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

"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."

"Can they do you any good?"

"They can," she said, "but were it otherwise, I can serve them; and so should seek them still. I help them in their songs."

We reached too soon The open doorway of the humble hut Which, far long years, had held the village school, And, at a little distance, paused. The room, Battered and black by wantonest abuse Of the rude youth, was lit by feeble lamps, Brought by the villagers; and scattered round Upon the high, hacked benches, hardly less Rude and rough-worn than they, the worshippers In silence sat. It was no place for words. I took the lady's hand, and said "good-night!" In whisper. Then she turned, and disappeared Within the sheltered gloom; but I could see The care-worn cheeks light up with pleasant fire As she passed in; and e'en the fainting lamps Flared with new life, the while they caught the breath Of her sweet robe. Then with an angry heart I turned away, and, wrapped in selfish thought, Took up the walk toward home.

This homely group Of Yankee lollards she preferred to me! These poor, pinched boobies, with their silly wives-- Ah! these were they who gave her overmuch In the bestowal of their fellowship! These crowned her with a peerless privilege, Permitting her to sit with them an hour As a dear sister! How my sore self-love Burned with the hot affront!

With lips compressed, Or blurting forth their anger and disgust, I strode the meadows, stalked the silent town, And growled and groaned in sullen helplessness About the streets, until the midnight bell Tolled from the old church tower;--in helplessness, For, mattered nothing what or who she was , Or how offensive in her piety And her devotion to the tasteless cult Of the weak throng, I was her slave; and she-- Her own and God's. The miserable strife Between my love of self and love of her I knew was bootless; and the trenchant truth Cut to the quick. She held within her hand My heart, my life, my doom, yet knew it not; And had she known, her soul was under vows Which would forever make subordinate Their recognized possession.

She was my peer; No weakling girl, who would surrender will And life and reason, with her loving heart, To her possessor;--no soft, clinging thing Who would find breath alone within the arms Of a strong master, and obediently Wait on his whims in slavish carefulness;-- No fawning, cringing spaniel, to attend His royal pleasure, and account herself Rewarded by his pats and pretty words, But a round woman, who, with insight keen, Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well Her womanhood; had spread before her feet A fine philosophy to guide her steps; Had won a faith to which her life was brought In strict adjustment--brain and heart meanwhile Working in conscious harmony and rhythm With the great scheme of God's great universe, On toward her being's end.

I could but know Her motives were superior to mine. I could but feel that in her loyalty To God and duty, she condemned my life. Into her woman's heart, thrown open wide In holy charity, she had drawn all Of human kind, and found no humblest soul Too humble for her entertainment,--none So weak it could return no grateful boon For what she gave; and standing modestly Within her scheme, with meekest reverence She bowed to those above her, yet with strong And hearty confidence assumed a place In service of the world, as minister Ordained of heaven to break to it the bread She took from other hands. And she was one Who could see all there was of good in me,-- Could measure well the product of my power, And give it impulse and direction: nay, Could supplement my power; and help my heart Against its foes.

The moment that I thrust The selfish thirsting for monopoly Of her affections from my godless heart, She entered in, and reigned a goddess there. If she had fascinated me before, And fired my heart with passion, now she bent My spirit to profound respect. I bowed To the fair graces of her character, Her queenly gifts, and the beneficence Of her devoted life, with humbled heart And self-depreciation. All of God That the world held for me, I found in her; And in her, all the God I sought. She was My saviour from myself and from my sins; For, with my worship of the excellence Which she embodied, came the purity And peace to which, through all my troubled life, I had been stranger. Thoughts and feelings all Were sublimated by the subtle flame Which warmed and wrapped me; and I walked as one Might walk on air, with things of earth beneath, Breathing a rare, supernal atmosphere Which every sense and faculty informed With light and life divine.

What need to tell Of the succeeding summer days, and all Their deeds and incidents? They floated by Like silent sails upon a summer sea, That, sweeping in from farthest heaven at morn, Traverse the vision, and at evening slide Out into heaven again, their pennant-flames The rosy dawns and day-falls. O'er and o'er, I walked the path, and crossed the stream, that lay Between me and the idol of my heart; And every day, in every circumstance, I found her still the same, yet not the same; For, every day, some unsuspected grace, Or some fresh revelation of her wealth Of character and culture, touched my heart To new surprise, and overflowed the cup Whose wine was life to me.

Though I could see That I was not unwelcome; though I knew I gave a zest to her sequestered life, I had built up so high my only hope On her affection--I had given myself So wholly to the venture for her hand, I did not dare to speak of love, or ask The question which, unasked, held hopefully My destiny: which answered, might bring doom Of madness or of death.

Meanwhile, I learned The lady's history from other lips Than hers--her aunt's. Alas! the old, old tale! She had been bred to luxury; and all That wealth could purchase for her, or the friends Swarmed by its golden glamour could bestow, She had possessed. But he who won the wealth, Reaching for more, slipped from his height and fell Dragging his house to ruin. Then he died-- Died in disgrace; and all his thousand friends Fell off, and left his pampered family, The while the noisy auctioneer knocked down His house and household gods, and set adrift The helpless life thus cruelly bereft. The mother lived a month: the rest went forth, Not knowing whither; but they found among The poor a shelter for their poverty,-- Kathrina with her aunt. Thus, in few words, A tragedy of heart-breaks and of death, Such as the world abounds with.

