Adela Cathcart, Volume 2 by George MacDonald (best historical biographies .txt) 📖

The blood is flowing still,
Where thou, heart-deep, didst stab me,
With a dagger-speech, to kill.'

"'Oh! I will lay my hand, Henry,
So soft upon thy heart;
And that will stop the bleeding-
Stop all the bitter smart.'

"'My love, I cannot raise me;
My head is bleeding too.
When thou wast stolen from me,
I shot it through and through.'

"'With my thick hair, my Henry,
I will stop the fountain red;
Press back again the blood-stream,
And heal thy wounded head.'

"She begged so soft, so dearly,
I could no more say no;
Writhing, I strove to raise me,
And to the maiden go.

"Then the wounds again burst open;
And afresh the torrents break
From head and heart-life's torrents-
And lo! I am awake."


"There now, that is enough!" said the curate. "That is not nice-is it, Mrs. Cathcart?"

Mrs. Cathcart smiled, and said:

"I should hardly have thought your time well-spent in translating it, Mr. Armstrong."

"It took me a few idle minutes only," said the curate. "But my foolish brother, who has a child's fancy for horrid things, took a fancy to that; and so he won't let my sins be forgotten. But I will take away the taste of it with another of Heine's, seeing we have fallen upon him. I should never have dreamed of introducing him here. It was Miss Cathcart's first song that opened the vein, I believe."

"I am the guilty person," said Adela; "and I fear I am not sorry for my sins-the consequences have been too pleasant. Do go on, Mr. Armstrong."

He repeated:

" Peace .

"High in the heavens the sun was glowing;
Around him the white clouds, like waves, were flowing;
The sea was very still and grey.
Dreamily thinking as I lay,
Close by the gliding vessel's wheel,
A sleepless slumber did o'er me steal;
And I saw the Christ, the healer of woe,
In white and waving garments go;
Walking in giant form went he
Over the land and sea.
High in the heaven he towered his head,
And his hands in blessing forth he spread
Over the land and sea.
And for a heart, O wonder meet!
In his breast the sun did throb and beat;
In his breast, for a heart to the only One,
Shone the red, the flaming sun.
The flaming red sunheart of the Lord
Forth its gracious life-beams poured;
Its fair and love-benignant light
Softly shone, with warming might,
Over the land and sea.

"Sounds of solemn bells that go
Through the still air to and fro,
Draw, like swans, in a rosy band,
The gliding ship to the grassy land,
Where a mighty city, towered and high,
Breaks and jags the line of the sky.

"Oh, wonder of peach, how still was the town!
The hollow tumult had all gone down
Of the bustling and babbling trades.
Men and women, and youths and maids,
White clothes wearing,
Palm branches bearing,
Walked through the clean and echoing streets;
And when one with another meets,
They look at each other with eyes that tell
That they understand each other well;
And, trembling with love and sweet restraint,
Each kisses the other upon the brow,
And looks above, like a hoping saint,
To the holy, healing sunheart's glow;
Which atoning all, its red blood streams
Downward in still outwelling beams;
Till, threefold blessed, they call aloud,
The single hearts of a happy crowd.
Praised be Jesus Christ!"


"You will like that better," concluded the curate, again addressing Mrs. Cathcart.

"Fanciful," she answered. "I don't like fancies about sacred things."

"I fear, however," replied he, "that most of our serious thoughts about sacred things are little better than fancies."

"Sing that other of his about the flowers, and I promise you never to mention his name in this company again," said Harry.

"Very well, I will, on that condition," answered Ralph.

"In the sunny summer morning
Into the garden I come;
The flowers are whispering and speaking,
But I, I wander dumb.

"The flowers are whispering and speaking,
And they gaze at my visage wan:
'You must not be cross with our sister,
You melancholy man!'"


"Is that all?" said Adela.

"Yes, that's all," answered the singer.

"But we cannot let you off with that only," she said.

"What an awful night it is!" interrupted the colonel, rising and going to the window to peep out. "Between me and the lamp, the air looks solid with driving snow."

"Sing one of your winter songs, Ralph," said the curate's wife. "This is surely stormy enough for one of your Scotch winters that you are so proud of."

