III
While we are discussing the ballads and shorter narrative poems, let us now consider Rossetti simply as a story-teller, and see how wonderful he is in some of those lighter productions in which he brought the art of the refrain to a perfection which nobody else, except perhaps Swinburne, has equalled. Among the ballads there is but one, “Stratton Water,” conceived altogether after the old English fashion; and this has no refrain. I do not know that any higher praise can be given to it than the simple statement that it is a perfect imitation of the old ballad—at least so far as a perfect imitation is possible in the nineteenth century. Should there be any criticism allowable, it could be only this, that the tenderness and pathos are somewhat deeper, and somewhat less rough in utterance, than we expect in a ballad of the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Yet there is no stanza in it for which some parallel might not be found in ballads of the old time. It is nothing more than the story of a country girl seduced by a nobleman, who nevertheless has no intention of being cruel or unfaithful. Just as she is about to drown herself, or rather to let herself be drowned, he rescues her from the danger, marries her in haste to save appearances, and makes her his wife. There is nothing more of narrative, and no narrative could be more simple. But as the great pains and great joys of life are really in simple things, the simplest is capable of almost infinite expansion when handled by a true artist. Certainly in English poetry there is no ballad more beautiful than this; nor can we imagine it possible to do anything more with so slight a theme. It contains nothing, however, calling for elaborate explanation or comment; I need only recommend you to read it and to feel it.
It is otherwise in the case of such ballads as “Sister Helen” and “The White Ship.”—“The White Ship” is a little too long for full reproduction in the lecture; but we can point out its special beauties. “Sister Helen,” although rather long also, we must study the whole of, partly because it has become so very famous, and partly because it deals with emotions and facts of the Middle Ages requiring careful interpretation. Perhaps it is the best example of story telling in the shorter pieces of Rossetti—not because its pictures are more objectively vivid than the themes of the “White Ship,” but because it is more subjectively vivid, dealing with the extremes of human passion, hate, love, revenge, and religious despair. All these are passions peculiarly coloured by the age in which the story is supposed to happen, the age of belief in magic, in ghosts, and in hell-fire.
I think that in nearly all civilised countries, East and West, from very old times there has been some belief in the kind of magic which this poem describes. I have seen references to similar magic in translations of Chinese books, and I imagine that it may have been known in Japan. In India it is still practised. At one time or other it was practised in every country of Europe. Indeed, it was only the development of exact science that rendered such beliefs impossible. During the Middle Ages they caused the misery of many thousands of lives, and the fear born of them weighed upon men’s minds like a nightmare.
This superstition in its simplest form was that if you wished to kill a hated person, it was only necessary to make a small statue or image of that person in wax, or some other soft material, and to place the image before a fire, after having repeated certain formulas. As the wax began to melt before the fire, the person represented by the image would become sick and grow weaker and weaker, until with the complete melting of the image, he would die. Sometimes when the image was made of material other than wax, it was differently treated. Also it was a custom to stick needles into such images, for the purpose of injuring rather than of killing. By putting the needles into the place of the eyes, for example, the person would be made blind; or by putting them into the place of the ears, he might be rendered deaf. A needle stuck into the place of the heart would cause death, slow or quick according to the slowness with which the needle was forced in.
But there were many penalties attaching to the exercise of such magic. People convicted of having practised it were burned alive by law. However, burning alive was not the worst consequence of the practice, according to general belief; for the church taught that such a crime was unpardonable, and that all guilty of it must go to hell for all eternity. You might destroy your enemy by magic, but only at the cost of your own soul. A soul for a life. And you must know that the persons who did such things believed the magic was real, believed they were killing, and believed they were condemned to lose their souls in consequence. Can we conceive of hatred strong enough to satisfy itself at this price? Certainly, there have been many examples in the history of those courts in which trials for witchcraft were formerly held.
Now we have the general idea behind this awful ballad. The speakers in the story are only two, a young woman and her brother, a little boy. We may suppose the girl to be twenty and the boy about five years old or even younger. The girl is apparently of good family, for she appears to be living in a castle of her own—at least a fortified dwelling of some sort. We must also suppose her to be an orphan, for she avenges herself—as one having no male relative to fight for her. She has been seduced under promise of marriage; but before the marriage day, her faithless lover marries another woman. Then she determines to destroy his life by magic. While her man of wax is melting before the fire, the parents, relatives, and newly-wedded bride of her victim come on horseback to beg that she will forgive. But forgive she will not, and he dies, and at the last his ghost actually enters the room. This is the story.