But this girl, With her quick instincts and her brave, good heart. Determined she would live awhile, and learn What lesson God would teach her. This she sought, And, seeking, found, or thought she found. How well She learned the lesson--what the lesson was-- Her life, thus far revealed, and waiting still My feeble record, shall disclose. Enough, Just now and here, that out of it she bore A noble womanhood, accepting all Her great misfortunes as the discipline Of a paternal hand, in love prescribed To lead her to her place, and whiten her For Christian service.

All the summer fled; And still my heart delayed. One pleasant eve, When first the creaking of the crickets told Of Autumn's opening door, I went with her To ramble in the fields. We touched the hem Of the dark mountain's robe, that falls in folds Of emerald sward around his feet, and there Upon its tufted velvet we sat down. It was my time to speak, but I was dumb; And silence, painful and portentous, hung Upon us both. At length, she turned and said: "Some days have passed since you were latest here. Have you been ill?"

"No, I have been at work," I answered,--"at my own delightful work; The first since first we met. The record lies Where I may reach it at a word from you. Command, and I will read it."

"I command," She said, responding with a laugh. "Nay, I Entreat. I used your word, but this is mine, And has a better sound from lips of mine. I am your waiting auditor."

I read:

"Was it the tale of a talking bird? Was it a dream of the night? When have I seen it? Where have I heard Of the haps of a dainty craft, that stirred My spirit with affright?

"The shallop stands out from the sheltered bay With a burden of spirits twain,-- A woman who lifts her eyes to pray, A tall youth, trolling a roundelay, And before them night, and the main!

"O! Star of The Sea! They will come to harm: Nor master nor sailor is there! The youth clasps the mast with his sinewy arm, And laughs! Does he hold in his bosom a charm That will baffle the sprites of the air?

O! woe to the delicate ship! O! woe! For the sun is sunk, and behold! The trooping phantoms that come and go In the sky above and the waves below! Ho! The wind blows wild and cold.

"The woman is weeping in weak despair; The youth still clings to the mast, With cheeks aflame, and with eyes that stare At the phantoms hovering everywhere; And the storm-rack rises fast!

"The phantoms close on the flying bark; They flutter about her peak; They sweep in swarms from the outer dark; But the youth at the mast stands still and stark, While they flap his stinging cheek.

"O! fierce was the shout of the goblins then! How the gibber and laugh went round! The shout and the laugh of a thousand men, Echoed and answered, and echoed again, Would have been a feebler sound.

"They shiver the bolts that the lightning flings; They bellow and roar and hiss; They splash the deck with their slimy wings-- Monstrous, horrible, ghastly things-- That climb from the foul abyss.

"Straight toward the blackness drove the ship; But the youth still clung to the mast: 'I have read,' quoth he, with a proud, cold lip, 'That the devil gets never a man on the hip Whom he scares not, first or last.'

"No star shines out at the woman's prayer; O! madly distraught is she! And the bark drives on with her wild despair With shrieking fiends in the crowded air, And fiends on the swarming sea.

"Nearer the blackness loomed; and the bark Scudded before the breeze; Nearer the blackness loomed, and hark! The crash of breakers out of the dark, And the shock of plunging seas!

"Then out of the water before their sight A shape loomed bare and black! So black that the darkness bloomed with white; So black that the lightning grew strangely bright And it lay in the shallop's track!

"O! woe! for the woman's wits ran daft With the fearful bruit and burst; She sprang to her feet, and flitting aft, She plunged in the sea, and the black waves quaffed The sweet life they had cursed.

"Light leaped the bark on the mountain-breast Of a tenth-wave out to land; While the sprites of the sea fell off to rest, And the youth, unharmed, became the guest Of the elves of the silent land.

"With banter and buffet they pressed around; They tied his strong hands fast; But he laughed, and said, 'I have read and found That the devil throws never a man to the ground Whom he scares not, first or last.'

"Under the charred and ghastly gloom, Over the flinty stones, They led him forth to his terrible doom, And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb, They sat him among the bones.

"They left him there in the crawling mire: They could neither maim nor kill: For fiends of water, and earth, and fire, Are baffled and beaten by the ire Of a dauntless human will.

"Days flushed and faded, months passed away, He knew by the golden light That shot, through a loop in the wall, the ray Which parted the short and slender day From the long and doleful night.

"Was it a vision that cheated his eyes? Was he awake, or no? He stared through the loop with keen surprise. For he saw a sweet angel from the skies, With white wings, folded low.

"Could she not loose him from his thrall, And lead him into the light? 'Ah me!' he murmured, 'I dare not call, Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul, And leave me in swift affright!'

"She plumed her wings with a noiseless haste; He could neither call nor cry: She vanished into the sunny waste, Into far blue air that he longed to taste; And he cursed that he could not die.

"But she came again, and every day He worshipped her where she shone; And again she left him and floated away, But his faithless tongue refused to pray For the boon she could give alone.

