The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Lover's Diary, Complete
Title: A Lover's Diary, Complete
Author: Gilbert Parker
Release date: November 18, 2004 [eBook #6274]
Most recently updated: January 27, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger
A LOVER’S DIARY
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
‘A Lover’s Diary’ has not the same modest history as ‘Embers’. As far back as 1894 it was given to the public without any apology or excuse, but I have been apologising for it ever since, in one way—without avail. I wished that at least one-fifth of it had not been published; but my apology was never heard till now as I withdraw from this edition of A Lover’s Diary some twenty-five sonnets representing fully one-fifth of the original edition. As it now stands the faint thread of narrative is more distinct, and redundancy of sentiment and words is modified to some extent at any rate. Such material story as there is, apart from the spiritual history embodied in the sonnets, seems more visible now, and the reader has a clearer revelation of a young, aspiring, candid mind shadowed by stern conventions of thought, dogma, and formula, but breaking loose from the environment which smothered it. The price it pays for the revelation is a hopeless love informed by temptation, but lifted away from ruinous elements by self-renunciation, to end with the inevitable parting, poignant and permanent, a task of the soul finished and the toll of the journey of understanding paid.
The six sonnets in italics, beginning with ‘The Bride’, and ending with ‘Annunciation’, have nothing to do with the story further than to show two phases of the youth’s mind before it was shaken by speculation, plunged into the sadness of doubt and apprehension, and before it had found the love which was to reveal it to itself, transform the character, and give new impulse and direction to personal force and individual sense. These were written when I was twenty and twenty-one years of age, and the sonnet sequence of ‘A Lover’s Diary’ was begun when I was twenty-three. They were continued over seven years in varying quantity. Sometimes two or three were written in a week, and then no more would be written for several weeks or maybe months, and it is clearly to be seen from the text, from the change in style, and above all in the nature of the thought that between ‘The Darkened Way’, which ends one epoch, and ‘Reunited’, which begins another and the last epoch, were intervening years.
The sonnet which begins the book and particularly that which ends the book have been very widely quoted, and ‘Envoy’ has been set to music by more than one celebrated musician. Whatever the monotony of a sonnet sequence (and it is a form which I should not have chosen if I had been older and wiser) there has been a continuous, if limited, demand for the little book. As Edmund Clarence Stedman said in a review, it was a book which had to be written. It was an impulse, a vision, and a revealing, and, in his own words in a letter to me, “It was to be done whether you willed it or no, and there it is a truthful thing of which you shall be glad in spite of what you say.”
These last words of the great critic were in response to the sudden repentance and despair I felt after Messrs. Stone and Kimball had published the book in exquisite form with a beautiful frontispiece by Will H. Low. In any case, it is now too late to try and disabuse the minds of those who care for the little piece of artistry, and since 1894, when it was published, I have matured sufficiently in life’s academy not to be too unduly sensitive either as to the merit or demerit of my work. There is, after all, an unlovable kind of vanity in acute self-criticism —as though it mattered deeply to the world whether one ever wrote anything; or, having written, as though it mattered to the world enough to stir it in its course by one vibration. The world has drunk deep of wonderful literature, and all that I can do is make a small brew with a little flavour of my own; but it still could get on very well indeed with the old staple and matured vintages were I never to write at all.
Gilfaron—My Lord, I know not well.
Indeed, I am a townsman of the world.
For once my mother told me that she saw
The Angel of the Cross Roads lead me out,
And point to every corner of the sky,
And say, “Thy feet shall follow in the trail
Of every tribe; and thou shalt pitch thy tent
Wherever thou shalt see a human face
Which hath thereon the alphabet of life;
Yea, thou shalt spell it out e’en as a child:
And therein wisdom find.”
The King—Art thou wise?
Gilfaron—Only according to the Signs.
The King—What signs?
Gilfaron—The first—the language of the Garden, sire,
When man spoke with the naked searching thought,
Unlacquered of the world.
The King—Speak so forthwith; come, show us to be wise.
Gilfaron—The Angel of the Cross Roads to me said:
“And wisdom comes by looking eye to eye,
Each seeing his own soul as in a glass;
For ye shall find the Lodges of the Wise,
The farthest Camp of the Delightful Fires,
By marching two by two, not one by one.”