You will observe that the whole conversation is only between the girl and this baby-brother. She talks to the child in child language, but with a terrible meaning behind each simple word. She herself will not answer the prayers of the relatives of the dying man; she makes the little brother act as messenger. So all that is said in the poem is said between the girl and the little boy. Even in the opening of the ballad there is a terrible pathos in the presence of this little baby brother. What does he know of horrible beliefs, hatred, lust, evil passion of any sort? He only sees that his sister has made a kind of wax-doll, and he thinks that it is a pretty doll, and would like to play with it. But his sister, instead of giving him the doll, begins to melt it before the fire, and he cannot understand why.
One more preliminary observation. What is the meaning of the refrain? This refrain, in italics, always represents the secret thought of the girl, what she cannot say to the little brother, but what she thinks and suffers. The references to Mary refer to the Virgin Mary of course, but with the special mediæval sense. God would not forgive certain sins; but, during the Middle Ages at least, the Virgin Mary, the mother of God, was a refuge even for the despairing magician or witch. We could not expect one practising witchcraft to call upon the name of Christ. But the same person, in moments of intense pain, might very naturally ejaculate the name of Mary. And now we can begin the poem.
SISTER HELEN
“Why did you melt your waxen man,
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began.”
“The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother.”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)
“But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You’ll let me play, for you said I might.”
“Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother.”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)
“You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well.”
“Even so,—nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropped away!”
“Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)
“See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!”
“Nay now, when looked you yet on blood,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Now close your eyes, for they’re sick and sore,
Sister Helen,
And I’ll play without the gallery door.”
“Aye, let me rest,—I’ll lie on the floor,
Little brother.”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
The moon flies face to face with me.”
“Aye, look and say whatever you see,
Little brother.”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Outside, it’s merry in the wind’s wake,
Sister Helen;
In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.”
“Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
“I hear a horse-tread, and I see,
Sister Helen,
Three horsemen that ride terribly.”
“Little brother, whence come the three,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?)
In this last stanza the repetition of the words “little brother” indicates intense eagerness. The girl has been expecting that the result of her enchantments would force the relatives of her victim to come and beg for mercy. The child’s words therefore bring to her a shock of excitement.
“They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar,
Sister Helen,
And one draws nigh, but two are afar.”
“Look, look, do you know them who they are,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Who should they he, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh, it’s Keith of Eastholm rides so fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white mane on the blast.”
“The hour has come, has come at last,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!)
Those who come are knights, and the child can know them only by the crest or by the horses; as they are very far he can distinguish only the horses, but he knows the horse of Keith of Eastholm, because of its white mane, floating in the wind. From this point the poem becomes very terrible, because it shows us a play of terrible passion—passion all the more terrible because it is that of a woman.
“He has made a sign and called Halloo!
Sister Helen,
And he says that he would speak with you.”
“Oh, tell him I fear the frozen dew
Little brother.”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?)
“The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,
Sister Helen,
That Keith of Ewern’s like to die.”
“And he and thou, and thou and I,
Little brother,”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,
Sister Helen,
He sickened, and lies since then forlorn.”
“For bridegroom’s side is the bride a thorn,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!)
We now can surmise the story from the girl’s own lips. There are wrongs that a woman cannot forgive, unless she is of very weak character indeed. But this woman is no weakling; she can kill, and laugh while killing, because she is a daughter of warriors, and has been cruelly injured. Notice the bitter mockery of every word she utters, especially the exulting reference to the unhappy bride. We imagine that she might be sorry for killing a man whom she once loved; but we may be perfectly sure that she will feel no pity for the woman that he married.
“Three days and nights he has lain abed,
Sister Helen,
And he prays in torment to be dead.”
“The thing may chance, if he have prayed,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!)
“But he has not ceased to cry to-day,
Sister Helen,
That you should take your curse away.”
“My prayer was heard,—he need but pray,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,>
Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?)
“But he says till you take back your ban,
Sister Helen,
His soul would pass, yet never can.”
“Nay then, shall I slay a living man,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
A living soul, between Hell and Heaven!)
“But he calls for ever on your name,
Sister Helen,
And says that he melts before a flame.”
“My heart for his pleasure fared the same,
Little brother.”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Here’s Keith of Westholm riding fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white plume on the blast.”
“The hour, the sweet hour I forecast,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?)
