And, with a shamed and
crimson cheek,
Moaned "This is harder than Bezique!"
But when she asked him "Wherefore so?"
He felt his very whiskers glow,
And
frankly owned "I do not know."
While, like broad waves of golden grain,
Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,
His colour came and went again.
Pitying his
obvious distress,
Yet with a tinge of bitterness,
She said "The More exceeds the Less."
"A truth of such undoubted weight,"
He urged, "and so
extreme in date,
It were
superfluous to state."
Roused into sudden
passion, she
In tone of cold malignity:
"To others, yea: but not to thee."
But when she saw him quail and quake,
And when he urged "For pity's sake!"
Once more in gentle tones she spake.
"Thought in the mind doth still abide
That is by Intellect supplied,
And within that Idea doth hide:
"And he, that yearns the truth to know,
Still further
inwardly may go,
And find Idea from Notion flow:
"And thus the chain, that sages sought,
Is to a
gloriouscircle wrought,
For Notion hath its source in Thought."
So passed they on with even pace:
Yet gradually one might trace
A shadow growing on his face.
The Second Voice
THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach;
Her tongue was very apt to teach,
And now and then he did beseech
She would abate her dulcet tone,
Because the talk was all her own,
And he was dull as any drone.
She urged "No
cheese is made of chalk":
And
ceaseless flowed her
dreary talk,
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.
Her voice was very full and rich,
And, when at length she asked him "Which?"
It mounted to its highest pitch.
He a bewildered answer gave,
Drowned in the
sullen moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.
He answered her he knew not what:
Like shaft from bow at
random shot,
He spoke, but she regarded not.
She waited not for his reply,
But with a
downward leaden eye
Went on as if he were not by
Sound
argument and grave defence,
Strange questions raised on "Why?" and "Whence?"
And wildly tangled evidence.
When he, with racked and whirling brain,
Feebly implored her to explain,
She simply said it all again.
Wrenched with an agony intense,
He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,
And
careless of all consequence:
"Mind - I believe - is Essence - Ent -
Abstract - that is - an Accident -
Which we - that is to say - I meant - "
When, with quick
breath and cheeks all flushed,
At length his speech was somewhat hushed,
She looked at him, and he was crushed.
It needed not her calm reply:
She fixed him with a stony eye,
And he could neither fight nor fly.
While she dissected, word by word,
His speech, half guessed at and half heard,
As might a cat a little bird.
Then, having
wholly overthrown
His views, and stripped them to the bone,
Proceeded to
unfold her own.
"Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss
Of other thoughts no thought but this,
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?
"What boots it? Shall his fevered eye
Through
towering nothingness descry
The grisly
phantom hurry by?
"And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;
See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare
And
redden in the dusky glare?
"The meadows
breathing amber light,
The darkness toppling from the height,
The feathery train of
granite Night?
"Shall he, grown gray among his peers,
Through the thick curtain of his tears
Catch glimpses of his earlier years,
"And hear the sounds he knew of yore,
Old shufflings on the sanded floor,
Old knuckles tapping at the door?
"Yet still before him as he flies
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And, bodying forth in
glassy eyes
"The
vision of a vanished good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall
freeze the current of his blood."
Still from each fact, with skill uncouth
And
savagerapture, like a tooth
She wrenched some slow
reluctant truth.
Till, like a silent water-mill,
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.
Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,
As when the loaded omnibus
Has reached the railway terminus:
When, for the
tumult of the street,
Is heard the engine's stifled beat,
The
velvet tread of porters' feet.
With glance that ever sought the ground,
She moved her lips without a sound,
And every now and then she frowned.
He gazed upon the
sleeping sea,
And joyed in its tranquillity,
And in that silence dead, but she
To muse a little space did seem,
Then, like the echo of a dream,
Harked back upon her threadbare theme.
Still an
attentive ear he lent
But could not
fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.
He marked the
ripple on the sand:
The even swaying of her hand
Was all that he could understand.
He saw in dreams a drawing-room,
Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom,
Waiting - he thought he knew for whom:
He saw them drooping here and there,
Each
feebly huddled on a chair,
In attitudes of blank despair:
Oysters were not more mute than they,
For all their brains were pumped away,
And they had nothing more to say -
Save one, who groaned "Three hours are gone!"
Who shrieked "We'll wait no longer, John!
Tell them to set the dinner on!"
The
vision passed: the ghosts were fled:
He saw once more that woman dread:
He heard once more the words she said.
He left her, and he turned aside:
He sat and watched the coming tide
Across the shores so newly dried.
He wondered at the waters clear,
The
breeze that
whispered in his ear,
The billows heaving far and near,
And why he had so long preferred
To hang upon her every word:
"In truth," he said, "it was absurd."
The Third Voice
NOT long this
transport held its place:
Within a little moment's space
Quick tears were raining down his face
His heart stood still,
aghast with fear;
A wordless voice, nor far nor near,
He seemed to hear and not to hear.
"Tears
kindle not the
doubtful spark.
If so, why not? Of this remark
The bearings are
profoundly dark."
"Her speech," he said, "hath caused this pain.
Easier I count it to explain
The jargon of the howling main,
"Or, stretched beside some babbling brook,
To con, with inexpressive look,
An unintelligible book."
Low spake the voice within his head,
In words imagined more than said,
Soundless as ghost's intended tread:
"If thou art duller than before,
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?
Why not
endure, expecting more?"
"Rather than that," he groaned
aghast,
"I'd
writhe in depths of
cavern vast,
Some loathly vampire's rich repast."
"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense
To coop within the narrow fence
That rings THY scant intelligence."
"Not so," he urged, "nor once alone:
But there was something in her tone
That chilled me to the very bone.
"Her style was anything but clear,
And most unpleasantly severe;
Her epithets were very queer.
"And yet, so grand were her replies,
I could not choose but deem her wise;
I did not dare to criticise;
"Nor did I leave her, till she went
So deep in tangled
argumentThat all my powers of thought were spent."
A little
whisper inly slid,
"Yet truth is truth: you know you did."
A little wink beneath the lid.
And, sickened with
excess of dread,
Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead
The
whisper left him - like a
breezeLost in the depths of leafy trees -