—The King’s Daughter.
THE VISION
Flood down the world, and so encompass him
And in that world illumined Seraphim
Brooded above and gladdened to his sight;
So stand I in the flame of one great thought,
That broadens to my soul from where she waits,
Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates
Of all my being to the hopes I sought.
Her words come to me like a summer-song,
Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale;
I stand within her light the whole day long,
And think upon her till the white stars fail:
I lift my head towards all that makes life wise,
And see no farther than my lady’s eyes.
ABOVE THE DIN
Her presence; I am like a bird that hears
A note diviner than it knows, and fears
To share the larger harmony too much.
My soul leaps up, as to a sudden sound
A long-lost traveller, when, by her grace,
I learn of her life’s sweetness face to face,
And sweep the chords of sympathies profound.
Her regal nature calmly holds its height
Above life’s din, while moving in its maze.
Unworthy thoughts would die within her sight,
And mean deeds creep to darkness from her gaze.
Yet only in my dreams can I set down
The word that gives her nobleness a crown.
LOVE’S COURAGE
That start out darkly from the rugged path,
Leading to life’s achievement; not God’s wrath
Would sit so heavy when my lady sings.
I did not know what life meant till I felt
Her hand clasp mine in compact to the end;
Till her dear voice said, “See, I am your friend!”
And at her feet, amazed, my spirit knelt.
And yet I spoke but hoarsely then my thought,
I groped amid a thousand forces there;
Her understanding all my meaning caught,
It was illumined in her atmosphere.
She read it line by line, and then there fell
The curtain on the shrine-and it is well.
LOVE’S LANGUAGE
To greet my senses as I broke the seal
Of her short letter; and I still can feel
It stir me as a saint the holy cup.
The missive lies there,—but a few plain words:
A thought about a song, a note of praise,
And social duties such as fill the days
Of women; then a thing that undergirds
The phrases like a psalm: a line that reads—
“I wish that you were coming!” Why, it lies
Upon my heart like blossoms on the skies,
Like breath of balm upon the clover meads.
The perfumed words soothe me into a dream;
My thoughts float to her on the scented stream.
ASPIRATION
But felt the touch of some good woman’s palm;
None ever reached God’s altitude of calm,
But heard one voice cry, “Follow!” from the throng.
I would not place her as an image high
Above my reach, cold, in some dim recess,
Where never she should feel a warm caress
Of this my hand that serves her till I die.
I would not set her higher than my heart,—
Though she is nobler than I e’er can be;
Because she placed me from the crowd apart,
And with her tenderness she honoured me.
Because of this, I hold me worthier
To be her kinsman, while I worship her.
THE MEETING
Strikes through the thousand lives that fold it round,
To find another, even as a sound
Sweeps to a song through elemental strife!
Through cycles infinite the forces wait,
Which destiny has set for union here;
No circumstance can warp them from their sphere;
They meet sometime; and this is God and Fate.
And God is Law, and Fate is Law in use,
And we are acted on by some deep cause,
Which sanctifies “I will” and “I refuse,”
When Love speaks—Love, the peaceful end of Laws.
And I, from many conflicts over-past,
Find here Love, Law, and God, at last.
THE NEST
Above the sea, above the paths of man,
And makes the elements his barbican,
That none may break the mother-eagle’s rest;
So build I far above all human eyes
My nest of love; Heaven’s face alone bends down
To give it sunlight, starlight; while is blown
A wind upon it out of Paradise.
None shall affright, no harm may come to her,
Whom I have set there in that lofty home:
Love’s eye is sleepless; I could feel the stir
E’en of God’s cohorts, if they chanced to come.
I am her shield; I would that I might prove
How dear I hold the lady of my love.
and carry not a sword, but the sandals of thy youth.
—Egyptian Proverb.
journey, and she will give thee wisdom at the Four Corners.
—Egyptian Proverb.
Behold, now, I have touched the highest point
In my existence. When I turn my eyes
Backward to scan my outlived agonies,
I feel God’s finger touch me, to anoint
With this sweet Present the ungenerous Past,
With love the wounds that struck stark in my soul;
With hope life’s aching restlessness and dole;
To show me place to anchor in at last.
