Claude to Eustace

Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer,And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended,Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect,Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge!But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession?But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?--Ah, but the bride, meantime,--do you think she sees it as he does?But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?But for assurance within a limitless ocean divine, o'erWhose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surfaceBreaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,--But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?Ah, but the women,--God bless them! they don't think at all about it.Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beingsScarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,--Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.Ah, but the women, alas! they don't look at it that way.Juxtaposition is great;--but, my friend, I fear me, the maidenHardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up with,--Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told herThat she is but for a space, an ad-interim solace and pleasure,--That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,--Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake notAh, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting,Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and--leave you?

Juxtaposition is great,--but, you tell me, affinity greater.Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition,Potent, efficient, in force,--for a time; but none, let me tell you,Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,--Vir sum, nihil faeminei,--and e'en to the uttermost circle,All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Nature's.Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful assurance,E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forest,Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me;And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perversions,Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.

And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful,All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate onlyThis vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.

Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, aTribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honour.But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming and shouting,Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetingsYield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'erMild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters.Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it!Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate whollyEvery debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour,Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no!I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;Bind and engage myself deep;--and lo, on the following morningIt was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performanceAt the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of evasion,When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,--Stood unexpecting, unconscious. SHE spoke not of obligations,Knew not of debt--ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.

HANG this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's chamber,Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing.What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have compassion;Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge;Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers,Tranquilly, happily lie,--and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!

Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:--So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters,Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces).Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:--So not seeing I sang; so now--Nor seeing, nor hearing,Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, theCupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,--But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains,Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,--But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me,Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.

* -- domus Albuneae resonantis,Et praeceps Anio, et Tibuni lucus, et udaMobilibus pomaria rivis