "and yet, it is a sad mistake; For countless noble lives have gone to waste In work which it inspired."

When she passed the door, And laughter at her jest had had its way, I said: "It takes all sorts to make a world."

"How many, think you? Only one, two, three," The maiden said. "Here we have all the world In this one cottage--artist, teacher, taught, In--not to mar the order of the scale For courtesy--yourself, myself, my aunt. You are an artist, so my aunt reports; But, as an artist, you are nought to her. And now, to broach a petted theory, Let me presume too boldly, while I say She cannot understand you, though I can; You cannot measure her, though she is wise. You have not much for her, and that you have You cannot teach her; but I, knowing her, Can pick from your creations crumbs of thought She will find manna. In the hands of Christ The five loaves grew, the fishes multiplied; And he to his disciples gave the feast-- They to the multitude. Artists are few, Teachers are thousands, and the world is large. Artists are nearest God. Into their souls He breathes his life, and from their hands it comes In fair, articulate forms to bless the world; And yet, these forms may never bless the world Except its teachers take them in their hands, And give each man his portion."

As she spoke In earnest eloquence, I could have knelt, And worshipped her. Her delicate cheek was flushed, Her eyes were filled with light, and her closed book Was pressed against her heart, whose throbbing tide Thridded her temples. I was half amused, Half rapt in admiration; and she saw That in my eyes at which she blushed and paused. "Your pardon, Sir," she said. "It ill becomes A teacher to instruct an artist."

"Nay, It does become you wondrously," I said With light but earnest words. "Pray you go on; And pardon all that my unconscious eyes Have done to stop you."

"I have little more That I would care to say: you have my thought," She answered; "yet there's very much to say, And you should say it."

"Not I, lady, no: A poet is not practical like you, Nor sensible like you. You can teach him As well as tamer folk. In truth, I think He needs instruction quite as much as they For whom he writes."

"That's possible," she said With an arch smile.

"Will you explain yourself?"

"Well--if you wish it--yes:" she made reply. "And first, my auditor must know that I Relieve in inspiration, though he knows So much as that already, from my words,-- Believe that God inspires the poet's soul,-- That he gives eyes to see, and ears to hear What in his realm holds finest ministry For highest aptitudes and needs of men, And skill to mould it into forms of art Which shall present it to the world he serves. Sometimes the poet writes with fire; with blood Sometimes; sometimes with blackest ink: It matters not. God finds his mighty way Into his verse. The dimmest window-panes Let in the morning light, and in that light Our faces shine with kindled sense of God And his unwearied goodness; but the glass Gets little good of it; nay, it retains Its chill and grime beyond the power of light To warm or whiten. E'en the prophet's ass Had better eyes than he who strode his back, And, though the prophet bore the word of God, Did finer reverence. The Psalmist's soul Was not a fitting place for psalms like his To dwell in over-long, while waiting words, If I read rightly. As for the old seers, Whose eyes God touched with vision of the life Of the unfolding ages, I must doubt Whether they comprehended what they saw, Or knew what they recorded. It remains For the world's teachers to expound their words; To probe their mysteries; and relegate The truth they hold in blind significance Into the fair domains of history And human knowledge. Am I understood?"

"You are," I answered; "and I cannot say You flatter me. God takes within his hand A thing of his contrivance which we call A poet: then he puts it to his lips, And speaks his word, and puts it down again-- The instrument not better and not worse For being handled;--not improved a whit In quality, by quality of that Which it conveys. Do I report aright? Or do you prompt me?"

"You are very apt," She said, "at learning, but a little bald In statement. Nathless, be it as you say; And we shall see how it is possible That poets need instruction quite as much As those for whom they write. What sad, bad men The brightest geniuses have been! How weak, How mean in character! how foul in life! How feebly have the best of them retained The wealth of good and beauty which has flowed In crystal streams from God, the fountain head, Through them to fertilize the world! Nay, worse, How many of them have infused the tide With tincture of their own impurity, To poison sweetest, unsuspecting lips, And breed diseases in the finest blood! And poets not alone, and not the worst; But painters, sculptors--those whose kingly power And aptitude for utterance divine Have made them artists:--how have these contemned In countless instances the God of Heaven Who filled them with his fire! Think you that these Could compass their achievements of themselves? Can streams surpass their fountains?"