“He stops to speak, and he stills his horse,
Sister Helen,
But his words are drowned in the wind’s course.”
“Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh, he says that Keith of Ewern’s cry,
Sister Helen,
Is ever to see you ere he die.”
“In all that his soul sees, there am I,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
The soul’s one sight, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He sends a ring and a broken coin,
Sister Helen,
And bids you mind the banks of Boyne.”
“What else he broke will he ever join,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!)
It was a custom, and in some parts of England still is a custom, for lovers not only to give each other rings, but also to divide something between them—such as a coin or a ring, for pledge and remembrance. Sometimes a ring would be cut in two, and each person would keep one-half. Sometimes a thin coin, gold or silver money, was broken into halves and each of the lovers would wear one-half round the neck fastened to a string. Such pledges would be always recognised, and were only to be sent back in time of terrible danger—in a matter of life and death. There are many references to this custom in the old ballads.
“He yields you these, and craves full fain,
Sister Helen,
You pardon him in his mortal pain.”
“What else he took will he give again,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He calls your name in an agony,
Sister Helen,
That even dead Love must weep to see.”
“Hate, born of Love, is blind as he,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Oh it’s Keith of Keith now that rides fast,
Sister Helen,
For I know the white hair on the blast.”
“The short, short hour will soon be past,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!)
“He looks at me and he tries to speak,
Sister Helen,
But oh! his voice is sad and weak!”
“What here should the mighty Baron seek,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?)
“Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,
Sister Helen,
The body dies, but the soul shall live.”
“Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!)
This needs some explanation in reference to religious belief. The witch, you will observe, has the power to destroy the soul as well as the body, but on the condition of suffering the same loss herself. Yet how can this be? It could happen thus: if the dying man could make a confession before he dies, and sincerely repent of his sin before a priest, his soul might be saved; but while he remains in the agony of suffering caused by the enchantment, he cannot repent. Not to repent means to go to Hell for ever and ever. If the woman would forgive him, withdrawing the curse and pain for one instant, all might be well. But she answers, “Fire shall forgive me as I forgive”—she means, “The fire of Hell shall sooner forgive me when I go to Hell, than I shall forgive him in this world.” There will be other references to this horrible belief later on. It was very common in the Middle Ages.
“Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive,
Sister Helen,
To save his dear son’s soul alive.”
“Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)
Rive is seldom used now in prose, though we have “riven” very often. To rive is to tear. The last line of this stanza is savage, for it refers to the belief that the black fire of Hell preserves the body of the damned person instead of consuming it.
“He cries to you, kneeling in the road,
Sister Helen,
To go with him for the love of God!”
“The way is long to his son’s abode,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)
“A lady’s here, by a dark steed brought,
Sister Helen,
So darkly clad, I saw her not.”
“See her now or never see aught,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?)
As the horse was black and the lady was all dressed in black, the child could not at first notice either in the shadows of the road. On announcing that he had seen her at last, the excitement of the sister reaches its highest and wickedest; she says to him, “Nay, you will never be able to see anything in this world, unless you can see that woman’s face and tell me all about it.” For it is the other woman, who has made forgiveness impossible; it is the other woman, the object of her deepest hate.
“Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,
Sister Helen,
On the Lady of Ewern’s golden hair.”
“Blest hour of my power and her despair,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Hour blessed and bann’d, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow,
Sister Helen,
’Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.”
“One morn for pride, and three days for woe.
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head,
Sister Helen;
With the loud wind’s wail her sobs are wed.”
“What wedding-strains hath her bridal bed,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What strain but death’s, between Hell and Heaven?)
You must remember that the word “strains” is, nearly always used in the sense of musical tones, and that “wedding-strains” means the joyful music played at a wedding. Thus the ferocity of Helen’s mockery becomes apparent, for it was upon the bridal night that the bridegroom was first bewitched; and from the moment of his marriage, therefore, he has been screaming in agony.
The climax of hatred is in the next stanza. After that the tone begins to reverse, and gradually passes away in the melancholy of eternal despair.
“She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,
Sister Helen,—
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon.”
“Oh! might I but hear her soul’s blithe tune,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Her woe’s dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!)
