Books and Habits, from the Lectures of Lafcadio Hearn. Lafcadio Hearn

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СКАЧАТЬ every young man knows beforehand whom he is likely to marry. Marriage is arranged by the family: it is a family matter, indeed a family duty and not a romantic pursuit. At one time, very long ago, in Europe, marriages were arranged in much the same way. But nowadays it may be said in general that no young man in England or America can even imagine whom he will marry. He has to find his wife for himself; and he has nobody to help him; and if he makes a mistake, so much the worse for him. So to Western imagination the wife of the future is a mystery, a romance, an anxiety—something to dream about and to write poetry about.

      This little book that I hold in my hand is now very rare. It is out of print, but it is worth mentioning to you because it is the composition of an exquisite man of letters, Frederick Locker-Lampson, best of all nineteenth century writers of society verse. It is called “Patchwork.” Many years ago the author kept a kind of journal in which he wrote down or copied all the most beautiful or most curious things which he had heard or which he had found in books. Only the best things remained, so the value of the book is his taste in selection. Whatever Locker-Lampson pronounced good, the world now knows to have been exactly what he pronounced, for his taste was very fine. And in this book I find a little poem quoted from Mr. Edwin Arnold, now Sir Edwin. Sir Edwin Arnold is now old and blind, and he has not been thought of kindly enough in Japan, because his work has not been sufficiently known. Some people have even said his writings did harm to Japan, but I want to assure you that such statements are stupid lies. On the contrary, he did for Japan whatever good the best of his talent as a poet and the best of his influence as a great journalist could enable him to do. But to come back to our subject: when Sir Edwin was a young student he had his dreams about marriage like other young English students, and he put one of them into verse, and that verse was at once picked out by Frederick Locker-Lampson for his little book of gems. Half a century has passed since then; but Locker-Lampson’s judgment remains good, and I am going to put this little poem first because it so well illustrates the subject of the lecture. It is entitled “A Ma Future.”

      Where waitest thou,

      Lady, I am to love? Thou comest not,

      Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot—

      I looked for thee ere now!

      It is the May,

      And each sweet sister soul hath found its brother,

      Only we two seek fondly each the other,

      And seeking still delay.

      Where art thou, sweet?

      I long for thee as thirsty lips for streams,

      O gentle promised angel of my dreams,

      Why do we never meet?

      Thou art as I,

      Thy soul doth wait for mine as mine for thee;

      We cannot live apart, must meeting be

      Never before we die?

      Dear Soul, not so,

      For time doth keep for us some happy years,

      And God hath portioned us our smiles and tears,

      Thou knowest, and I know.

      

      Therefore I bear

      This winter-tide as bravely as I may,

      Patiently waiting for the bright spring day

      That cometh with thee, Dear.

      ’Tis the May light

      That crimsons all the quiet college gloom,

      May it shine softly in thy sleeping room,

      And so, dear wife, good night!

      This is, of course, addressed to the spirit of the unknown future wife. It is pretty, though it is only the work of a young student. But some one hundred years before, another student—a very great student, Richard Crashaw—had a fancy of the same kind, and made verses about it which are famous. You will find parts of his poem about the imaginary wife in the ordinary anthologies, but not all of it, for it is very long. I will quote those verses which seem to me the best.

      Wishes

      Whoe’er she be,

      That not impossible She,

      That shall command my heart and me;

      Where’er she lie,

      Locked up from mortal eye,

      In shady leaves of Destiny;

      Till that ripe birth

      Of studied Fate stand forth,

      And teach her fair steps to our earth;

      Till that divine

      Idea take a shrine

      Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;

      Meet you her, my wishes,

      Bespeak her to my blisses,

      And be ye called my absent kisses.

      The poet is supposing that the girl whom he is to marry may not as yet even have been born, for though men in the world of scholarship can marry only late in life, the wife is generally quite young. Marriage is far away in the future for the student, therefore these fancies. What he means to say in short is about like this:

      “Oh, my wishes, go out of my heart and look for the being whom I am destined to marry—find the soul of her, whether born or yet unborn, and tell that soul of the love that is waiting for it.” Then he tries to describe the imagined woman he hopes to find:

      I wish her beauty

      That owes not all its duty

      To gaudy ’tire or glist’ring shoe-tie.

      Something more than

      Taffeta or tissue can;

      Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

      More than the spoil

      Of shop or silk worm’s toil,

      Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

      A face that’s best

      By its own beauty drest

      And can alone command the rest.

      A face made up

      Out of no other shop

      Than what nature’s white hand sets ope.

      A cheek where grows

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