"Nay," I said, In quick response, "Your argument is good; But is the artist nothing? Is he nought But an apt tool--a mouth-piece for a voice? You make him but the spigot of a cask Round which you, teachers, wait with silver cups To bear away the wine that leaves it dry. You magnify your office."

"We do all Wait upon God for every grace and good," She then rejoined. "You take it at first hand, And we from yours: the multitude from ours. It may leach through our souls, if our poor wills Retain it not, and drench the fragrant sand. And if I magnify my office--well! 'Tis a great office. What would come of all The music of the masters, did not we Wait at their doors, to publish to the world What God has told them? They would be as mute As the dumb Sphynx. They write a symphony, An opera, an oratorio, In language that the teacher understands, And straight the whole world echoes to its strains It shrills and thunders through cathedral glooms From golden organ-tubes and voiceful choirs; The halls of art of both the hemispheres Resound with its divinest melodies; The street stirs with the impulse, and we hear The blare of martial trumpets, and the tramp Of bannered armies swaying to its rhythm; The hurdy-gurdies and the whistling boys Adopt the lighter strains; and round and round A million souls its hovering fancies float, Like butterflies above a fair parterre, Till, settling one by one, they sleep at last; And lo! two petals more on every flower! And this not all; for though the master die, The teacher lives forever. On and on, Through all the generations, he shall preach The beautiful evangel;--on and on, Till our poor race has passed the tortuous years That lie prevening the millennium, And slid into that broad and open sea, He shall sail singing still the songs he learned In the world's youth, and sing them o'er and o'er To lapping waters, till the thousand leagues Are overpast, and argosy and crew Ride at their port."

"True as to facts," I said "And as to prophecies, most credible; But, as an illustration, false, I think. That which the voice and instrument may do For the composer, types may do for those Who mint their thoughts in verse. Music is writ In language that the people do not read-- Is lame in that--and needs interpreters; While poetry, e'en in its noblest forms And boldest flights, speaks their vernacular. Your aunt can read the book within your hand As well as you, if she desire, yet finds Your score all Greek, until you vocalize Its wealth of hidden meaning. As for arts Which meet the eye in picture and in form, They ask no mediator but the light-- No grace but privilege to shine with naught Between them and the light. They are themselves Expositors of that which they expose, Or they are nothing. All the middle-men-- The fools profound--who take it on their tongues To play the showmen, strutting up and down, And mouthing of the beauty that they hide, Are an impertinence."

"You leave no room For critics," she suggested, with a smile. "We must not spoil a trade, or starve the wives And innocent babes it feeds."

"No care for them!" I made reply. "They do not need much room-- Men of their build--and what they need they take. The feeble conies burrow in the rocks; But the trees grow, and we are not aware Of space encumbered by them."

"Yet the fact Still stands untouched," she added, thoughtfully, "That greatest artists speak to fewest souls, Or speak to them directly. They have need Of no such ministry as waits the beck Of the composer; but they need the life, If not the learning, of the cultured few Who understand them. If from out my book I gather that which feeds me, and inspires A nobler, sweeter beauty in my life, And give my life to those who cannot win From the dim text such boon, then have I borne A blessing from the book, and been its best Interpreter. The bread that comes from heaven Needs finest breaking. Some there doubtless are-- Some ready souls--that take the morsel pure Divided to their need; but multitudes Must have it in admixtures, menstruums, And forms that human hands or human life Have moulded. Though the multitudes may find Something to stir and lift their sluggish souls In sight of great cathedrals, or in view Of noble pictures, yet they see not all, And not the best. That which they do not see Must enter higher souls, and there, by art Or life, be fashioned to their want."

