Part III
Paracelsus
Scene.—
Basil; a chamber in the house of Paracelsus. 1526.
Paracelsus. Heap logs and let the blaze laugh out!
Festus. True, true! 'T is very fit all, time and chance and change Have wrought since last we sat thus, face to face And soul to soul—all cares, far-looking fears, Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred By your long absence, should be cast away, Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal Of our affections.
Paracelsus. Oh, omit not aught Which witnesses your own and Michal's own Affection: spare not that! Only forget The honours and the glories and what not, It pleases you to tell profusely out.
Festus. Nay, even your honours, in a sense, I waive: The wondrous Paracelsus, life's dispenser, Fate's commissary, idol of the schools And courts, shall be no more than Aureole still, Still Aureole and my friend as when we parted Some twenty years ago, and I restrained As best I could the promptings of my spirit Which secretly advanced you, from the first, To the pre-eminent rank which, since, your own Adventurous ardour, nobly triumphing, Has won for you.
Paracelsus. Yes, yes. And Michal's face Still wears that quiet and peculiar light Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl?
Festus. Just so.
Paracelsus. And yet her calm sweet countenance, Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing Alone. Does she still sing alone, bird-like, Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt In flakes through that old leafy bower built under The sunny wall at Würzburg, from her lattice Among the trees above, while I, unseen, Sat conning some rare scroll from Tritheim's shelves Much wondering notes so simple could divert My mind from study. Those were happy days. Respect all such as sing when all alone!
Festus. Scarcely alone: her children, you may guess, Are wild beside her.
Paracelsus. Ah, those children quite Unsettle the pure picture in my mind: A girl, she was so perfect, so distinct: No change, no change! Not but this added grace May blend and harmonize with its compeers, And Michal may become her motherhood; But 't is a change, and I detest all change, And most a change in aught I loved long since. So, Michal—you have said she thinks of me?
Festus. O very proud will Michal be of you! Imagine how we sat, long winter-nights, Scheming and wondering, shaping your presumed Adventure, or devising its reward; Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope. For it was strange how, even when most secure In our domestic peace, a certain dim And flitting shade could sadden all; it seemed A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning, A sense of something wanting, incomplete— Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided By mute consent—but, said or unsaid, felt To point to one so loved and so long lost. And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears— How you would laugh should I recount them now I still predicted your return at last With gifts beyond the greatest of them all, All Tritheim's wondrous troop; did one of which Attain renown by any chance, I smiled, As well aware of who would prove his peer Michal was sure some woman, long ere this, As beautiful as you were sage, had loved . . .
Paracelsus. Far-seeing, truly, to discern so much In the fantastic projects and day-dreams Of a raw restless boy!
Festus. Oh, no: the sunrise Well warranted our faith in this full noon! Can I forget the anxious voice which said "Festus, have thoughts like these ere shaped themselves "In other brains than mine? have their possessors "Existed in like circumstance? were they weak "As I, or ever constant from the first, "Despising youth's allurements and rejecting "As spider-films the shackles I endure? "Is there hope for me?"—and I answered gravely As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser, More gifted mortal. O you must remember, For all your glorious . . .
Paracelsus. Glorious? ay, this hair, These hands—nay, touch them, they are mine! Recall With all the said recallings, times when thus To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale As now. Most glorious, are they not?
Festus. Why—why— Something must be subtracted from success So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly, Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole, You are changed, very changed! 'T were losing nothing To look well to it: you must not be stolen From the enjoyment of your well-won meed.
Paracelsus. My friend! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt: You will best gain your point, by talking, not Of me, but of yourself.