Within and Without

so pretty
As it was once! Thinking aloud.
I picked the jewels out
To buy your mother the last dress I gave her.
There’s just one left, I see, for you, my Lily.
Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I,
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;⁠—
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now⁠— Lily

Throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him.

Father, what is a poetry?

Julian

A beautiful thing⁠—of the most beautiful
That God has made.

Lily

As beautiful as mother?

Julian

No, my dear child; but very beautiful.

Lily

Do let me see a poetry.

Julian

Opening a book.

There, love!

Lily

Disappointedly.

I don’t think that’s so very pretty, father.
One side is very well⁠—smooth; but the other Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines.
Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning, Smoothing her hair down with both hands.
Before it’s brushed. I don’t care much about it.

Julian

Putting the book down, and taking her on his knee.

You do not understand it yet, my child.
You cannot know where it is beautiful.
But though you do not see it very pretty,
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty. He reads.

Lily

Looking pleased.

Oh! that’s much prettier, father. Very pretty.
It sounds so nice!⁠—not half so pretty as mother.

Julian

There’s something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you’re older
You’ll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?

Lily

Yes, dear father. Kissing him, then looking at the book.
I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all. He sets her down. She goes to her corner.

Julian

Musing.

True, there’s not much in me to love, and yet
I feel worth loving. I am very poor,
But that I could not help; and I grow old,
But there are saints in heaven older than I.
I have a world within me; there I thought
I had a store of lovely, precious things
Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass;
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels;
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east;
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column,
’Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees;
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge,
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth,
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds:
The distant meadows and the gloomy river
Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.⁠—
Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture:
Of this fair world I would have made her queen;⁠—
Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond
Into that farther world of things unspoken,
Of which these glories are the outer stars,
The clouds that float within its atmosphere.
Under the holy might of teaching love,
I thought her eyes would open⁠—see how, far
And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out,
And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere;
Thought she would turn into her spirit’s chamber,
Open the little window, and look forth
On the wide silent ocean, silent winds,
And see what she must see, I could not tell.
By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake
The sleeping music of her poet-soul:
We read together many magic words;
Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art;
Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound;
Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs;
And evermore I talked. I was too proud,
Too confident of power to waken life,
Believing in my might upon her heart,
Not trusting in the strength of living truth.
Unhappy saviour, who by force of self
Would save from selfishness and narrow needs!
I have not been a saviour. She grew weary.
I began wrong. The infinitely High,
Made manifest in lowliness, had been
The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there,
And set her down by humble Mary’s side,
He would have taught her all I could not teach.
Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus
Terribly wretched, and beyond relief? He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear; then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it.

Julian

Bursting into tears.

Father, I am thy child. Forgive me this:
Thy poetry is very hard to read.

Scene XVI

Julian walking with Lily through one of the squares.

Lily	Wish we could find her somewhere. ’Tis so sad Not to have any mother! Shall I ask This gentleman if he knows where she is?
Julian	No, no, my love; we’ll find her by and by.
	Bernard and another Gentleman talking together.
Bernard	Have you seen Seaford lately?
Gentleman	No. In fact, He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago. Sam saw him with a lady in his cab; And if I hear aright, one more is missing⁠— Just the companion for his lordship’s taste. You’ve not forgot that fine Italian woman You met there once, some months ago?
Bernard	Forgot her! I have to try though, sometimes⁠—hard enough: Her husband is alive!
Lily	Mother was Italy, father⁠—was she not?
Julian	Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word.
Gentleman	Oh, yes; no doubt! But what of that?⁠—a poor half-crazy creature!
Bernard	Something quite different, I assure you, Harry. Last week I saw him⁠—never to forget him⁠— Ranging through Seaford’s house, like the questing beast.
Gentleman	Better please two than one, he thought⁠—and wisely. ’Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize Worth sinning for a little more than little.
Lily	Whispering. Why don’t you ask them whether it was mother? I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it.
Gentleman	Look what a lovely child!
Bernard	Harry! Good heavens! It is the Count Lamballa. Come along.

Scene XVII

Julian’s room. Julian. Lily asleep.

Julian

I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou, To whom I never lift my soul, in hope To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought Of him in whom I live, who lives in me, And makes me live in him; by whose one thought, Alone,