To “gasp” means to open the mouth in the effort to get breath, as one does in a fit of hysterics, or in time of great agony. “Gasps on the moon” means that she gasps with her face turned up toward the moon. In the last line we have the words “blithe tune” used in the same tone of terrible irony as that with which the word “wedding-strain” was used in the preceding stanza. “Blithe” means “merry.” Helen is angry because the other woman has fainted; having fainted, she has become for the moment physically incapable of suffering. But Helen thinks that her soul must be conscious and suffering as much as ever; therefore she wishes that she could hear the suffering of the soul, since she cannot longer hear the outcries of the body.
“They’ve caught her to Westholm’s saddle-bow,
Sister Helen,
And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow.”
“Let it turn whiter than winter-snow,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!)
The allusion is to the physiological fact that intense moral pain, or terrible fear, sometimes turns the hair of a young person suddenly white.
“O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,
Sister Helen!
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.”
“No vesper-chime, but a dying knell,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Alas, but I fear the heavy sound,
Sister Helen;
Is it in the sky or in the ground?”
“Say, have they turned their horses round,
Little brother?”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?)
“They have raised the old man from his knee,
Sister Helen,
And they ride in silence hastily.”
“More fast the naked soul doth flee,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Flank to flank are the three steeds gone,
Sister Helen,
But the lady’s dark steed goes alone.”
“And lonely her bridegroom’s soul hath flown,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,
Sister Helen,
And weary sad they look by the hill.”
“But he and I are sadder still,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)
“See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,
Sister Helen,
And the flames are winning up apace!”
“Yet here they burn but for a space,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)
“Ah! what white thing at the door has cross’d,
Sister Helen?
Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?”
“A soul that’s lost as mine is lost,
Little brother!”
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)
Notice how the action naturally dies off into despair. From the beginning until very nearly the close, we had an uninterrupted crescendo, as we should say in music—that is, a gradual intensification of the passion expressed. With the stroke of the death-bell the passion subsides. The revenge is satisfied, the irreparable wrong is done to avenge a wrong, and with the entrance of the ghost the whole consequence of the act begins to appear within the soul of the actor. I know of nothing more terrible in literature than this poem, as expressing certain phases of human feeling, and nothing more intensely true. The probability or improbability of the incidents is of no more consequence than is the unreality of the witch-belief. It is enough that such beliefs once existed to make us know that the rest is not only possible but certain. For a time we are really subjected to the spell of a mediæval nightmare.
As we have seen, the above poem is mainly a subjective study. As an objective study, “The White Ship” shows us an equal degree of power, appealing to the visual faculty. We cannot read it all, nor is this necessary. A few examples will be sufficient. This ballad is in distichs, and has a striking refrain. The story is founded upon historical fact. The son and heir of the English king Henry I, together with his sister and many knights and ladies, was drowned on a voyage from France to England, and it is said that the king was never again seen to smile after he had heard the news. Rossetti imagines the story told by a survivor—a butcher employed on the ship, the lowest menial on board. Such a man would naturally feel very differently toward the prince from others of the train, and would criticise him honestly from the standpoint of simple morality.
Eighteen years till then he had seen,
And the devil’s dues in him were eighteen.
The peasant thus estimates the ruler who breaks the common laws of God and man. Nevertheless he is just in his own way, and can appreciate unselfishness even in a man whom he hates.
He was a Prince of lust and pride;
He showed no grace till the hour he died.
.......
God only knows where his soul did wake,
But I saw him die for his sister’s sake.
It is a simple mind of this sort that can best tell a tragical story; and the butcher’s story is about the most perfect thing imaginable of its kind. Here also we have one admirable bit of subjective work, the narration of the butcher’s experience in the moment of drowning. I suppose you all know that when one is just about to die, or in danger of sudden death, the memory becomes extraordinarily vivid, and things long forgotten flash into the mind as if painted by lightning, together with voices of the past.
I Berold was down in the sea;
Passing strange though the thing may be,
Of dreams then known I remember me.
Not dreams in the sense of visions of sleep, but images of memory.
Blithe is the shout on Harfleur’s strand
When morning lights the sails to land:
And blithe is Honfleur’s echoing gloam
When mothers call the children home:
And high do the bells of Rouen beat
When the Body of Christ goes down the street.
These things and the like were heard and shown
In a moment’s trance ’neath the sea alone;
And when I rose, ’twas the sea did seem,
And not these things, to be all a dream.
In the moment after the sinking of the ship, under the water, the man remembers what he most loved at home—mornings in a fishing village, seeing the ships return; evenings in a like village, and the sound of his own mother’s voice calling him home, as when he was a little child at play; then the old Norman city that he knew well, and the church processions of Corpus Christi (Body of Christ), the great event of the year for the poorer classes. Why he remembered such things at such a time he cannot say; it seemed to him a very ghostly experience, but not more ghostly than the sight of the sea and the moon when he rose again.