Like to a mother bending o’er the bed
Where sleeps, death-silent, one that left her side
Ere he had reached the flow of manhood’s tide,
So stood I by my life whence Life had fled.
But Life came back at Love’s clear trumpet-call,
And at Love’s feet I cast the useless pall.
LOVE IS ENOUGH
The soul sees all its purposes aright.
The rest—what does it matter? Soon the night
Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime.
What does it matter, if but in the way
One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true;
One understands the work we try to do,
And strives through Love to teach us what to say?
Between me and the chilly outer air
Which blows in from the world, there standeth one
Who draws Love’s curtains closely everywhere,
As God folds down the banners of the sun.
Warm is my place about me, and above
Where was the raven, I behold the dove.
AT THE PLAY
Soft act, faint touch, no meaning did it bear
To any save myself, who felt the air
Of a new feeling cross my soul’s clear sight.
To me what matter that the players played!
They grew upon the instant like the toys
Which dance before the sight of idle boys;
I could not hear the laughter that they made.
Swept was I on that breath her hand had drawn,
Through the dull air, into a mountain-space,
Where shafts of the bright sun-god interlace,
Making the promise of a golden dawn.
And straightway crying, “O my heart, rejoice!”
It found its music in my lady’s voice.
SO CALM THE WORLD
Far off the city lies in golden mist;
The sea grows calm, the waves the sun has kissed
Strike white hands softly ‘gainst the rocky heads.
So calm the world, so still the city lies,
So warm the haze that spreads o’er everything;
And yet where, there, Peace sits as Lord and King,
Havoc will reign when next the sun shall rise.
The wheels pause only for a little space,
And in the pause they gather strength again.
‘Tis but the veil drawn over Labour’s face,
O’er strife, derision, and the sin of men.
My heart with a sweet inner joy o’erflows
To nature’s peace, and a kind silence knows.
THE WELCOME
Upon the sward; she standeth by my side.
Just such a face Raphael had deified,
If in his day they two had chanced to meet.
And I, tossed by the tide of circumstance,
Lifting weak hands against a host of swords,
Paused suddenly to hear her gentle words
Making powerless the lightnings of mischance.
I, who was but a maker of poor songs,
That one might sing behind his prison bars,
I, who it seemed fate singled out for wrongs—
She smiled on me as smile the nearest stars.
From her deep soul I draw my peace, and thus,
One wreath of rhyme I weave for both of us.
THE SHRINE
In their high place, immortal on the earth,
My song might be a thing to crown her worth,—
‘Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.
But since she walks where I am fain to sing,
Since she has said, “I listen, O my friend!”
There is a glory lent the song I send,
And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.
I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes—
Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will
They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,
And greet me at the summit of the hill?
Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine,
Take from me all that makes this world divine?
THE TORCH
Of nature? But to hold a torch up for
Humanity in Life’s large corridor,
To guide the feet of peasants and of kings!
What is it but to carry union through
Thoughts alien to thoughts kindred, and to merge
The lines of colour that should not diverge,
And give the sun a window to shine through!
What is it but to make the world have heed
For what its dull eyes else would hardly scan,
To draw in a stark light a shameless deed,
And show the fashion of a kingly man!
To cherish honour, and to smite all shame,
To lend hearts voices, and give thoughts a name!
IN ARMOUR,
It captive, and set kisses on its mouth?
Shall it be strained unto the breast of youth,
And in a garden live where grows no weed?
Shall it, in dalliance with the flaunting world,
Play but soft airs, sing but sweet-tempered songs?
Veer lightly from the stress of all great wrongs,
And lisp of peace ‘mid battle-flags unfurled?
Shall it but pluck the sleeve of wantonness,
And gently chide the folly of our time?
But wave its golden wand at sin’s duress,
And say, “Ah me! ah me!” to fallow crime?
Nay, Art serves Truth, and Truth with Titan blows,
Strikes fearless at all evil that it knows.
IN THEE MY ART
The substance of my dreams, the waking plan
Of practised thought; I can no measure scan,
But thou work’st in me like eternal law.
