Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (631 page)

To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank

She held in loving?  Modest maidens shrank

From telling love that fed on selfish hope;

But love, as hopeless as the shattering song,

Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng

Of mighty dead ones. . . .  Nay, but she was weak,

Knew only prayers and ballads, could not speak

With eloquence, save what dumb creatures have,

That with small cries and touches small boons crave.

She watched all day that she might see him pass

With knights and ladies; but she said, “Alas!

Though he should see me, it were all as one

He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone

Of wall or balcony: some colored spot

His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not.

I have no music-touch that could bring nigh

My love to his soul’s hearing.  I shall die,

And he will never know who Lisa was, —

The trader’s child, whose soaring spirit rose

As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose.

“For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen

A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green,

Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need

No change within to make me queenly there:

For they the royal-hearted women are

Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace;

For needy suffering lives in lowliest place,

Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile,

The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile.

My love is such, it cannot choose but soar

Up to the highest; yet forevermore,

Though I were happy, throned beside the king,

I should be tender to each little thing

With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell

Its inward pang; and I would soothe it well

With tender touch, and with a low soft moan

For company: my dumb love-pang is lone,

Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone.”

So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days.

Each night the August moon with changing phase

Looked broader, harder, on her unchanged pain;

Each noon the heat lay heavier again

On her despair, until her body frail

Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale

See narrowed on the height each summer morn;

While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn,

As if the soul within her, all on fire,

Made of her being one swift funeral-pyre.

Father and mother saw with sad dismay

The meaning of their riches melt away;

For without Lisa what would sequins buy?

What wish were left if Lisa were to die?

Through her they cared for summers still to come,

Else they would be as ghosts without a home

In any flesh that could feel glad desire.

They pay the best physicians, never tire

Of seeking what will soothe her, promising

That aught she longed for, though it were a thing

Hard to be come at as the Indian snow,

Or roses that on Alpine summits blow,

It should be hers.  She answers with low voice,

She longs for death alone — death is her choice;

Death is the king who never did think scorn,

But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born.

Yet one day, as they bent above her bed,

And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head

Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel

Some moist revival through their petals steal;

And little flutterings of her lids and lips

Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips

A skyey shadow in the mind’s poor pool.

She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full

Upon her father, as in utterance dumb

Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come.

“What is it, Lisa?” — “Father, I would see

Minuccio, the great singer; bring him me.”

For always, night and day, her unstilled thought,

Wandering all o’er its little world, had sought

How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch,

King Pedro’s soul, that she who loved so much,

Dying, might have a place within his mind, —

A little grave which he would sometimes find

And plant some flower on it, — some thought, some memory kind.

Till in her dream she saw Minuccio

Touching his viola, and chanting low

A strain, that, falling on her brokenly,

Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree;

Each burthened with a word that was a scent, —

Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament;

Then in her dream she said, “He sings of me,

Might be my messenger; ah! now I see

The king is listening” — Then she awoke,

And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke.

She longed for music: that was natural;

Physicians said it was medicinal;

The humors might be schooled by true consent

Of a fine tenor and fine instrument;

In short, good music, mixed with doctor’s stuff,

Apollo with Asklepios — enough!

Minuccio, entreated, gladly came.

(He was a singer of most gentle fame,

A noble, kindly spirit, not elate

That he was famous, but that song was great;

Would sing as finely to this suffering child

As at the court where princes on him smiled.)

Gently he entered and sat down by her,

Asking what sort of strain she would prefer, —

The voice alone, or voice with viol wed;

Then, when she chose the last, he preluded

With magic hand, that summoned from the strings

Aerial spirits, rare yet palpable wings

That fanned the pulses of his listener,

And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir.

Her cheek already showed a slow, faint blush;

But soon the voice, in pure, full, liquid rush,

Made all the passion, that till now she felt,

Seem but as cooler waters that in warmer melt.

Finished the song, she prayed to be alone

With kind Minuccio; for her faith had grown

To trust him as if missioned like a priest

With some high grace, that, when his singing ceased,

Still made him wiser, more magnanimous,

Than common men who had no genius.

So, laying her small hand within his palm,

She told him how that secret, glorious harm

Of loftiest loving had befallen her;

That death, her only hope, most bitter were,

If, when she died, her love must perish too

As songs unsung, and thoughts unspoken do,

Which else might live within another breast.

She said, “Minuccio, the grave were rest,

If I were sure, that, lying cold and lone,

My love, my best of life, had safely flown

And nestled in the bosom of the king.

See, ‘tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing;

But you will carry it for me secretly,

And bear it to the king; then come to me

And tell me it is safe, and I shall go

Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know.”

Then she wept silently; but each large tear

Made pleading music to the inward ear

Of good Minuccio.  “Lisa, trust in me,”

He said, and kissed her fingers loyally:

“It is sweet law to me to do your will,

And, ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil,

I hope to bring you news of such rare skill

As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still.”

He needed not to pause and first devise

How he should tell the king; for in nowise