The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,
And the deep shuddered and the moon shone;
And in a strait grasp my arms did span
The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran;
And on it with me was another man.
Where lands were none ’neath the dim sea-sky,
We told our names, that man and I.
“O I am Godefroy de l’Aigle hight,
And son I am to a belted knight.”
“And I am Berold the butcher’s son,
Who slays the beasts in Rouen town.”
The touch here, fine as it is, is perfectly natural. The common butcher finds himself not only for the moment in company with a nobleman, but able to talk to him as a friend. There is no rank or wealth between sky and sea—or, as a Japanese proverb says, “There is no king on the road of death.” The refrain of the ballad utters the same truth:
Lands are swayed by a King on a throne,
The sea hath no King but God alone.
Both in its realism and in its emotion this ballad is a great masterpiece. It is much superior to “The King’s Tragedy,” also founded upon history. “The King’s Tragedy” seems to us a little strained; perhaps the poet attempted too much. I shall not quote from it, but will only recommend a reading of it to students of English literature because of its relation to a very beautiful story—the story of the courtship of James I of Scotland, and of how he came to write his poem called “The King’s Quhair.”
Another ballad demands some attention and explanation, though it is not suitable for reading in the classroom. It is an expression of passion—but not passion merely human; rather superhuman and evil. For she who speaks in this poem is not a woman like “Sister Helen”; she is a demon.
Not a drop of her blood was human,
But she was made like a soft sweet woman.
Perhaps the poet desired to show us here the extremest imaginative force of hate and cruelty—not in a mortal being, because that would repel us, but in an immortal being, in whom such emotion can only inspire fear. Emotionally, the poet’s conception is of the Middle Ages, but the tradition is incomparably older; we can trace it back to ancient Assyrian beliefs. Coming to us through Hebrew literature, this strange story has inspired numberless European poets and painters, besides the author of “Eden Bower.” You should know the story, because you will find a great many references to it in the different literatures of Europe.
Briefly, Lilith is the name of an evil spirit believed by the ancient Jews and by other Oriental nations to cause nightmare. But she did other things much more evil, and there were curious legends about her. The Jews said that before the first woman, Eve, was created, Adam had a demon wife by whom he became the father of many evil spirits. When Eve was created and given to him in marriage, Lilith was necessarily jealous, and resolved to avenge herself upon the whole human race. It is even to-day the custom among Jews to make a charm against Lilith on their marriage night; for Lilith is especially the enemy of brides.
But the particular story about Lilith that mostly figures in poetry and painting is this: If any young man sees Lilith, he must at once fall in love with her, because she is much more beautiful than any human being; and if he falls in love with her, he dies. After his death, if his body is opened by the doctors, it will be found that a long golden hair, one strand of woman’s hair, is fastened round his heart. The particular evil in which Lilith delights is the destruction of youth.
In Rossetti’s poem Lilith is represented only as declaring to her demon lover, the Serpent, how she will avenge herself upon Adam and upon Eve. The ideas are in one way extremely interesting; they represent the most tragical and terrible form of jealousy—that jealousy written of in the Bible as being like the very fires of Hell. We might say that in Victorian verse this is the unique poem of jealousy, in a female personification. For the male personification we must go to Robert Browning.
But there is a masterly phase of jealousy described in one of Rossetti’s modern poems, “A Last Confession.” Here, however, the jealousy is of the kind with which we can humanly sympathise; there is nothing monstrous or distorted about it. The man has reason to suspect unchastity, and he kills the woman on the instant. I should, therefore, consider this poem rather as a simple and natural tragedy than as a study of jealousy. It is to be remarked here that Rossetti did not confine himself to mediæval or supernatural subjects. Three of his very best poems are purely modern, belonging to the nineteenth century. This “Last Confession,” appropriately placed in Italy, is not the most remarkable of the three, but it is very fine. I do not know anything in even French literature to be compared with the pathos of the murder scene, unless it be the terrible closing chapter of Prosper Mérimée’s “Carmen.” The story of “Carmen” is also a confession; but there is a great difference in the history of the tragedies. Carmen’s lover does not kill in a moment of passion. He kills only after having done everything that a man could do in order to avoid killing. He argues, prays, goes on his knees in supplication—all in vain. And then we know that he must kill, that any man in the same terrible situation must kill. He stabs her; then the two continue to look at each other—she keeping her large black eyes fixed on the face of her murderer, till suddenly they close, and she falls. No simpler fact could occur in the history of an assassination; yet how marvellous the power of that simple fact as the artist tells it. We always see those eyes. In the case of Rossetti’s murderer, the incidents of the tragedy differ somewhat, because he is blind with passion at the moment that he strikes, and does not see. When his vision clears again, he sees the girl fall, and
—her stiff bodice scooped the sand
Into her bosom.