If I were rich in goodly title deeds
Of broad estate, won from posterity;
If from decaying Time I snatched a see
Richer than prelates pray for with their beads;
If some should bring before me frankincense,
And make a pleasant fire to greet mine eyes;
If there were given me for recompense
Gifts fairer than a seraph could devise:
I would, my sovereign, kneel to thee and say,
“It all is thine; thou showedst me the way.”
DENIAL
Thee on the brow, or smooth thy silken hair?
Never close down thine eyelids with Love’s prayer,
Or fold my arms about my new-found bliss?
Must I unto the courses of my age
Worship afar, lest haply I profane
The temple that is now my holy fane,
For which my song is given as a gage?
Shall I who cry to all, “Come not within
The bounds where I my lady have enshrined;
I am her cavalier”; shall I not win
One dear caress, the rich exchequer find
Of thy soft cheek? If thou command, my lips
Shall find surcease but at thy fingertips.
TESTAMENT
Because that thou hast beauty, noble place,
Because of some sweet glamour in thy face,
And eyes that shame the clear light of the sun?
Shall I exclaim upon thy snow-white hands,
Challenge the world to show a gentler mien,
Call down the seraphs to attest, the sheen
Upon thy brow is borrowed from their lands?
Shall I trace out a map of all thy worth,
Parcel thy virtues, say, “For this and this
I learned to love her; here new charms had birth;
I in this territory caught a bliss”?
Shall I make inventory of thy grace,
And crowd the total into common space?
CAPTIVITY
Before thy question, and know naught to say;
Art cannot teach me to define the way,
Love led me, nor e’en register Love’s cause.
It can but blazon in this verse of mine
What love does for me; what from Love it gains;
What is its quickening; but it refrains
From divination where thy merits shine.
Canst thou, indeed, not tell what wrought in thee
To bring me as a captive to thy feet?
Canst thou not say, “‘Twas this that made decree
Of conquest; here thy soul with mine did meet?”
Or is it that both stand amazed before
The shrine where thou hast blessed and I adore?
O MYSTIC WINGS
Beyond life’s faithful labour to a seat
Where I can feel the end of things complete,
Where no hot breath of ill can scorch the brow.
O mystic wings of Art, about thee Truth
Makes atmosphere of purity and power;
‘Tis man’s breath kills the spring’s soft-petaled flower—
Ye give a refuge for the heart of youth.
Ye give a value for all loss in age,
When feebled eyes search for forgotten springs;
Ye fan the breeze that turns the moulded page,
And carry back the soul to ardent things.
Poor payment can I give, but here engage
I thee to be Love’s airy equipage.
WAS IT THY FACE?
Night after night I watched one quiet star
Shine ‘tween my curtain and the window-bar
Until I slept, and made my sleep more mild?
Was it thy influence outreaching then
To me, o’er untrod years, o’er varying days,
To give me courage, as from phase to phase
Of youth’s desires I passed to deeds of men?
Was it because the star was hid awhile,
That I in blindness wandered from my path;
That I wooed Folly with her mumming smile,
And sought for Lethe in a cup of wrath?
Another hand touched mine with sadness there,
And saved me till I saw thy face appear.
A WOMAN’S HAND
That with its touch I have walked all my days;
Rising from fateful and forbidden ways,
To find a woman’s hand upon my brow;
Soft as a pad of rose-leaves, and as pure
As upraised palms of angels, seen in dreams:
And soothed by it, to stand as it beseems
A man who strives to conquer and endure.
A woman’s hand!—there is no better thing
Of all things human; it is half divine;
It hath been more to this lame life of mine,
When faith was weakness, and despair was king.
Man more than all men, Thou wast glad to bless
A woman’s sacrifice and tenderness.
ONE FACE I SEE
Converse with things that are or things that were;
Whene’er I seek life’s hidden folds to stir,
And watch the inner to the outer rolled.
Dost thou not know her, O beloved one?
Hast thou not felt her sunshine on thy face?
In me hast thou not learned some signs to trace
Of that dear soul who calleth me her son?
Such as I was that in thy countenance
Found favour, from her it was gathered most.
To my mad youth her gentle surveillance
Was like a watch-fire on a rock-bound coast.
She drew about me motherhood, and thou
Hast with Love’s holy chrism touched my brow.