Kenelm Chillingly — Complete eBook

“So surely it must be with grief:  how different the terrible agony for a beloved one just gone from earth, to the soft regret for one who disappeared into Heaven years ago!  So with the art of poetry:  how imperatively, when it deals with the great emotions of tragedy, it must remove the actors from us, in proportion as the emotions are to elevate, and the tragedy is to please us by the tears it draws!  Imagine our shock if a poet were to place on the stage some wise gentleman with whom we dined yesterday, and who was discovered to have killed his father and married his mother.  But when Oedipus commits those unhappy mistakes nobody is shocked.  Oxford in the nineteenth century is a long way off from Thebes three thousand or four thousand years ago.

“And,” continued Kenelm, plunging deeper into the maze of metaphysical criticism, “even where the poet deals with persons and things close upon our daily sight,—­if he would give them poetic charm he must resort to a sort of moral or psychological distance; the nearer they are to us in external circumstance, the farther they must be in some internal peculiarities.  Werter and Clarissa Harlowe are described as contemporaries of their artistic creation, and with the minutest details of apparent realism; yet they are at once removed from our daily lives by their idiosyncrasies and their fates.  We know that while Werter and Clarissa are so near to us in much that we sympathize with them as friends and kinsfolk, they are yet as much remote from us in the poetic and idealized side of their natures as if they belonged to the age of Homer; and this it is that invests with charm the very pain which their fate inflicts on us.  Thus, I suppose, it must be in love.  If the love we feel is to have the glamour of poetry, it must be love for some one morally at a distance from our ordinary habitual selves; in short, differing from us in attributes which, however near we draw to the possessor, we can never approach, never blend, in attributes of our own; so that there is something in the loved one that always remains an ideal,—­a mystery,—­’a sun-bright summit mingling with the sky’!”

Herewith the soliloquist’s musings glided vaguely into mere revery.  He closed his eyes drowsily, not asleep, nor yet quite awake; as sometimes in bright summer days when we recline on the grass we do close our eyes, and yet dimly recognize a golden light bathing the drowsy lids; and athwart that light images come and go like dreams, though we know that we are not dreaming.

CHAPTER V.

FROM this state, half comatose, half unconscious, Kenelm was roused slowly, reluctantly.  Something struck softly on his cheek,—­again a little less softly; he opened his eyes, they fell first upon two tiny rosebuds, which, on striking his face, had fallen on his breast; and then looking up, he saw before him, in an opening of the trellised circle, a female child’s laughing face.  Her hand was still uplifted charged with another rosebud, but behind the child’s figure, looking over her shoulder and holding back the menacing arm, was a face as innocent but lovelier far,—­the face of a girl in her first youth, framed round with the blossoms that festooned the trellise.  How the face became the flowers!  It seemed the fairy spirit of them.