As long as he lived, he always saw that—the low stiff front of the girl’s dress with the sand and blood. In its way this description is quite as terrible as the last chapter of “Carmen”; and it would be difficult to say which victim of passion most excites our sympathies. The other two poems of modern life to which I have referred are “The Card-Dealer” and “Jenny.” “The Card-Dealer” represents a singular faculty on the poet’s part of seeing ordinary facts in their largest relations. In many European gambling houses of celebrity, the cards used are dealt—that is, given to the players—by a beautiful woman, usually a woman not of the virtuous kind. The poet, entering such a place, watches the game for a time in silence, and utters his artistic admiration of the beauty of the card-dealer, merely as he would admire a costly picture or a statue of gold. Then suddenly comes to him the thought that this woman, and the silent players, and the game, are but symbols of eternal fact. The game is no longer to his eyes a mere game of cards; it is the terrible game of Life, the struggle for wealth and vain pleasures. The woman is no longer a woman, but Fate; she plays the game of Death against Life, and those who play with her must lose. However, the allusions in this poem would require for easy understanding considerable familiarity with the terms of card-play and the names of the cards. If you know these, I think you will find this poem a very solemn and beautiful composition.
Much more modern is “Jenny,” a poem which greatly startled the public when it was first published. People were inclined for the moment to be shocked; then they studied and admired; finally they praised unlimitedly, and the poem deserved all praise. But the subject was a very daring one to put before a public so prudish as the English. For Jenny is a prostitute. Nevertheless the prudish public gladly accepted this wonderful psychological study, which no other poet of the nineteenth century, except perhaps Browning, could have attempted.
The plan of the poem is as follows: A young man, perhaps the poet himself, finds at some public place of pleasure a woman of the town, who pleases him, and he accompanies her to her residence. Although the young man is perhaps imprudent in seeking the company of such a person, he is only doing what tens of thousands of young men are apt to do without thinking. He represents, we might say, youth in general. But there is a difference between him and the average youth in one respect—he thinks. On reaching the girl’s room, he is already in a thoughtful mood; and when she falls asleep upon his knees, tired with the dancing and banqueting of the evening, he does not think of awakening her. He begins to meditate. He looks about the room and notices the various objects in it, simple enough in themselves, but strangely significant by their relation to such a time and place—a vase of flowers, a little clock ticking, a bird in a cage. The flowers make him think of the symbolism of flowers—lilies they are, but faded. Lilies, the symbol of purity, in Jenny’s room! But once she herself was a lily—now also morally faded. Then the clock, ticking out its minutes, hours—what strange hours it has ticked out! He looks at the sleeping girl again, but with infinite pity. She dreams; what is she dreaming of? To wake her would be cruel, for in the interval of sleep she forgets all the sorrows of the world. He thinks:
For sometimes, were the truth confess’d,
You’re thankful for a little rest,—
Glad from the crush to rest within,
From the heart-sickness and the din
Where envy’s voice at virtue’s pitch
Mocks you because your gown is rich;
And from the pale girl’s dumb rebuke,
Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look
Proclaims the strength that keeps her weak.
.......
Is rest not sometimes sweet to you?—
But most from the hatefulness of man,
Who spares not to end what he began,
Whose acts are ill and his speech ill,
Who, having used you at his will,
Thrusts you aside, as when I dine
I serve the dishes and the wine.
Then he begins to think of the terrible life of the prostitute, what it means, the hideous and cruel part of it, and the end of it. Here let me say that the condition of such a woman in England is infinitely worse than it is in many other countries; in no place is she treated with such merciless cruelty by society. He asks himself why this should be so—how can men find pleasure in cruelty to so beautiful and simple-hearted a creature? Then, suddenly looking at her asleep, he is struck by a terrible resemblance which she bears to the sweetest woman that he knows, the girl perhaps that he would marry. Seen asleep, the two girls look exactly the same. Each is young, graceful, and beautiful; yet one is a girl adored by society for all that makes a woman lovable, and the other is—what? These lines best explain the thought:
Just as another woman sleeps!