Thus adjured, Mr, Armstrong sang:

"A morning clear, with frosty light
From sunbeams late and low;
They shine upon the snow so white,
And shine back from the snow.

"From icy spears a drop will run-
Not fall: at afternoon,
It shines a diamond for the sun,
An opal for the moon.

"And when the bright sad sun is low
Behind the mountain-dome,
A twilight wind will come, and blow
All round the children's home;

"And waft about the powdery snow,
As night's dim footsteps pass;
But waiting, in its grave below,
Green lies the summer-grass."


"Now it seems to me," said the colonel, "though I am no authority in such matters, that it is just in such weather as this, that we don't need songs of that sort. They are not very exhilarating."

"There is truth in that," replied Mr. Armstrong. "I think it is in winter chiefly that we want songs of summer, as the Jews sang-if not the songs of Zion, yet of Zion, in a strange land. Indeed most of our songs are of this sort."

"Then sing one of your own summer songs."

"No, my dear; I would rather not. I don't altogether like them. Besides, if Harry could sing that Tryst of Schiller's, it would bring back the feeling of the summer better than any brooding over the remembrances of it could do."

"Did you translate that too?" I asked.

"Yes. As I told you, at one time of my life translating was a constant recreation to me. I have had many half-successes, some of which you have heard. I think this one better."

"What is the name of it?"

"It is 'Die Erwartung'- The Waiting , literally, or
Expectation. But the Scotch word Tryst (Rendezvous) is a better name for a poem, though English. It is often curious how a literal rendering, even when it gives quite the meaning, will not do, because of the different ranks of the two words in their respective languages."

"I have heard you say," said Harry, "that the principles of the translation of lyrics have yet to be explored."

"Yes. But what I have just said, applies nearly as much to prose as to the verse.-Sing, Harry. You know it well enough."

"Part is in recitative,"

"So it is. Go on."

"To enter into the poem, you must suppose a lover waiting in an arbour for his lady-love. First come two recited lines of expectation; then two more, in quite a different measure, of disappointment; and then a long-lined song of meditation; until expectation is again aroused, to be again disappointed-and so on through the poem.

"THE TRYST.

"That was the wicket a-shaking!
That was its clang as it fell!
No, 'twas but the night-wind waking,
And the poplars' answering swell.

Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,
To greet her entrance, radiant all with grace;
Ye branches weave a holy tent, star-proof;
With lovely darkness, silent, her embrace;
Sweet, wandering airs, creep through the leafy woof,
And toy and gambol round her rosy face,
When with its load of beauty, lightly borne,
Glides in the fairy foot, and brings my morn.

Hush! I hear timid, yet daring
Steps that are almost a race!
No, a bird-some terror scaring-
Started from its roosting place.

Quench thy sunk torch, Hyperion. Night, appear!
Dim, ghostly Night, lone loveliness entrancing!
Spread, purple blossoms, round us, in a sphere;
Twin, lattice-boughs, the mystery enhancing;
Love's joy would die, if more than two were here-
She shuns the daybeam indiscreetly glancing.
Eve's star alone-no envious tell-tale she-
Gazes unblamed, from far across the sea.

Hark! distant voices, that lightly
Ripple the silence deep!
No; the swans that, circling nightly,
Through the silver waters sweep.

Around me wavers an harmonious flow;
The fountain's fall swells in delicious rushes;
The flower beneath the west wind's kiss bends low;
A trembling joy from each to all outgushes.
Grape-clusters beckon; peaches luring glow,
Behind dark leaves hiding their crimson blushes;
The winds, cooled with the sighs of flowers asleep,
Light waves of odour o'er my forehead sweep.

Hear I not echoing footfalls,
Hither along the pleached walk?
No; the over-ripened fruit falls
Heavy-swollen, from off its stalk.

Dull is the eye of day that flamed so bright;
In gentle death, its colours all are dim;
Unfolding fearless in the fair half light,
The flower-cups ope, that all day closed their brim;
Calm lifts the moon her clear face on the night;
Dissolved in masses faint, Earth's features swim;
Each grace withdraws the soft relaxing zone-
Beauty unrobed shines full on me alone.

See I not, there, a white shimmer?-
Something with pale silken shine?