Julian and Maddalo

I rode one evening with Count Maddalo

Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow

Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand

Of hillocks, heap'd from ever-shifting sand,

Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds,

Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds,

Is this; an uninhabited sea-side,

Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,

Abandons; and no other object breaks

The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes

Broken and unrepair'd, and the tide makes

A narrow space of level sand thereon,

Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down.

This ride was my delight. I love all waste

And solitary places; where we taste

The pleasure of believing what we see

Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:

And such was this wide ocean, and this shore

More barren than its billows; and yet more

Than all, with a remember'd friend I love

To ride as then I rode; for the winds drove

The living spray along the sunny air

Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare,

Stripp'd to their depths by the awakening north;

And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth

Harmonizing with solitude, and sent

Into our hearts aëreal merriment.

So, as we rode, we talk'd; and the swift thought,

Winging itself with laughter, linger'd not,

But flew from brain to brain—such glee was ours,

Charg'd with light memories of remember'd hours,

None slow enough for sadness: till we came

Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.

This day had been cheerful but cold, and now

The sun was sinking, and the wind also.

Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be

Talk interrupted with such raillery

As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn

The thoughts it would extinguish: 'twas forlorn,

Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell,

The devils held within the dales of Hell

Concerning God, freewill and destiny:

Of all that earth has been or yet may be,

All that vain men imagine or believe,

Or hope can paint or suffering may achieve,

We descanted, and I (for ever still

Is it not wise to make the best of ill?)

Argu'd against despondency, but pride

Made my companion take the darker side.

The sense that he was greater than his kind

Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind

By gazing on its own exceeding light.

Meanwhile the sun paus'd ere it should alight,

Over the horizon of the mountains—Oh,

How beautiful is sunset, when the glow

Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee,

Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!

Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers

Of cities they encircle! It was ours

To stand on thee, beholding it: and then,

Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men

Were waiting for us with the gondola.

As those who pause on some delightful way

Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood

Looking upon the evening, and the flood

Which lay between the city and the shore,

Pav'd with the image of the sky.... The hoar

And aëry Alps towards the North appear'd

Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark rear'd

Between the East and West; and half the sky

Was roof'd with clouds of rich emblazonry

Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew

Down the steep West into a wondrous hue

Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent

Where the swift sun yet paus'd in his descent

Among the many-folded hills: they were

Those famous Euganean hills, which bear,

As seen from Lido thro' the harbour piles,

The likeness of a clump of peakèd isles—

And then—as if the Earth and Sea had been

Dissolv'd into one lake of fire, were seen

Those mountains towering as from waves of flame

Around the vaporous sun, from which there came

The inmost purple spirit of light, and made

Their very peaks transparent. "Ere it fade,"

Said my companion, "I will show you soon

A better station"—so, o'er the lagune

We glided; and from that funereal bark

I lean'd, and saw the city, and could mark

How from their many isles, in evening's gleam,

Its temples and its palaces did seem

Like fabrics of enchantment pil'd to Heaven.

I was about to speak, when—"We are even

Now at the point I meant," said Maddalo,

And bade the gondolieri cease to row.

"Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well

If you hear not a deep and heavy bell."

I look'd, and saw between us and the sun

A building on an island; such a one

As age to age might add, for uses vile,

A windowless, deform'd and dreary pile;

And on the top an open tower, where hung

A bell, which in the radiance sway'd and swung;

We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue:

The broad sun sunk behind it, and it toll'd

In strong and black relief. "What we behold

Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,"

Said Maddalo, "and ever at this hour

Those who may cross the water, hear that bell

Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell,

To vespers." "As much skill as need to pray

In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they

To their stern Maker," I replied. "O ho!

You talk as in years past," said Maddalo.

" 'Tis strange men change not. You were ever still

Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel,

A wolf for the meek lambs—if you can't swim

Beware of Providence." I look'd on him,

But the gay smile had faded in his eye.

"And such," he cried, "is our mortality,

And this must be the emblem and the sign

Of what should be eternal and divine!

And like that black and dreary bell, the soul,

Hung in a heaven-illumin'd tower, must toll

Our thoughts and our desires to meet below

Round the rent heart and pray—as madmen do

For what? they know not—till the night of death,

As sunset that strange vision, severeth

Our memory from itself, and us from all

We sought and yet were baffled." I recall

The sense of what he said, although I mar

The force of his expressions. The broad star

Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill,

And the black bell became invisible,

And the red tower look'd gray, and all between

The churches, ships and palaces were seen

Huddled in gloom;—into the purple sea

The orange hues of heaven sunk silently.

We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola

Convey'd me to my lodgings by the way.

The following morn was rainy, cold and dim:

Ere Maddalo arose, I call'd on him,

And whilst I waited with his child I play'd;

A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made,

A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being,

Graceful without design and unforeseeing,

With eyes—Oh speak not of her eyes!—which seem

Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam

With such deep meaning, as we never see

But in the human countenance: with me

She was a special favourite: I had nurs'd

Her fine and feeble limbs when she came first

To this bleak world; and she yet seem'd to know

On second sight her ancient playfellow,

Less chang'd than she was by six months or so;

For after her first shyness was worn out

We sate there, rolling billiard balls about,

When the Count enter'd. Salutations past—

"The word you spoke last night might well have cast

A darkness on my spirit—if man be

The passive thing you say, I should not see

Much harm in the religions and old saws

(Though I may never own such leaden laws)

Which break a teachless nature to the yoke:

Mine is another faith"—thus much I spoke

And noting he replied not, added: "See

This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free;

She spends a happy time with little care,

While we to such sick thoughts subjected are

As came on you last night. It is our will

That thus enchains us to permitted ill.

We might be otherwise. We might be all

We dream of happy, high, majestical.

Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek

But in our mind? and if we were not weak

Should we be less in deed than in desire?"

"Ay, if we were not weak—and we aspire

How vainly to be strong!" said Maddalo:

"You talk Utopia." "It remains to know,"

I then rejoin'd, "and those who try may find

How strong the chains are which our spirit bind;

Brittle perchance as straw.... We are assur'd

Much may be conquer'd, much may be endur'd,

Of what degrades and crushes us. We know

That we have power over ourselves to do

And suffer—what, we know not till we try;

But something nobler than to live and die:

So taught those kings of old philosophy

Who reign'd, before Religion made men blind;

And those who suffer with their suffering kind

Yet feel their faith, religion." "My dear friend,"

Said Maddalo, "my judgement will not bend

To your opinion, though I think you might

Make such a system refutation-tight

As far as words go. I knew one like you

Who to this city came some months ago,

With whom I argu'd in this sort, and he

Is now gone mad—and so he answer'd me—

Poor fellow! but if you would like to go

We'll visit him, and his wild talk will show

How vain are such aspiring theories."

"I hope to prove the induction otherwise,

And that a want of that true theory, still,

Which seeks a 'soul of goodness' in things ill

Or in himself or others, has thus bow'd

His being. There are some by nature proud,

Who patient in all else demand but this—

To love and be belov'd with gentleness;

And being scorn'd, what wonder if they die

Some living death? this is not destiny

But man's own wilful ill."

As thus I spoke

Servants announc'd the gondola, and we

Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea

Sail'd to the island where the madhouse stands.