Enough to throw one’s thoughts in heaps
Of doubt and horror,—what to say
Or think,—this awful secret sway,
The potter’s power over the clay!
Of the same lump (it has been said)
For honour and dishonour made,
Two sister vessels. Here is one.
My cousin Nell is fond of fun,
And fond of dress, and change, and praise,
So mere a woman in her ways:
And if her sweet eyes rich in youth
Are like her lips that tell the truth,
My cousin Nell is fond of love.
And she’s the girl I’m proudest of.
Who does not prize her, guard her well?
The love of change, in cousin Nell,
Shall find the best and hold it dear:
The unconquered mirth turn quieter
Not through her own, through others’ woe:
The conscious pride of beauty glow
Beside another’s pride in her.
......
Of the same lump (as it is said),
For honour and dishonour made,
Two sister vessels. Here is one.
It makes a goblin of the sun!
For, judging by the two faces, the two characters were originally the same. Yet how terrible the difference now. This woman likes what all women like; his cousin, the girl he most loves in the world, has the very same love of nice dresses, pleasures, praise. There is nothing wrong in liking these things. But in the case of the prostitute all pleasure must turn for her to ashes and bitterness. The pure girl will have in this world all the pretty dresses and pleasures and love that she can wish for; and will never have reason to feel unhappy except when she hears of the unhappiness of somebody else. And it seems a monstrous thing under heaven that such a different destiny should be portioned out to beings at first so much alike as those two women. Even to think of his cousin looking like her, gives him a shudder of pain—not because he cruelly despises the sleeping girl, but because he thinks of what might have happened to his own dearest, under other chances of life.
Yet again, who knows what may be in the future, any more than what has been in the past? All this world is change. The fortunate of to-day may be unfortunate in their descendants; the fortunate of long ago were perhaps the ancestors of the miserable of to-day. And everything may in the eternal order of change have to rise and sink alternately. Cousin Nell is to-day a fortunate woman; he, the dreamer at the bed-side of the nameless girl, is a fortunate man. But what might happen to their children? He thinks again of the strange resemblance of the two women, and murmurs:
So pure,—so fall’n! How dare to think
Of the first common kindred link?
Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn
It seems that all things take their turn;
And who shall say but this fair tree
May need, in changes that may be,
Your children’s children’s charity?
Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn’d!
Shall no man hold his pride forewarn’d
Till in the end, the Day of Days,
At Judgment, one of his own race,
As frail and lost as you, shall rise,—
His daughter, with his mother’s eyes?
Then he begins to think more deeply on the great wrongs of this world, the great misery caused by vice, the cruelty of lust in itself. The ruined life of this girl represents but one fact of innumerable facts of a like kind. Millions of beautiful and affectionate women have been, and are being, and will be through all time to come, sacrificed in this way to lust—selfish and foolish and cruel lust, that destroys mind and body together. The mystery of the dark side of life comes to him in a new way. He cannot explain it—who can explain the original meaning of pain in this world? But he begins to get at least a new gleam of truth—this great truth, that every one who seeks pleasure in the way that he at first intended to seek it that night, adds a little to the great sum of human misery. For vice exists only at the cost of misery. The question is not, “Is it right for me or wrong for me to take what is forbidden if I pay for it.” The real question is, “Is it right for me or wrong for me to help in any way to support that condition of society which sacrifices lives, body, and soul, to cruelty and selfishness.” We all of us in youth think chiefly about right and wrong in their immediate relations to ourselves and our friends. Only later in life, after we have seen a great deal of the red of human pain, do we begin to think of the consequences of an act in relation to the happiness or unhappiness of humanity.
Suddenly the morning comes as he is thinking thus. At once he ceases to be the philosopher, and becomes again the gentleman of the world. The girl’s head is still upon his knees; he looks at the sleeping face, and wonders whether any painter could have painted a face more beautiful. But the beauty does not appeal to his senses in any passional way; it only fills him with unspeakable compassion. He does not awake her, but lifts her into a more comfortable position for sleeping, and leaves beside her pillow a present of gold coins, and then steals away without bidding her good-bye. The night has not given him pleasure, but pain only—yet a pain that has made his heart more kindly and his thoughts more wise than they had been before.