"Your thought Grows subtle," I responded, "and I grant Its force and beauty. If the round truth lie Somewhere between us, and I see the face It turns to me in stronger light than you Reveal its opposite, why, let the fault be mine; It is not yours. You have instructed me, And won my thanks."

"Instructed you?" she said, With a fine blush: "you mock, you humble me. And have I talked so much, with such an air, That, either earnestly or in a jest, You can say this to me?"

"'Tis not a sin, In latitude of ours," I made reply, "To talk philosophy; 'tis only rare For beardless lips to do so. I have caught From yours a finer, more suggestive scheme Than all the wise have taught me by their books, Or by their voices. I will think of it."

"Now may you be forgiven!" the aunt exclaimed, Approaching unobserved. "There never lived A quieter, more plainly speaking girl, Than my Kathrina. All these weeks and months, I have heard nought from her but common sense; But when you came, why, off she went; though where It's more than I know. You, sir, have the blame; And you must lift your spell, and give her back Just as you found her."

"She has practised well Her scheme on us. She breaks to you the bread That meets your want; to me, that meets my own," I said, in answering.

"Well," spoke the aunt, "I think I'll try my hand at breaking bread: So, follow me."

We followed to her board, And there, in converse suited to the hour And presence of our hostess, proved ourselves-- Quite to that lady's liking--of the earth. We ate her jumbles for her, sipped her tea, And revelled in the spicy succulence Of her preserves.

While still I sat at ease, The maiden's eye, with quick, uneasy glance, Sought the clock's dial. Then she turned to me. And said with sweet, respectful courtesy: "Pray you excuse my presence for an hour. A duty calls me out; and that performed, I will return."

I saw she marked my look Of disappointment--that it staggered her-- The while with words of stiffest commonplace I gave assent. But she was on her feet; And soon I heard her light step on the stair, Seeking her chamber.

"Whither will she go At such an hour as this, from you and me?" I coldly questioned of the keen-eyed aunt.

"You men are very curious," she said. "I knew you'd ask me. Can't a lady stir, But you must call her to account? Who knows She may not have some rustic lover here With whom she keeps her tryst? 'Tis an old trick, Not wholly out of fashion in these parts. What matters it? She orders her own ways, And has discretion."

With lugubrious voice I said: "You trifle, madam, with my wish. I know the lady has no lover here, And so do you."

"I'm not so sure of that!" My hostess made response; and then she laughed A rippling, rollicking roulade, and shook Her finger at me, till my temples burned With the hot shame she summoned.

"It is Thursday night," She answered soberly,--"the weekly hour At which our quiet neighborhood convenes For social worship. You may guess the rest Without my telling; but you cannot know With what anticipated joy she leaves Our company, or with what shining face She will return."

At that, I heard her dress Sliding the flight, and rising, made my way To meet her at its foot. A happy smile Illumed her features, as she gave her hand With thought of parting. I had rallied all My self-control and gallantry meanwhile, And said: "Not here. I'll with you, by your leave, So far as you may walk."

There was a flash Of gladness in her eyes, and in her thanks A subtler charm than gratitude.

I bade My hostess a "good-night," and left her door. Declining her entreaty to return. We walked in silence, side by side, a space, And then, with feigned indifference, I spoke: "Your aunt has told me of your errand; else, It had been modest in me to withhold This tendance on your steps. She tells me you Are quite a devotee. Whom do you meet, In neighborhood like this, to give a zest To hour like this?"

"Brothers and sisters all," She said in low reply; "and as for zest, There's never lack of it where there is love. When families convene, they have no need Of more than love to give them festal joy; Nor do they with discrimination judge Between the high and humble. These are one; Love makes them one."

"And you are one with these?"

"Though most unworthy of such fellowship, I trust that I am one with these;--that they Are one with me, and reckon me among Their number."

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