"And there he sits in his dumb despair, And his watching eyes grow dim: Would God that his coward lips might dare To utter the word to the angel fair, That is life or death to him!"

I marked her as I read, a furtive glance Filling each pause. The passion of the piece, Flaming and fading, ever and anon, Mirrored itself within her tender eyes, Themselves the mirror of her tender soul, And fixed attent upon my face the while.

She had not caught my meaning, but had heard Only a weird, wild story. When I paused, Folding the manuscript, I saw a shade Of disappointment sweep her face, and marked A question rising in her eyes. She knew That I was waiting for her words, and turned Her look away, and for long moments gazed Into the brooding dusk.

"Speak it!" I said.

"'Twas very strange and sad," she answered me. "Why do you write such things?--or, writing such, Leave them so incomplete? The prisoned youth, Thus unreleased, will haunt me while I live. I shudder while I think of him."

Then I: "The poem will be finished, by-and-by, For this is history, and antedates No fact that it records. Whether this youth Shall live entombed, or reach the blessed air, Depends upon his angel; for he calls-- I hear him call, and call again her name Kathrina! O! Kathrina!"

Moments like these-- Nay, these in very truth--were given us then. Who shall expound--ah! who but God alone, The everlasting mystery of love? She spoke not, but I knew that she was mine. I breathed no word, but she was well assured That I was wholly hers.

In what disguise Our love had hid, and wrought its miracle; Behind what semblance of indifference, Or play of courtesy, it spun the cords That bound our hearts in one, was mystery Like love itself. The swift intelligence Of interchange of perfect faith and troth, Of gift of life and person, of the thrill Of triumph in my soul and gratitude In hers, without a gesture, or a word, Was like the converse of the continents Tracking with voiceless flight the slender wire That underlay the throbbing mystery Between our souls, and made our heart-beats one. I opened wide my arms, and she, my own, Sobbed on my breast with such excess of joy, In such embrace of passionate tenderness, As heaven may yield again, but never earth.

Slow in the golden twilight, toward her home, Her hand upon my arm, we loitered on, Silent at first, and then with quiet speech Broaching our plans, or tracing in review The history of our springing love, when she, Lifting her soft blue eyes to mine:

Responding, I "Fix your own place, my love; it is your right, 'Tis well to have a theory, and sit In the centre of it, mistress of its law, And subject also;--to set men up here And women there, in a fine equipoise Of gift and grace and import. It conveys To nicely-working minds a pleasant sense Of order, like a well-appointed room, Where one may see, in various stuffs and wares, Forethoughts of color brought to harmony; Strict balancings of quantity and form; Flowers in the centre, and, beside the grate, A rack for shovel and tongs. But minds like these are likely to arrange The window-lights to save the furniture, And spoil the pictures on the wall. And you, In the adjustment of your theory, Would shut the light from her whose mind informs Its harmonies. All worship, in my thought, Goes hand in hand with love. We cannot love, And fail to worship what we love. While you Worship the strength and courage which you find In him who has your heart, he bows to all Of faith and sweetness which he finds in you. If, in our worship, we have need to build Noblest ideals, taking much from God With which to make them perfect in our eyes, Shall God mark blame? We worship him the while, In attributes his own, or attributes With which our thought invests him. As for me-- It is no secret--I am what you call A godless man; yet what is worshipful, Or seems to be so, that with all my heart I worship; and I worship while I love. You deem yourself the dwelling-place of God, And keep your spirit cleanly for his feet. All merit you abjure, ascribing all To him who dwells within you. How can you Forbid that I fall down and worship you, When what I find to worship is not yours, But God's alone? I know the ecstasy Enlarges, strengthens, purifies my soul, And blesses me with peace. My love, my life, You are my all. I have no other good, And, in this moment of my happiness, I ask no other."

Tears were in her eyes, Her clasped hands clinging fondly to my arm, While under droop of lashes she replied: "I feel, dear Paul, that this is sophistry. It does not touch my judgment or my heart With motive of conviction. In what way God may be working to reclaim your will And worship to himself, I cannot know. If through your love for me, or mine for you, Then, as his grateful, willing instrument, I yield myself to him. But this is true: God is not worshipped in his attributes. I do not love your attributes, but you. Your attributes all meet me otherwhere, Blended in other personalities, Nor do I love, nor do I worship them, Or those who bear them. E'en the spotted pard Will dare a danger which will make you pale, But shall his courage steal my heart from you? You cheat your conscience, for you know that I May like your attributes, yet love not you; Nay, worship them indeed, despising you. I do not argue this to damp your joy, But make it rational. If you presume Perfection in me,--if you lavish all The largess of your worship and your love On me, imposing on my head a crown Stolen from God's, there surely waits your heart The pang of disappointment. There will come A sad, sad time, when, in your famished soul, The cry for something more, and more divine, Will rise, nor be repressed."

There is a charm In earnestness, when it inspires the lips Of one we love, that spoils their argument, And yields so much of pleasure and of pride, That the conviction which they seek evades Their eager fingers, and with throbbing wings Crows from its covert.

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