The Mystery of Choice

There is a maid, demure as she is wise, With all of April in her winsome eyes, And to my tales she listens pensively, With slender fingers clasped about her knee, Watching the sparrows on the balcony.

_Shy eyes that, lifted up to me, Free all my heart of vanity; Clear eyes, that speak all silently, Sweet as the silence of a nunnery-- Read, for I write my rede for you alone, Here where the city's mighty monotone Deepens the silence to a symphony-- Silence of Saints, and Seers, and Sorcery._

_Arms and the Man! A noble theme, I ween! Alas! I can not sing of these, Eileen-- Only of maids and men and meadow-grass, Of sea and fields and woodlands, where I pass; Nothing but these I know, Eileen, alas!_

Clear eyes that, lifted up to me, Free all my soul from vanity; Gray eyes, that speak all wistfully-- Nothing but these I know, alas!

R. W. C.

April, 1896.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

Where two fair paths, deep flowered And leaf-embowered, Creep East and West across a World concealed, Which shall he take who journeys far afield?

II.

Canst thou then say, "I go," Or "I forego"? What turns thee East or West, as thistles blow? Is fair more fair than fair--and dost thou know?

III.

Turn to the West, unblessed And uncaressed; Turn to the East, and, seated at the Feast Thou shalt find Life, or Death from Life released.

IV.

And thou who lovest best A maid dark-tressed, And passest others by with careless eye, Canst thou tell why thou choosest? Tell, then; why?

V.

So when thy kiss is given Or half-forgiven, Why should she tremble, with her face flame-hot, Or laugh and whisper, "Love, I tremble not"?

VI.

Or when thy hand may catch A half-drawn latch, What draws thee from the door, to turn and pass Through streets unknown, dim, still, and choked with grass?

VII.

What! Canst thou not foresee The Mystery? Heed! For a Voice commands thy every deed! And it hath sounded. And thou needs must heed!

R. W. C.

1896.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE PURPLE EMPEROR 1

POMPE FUNÈBRE 39

THE MESSENGER 47

THE WHITE SHADOW 109

PASSEUR 175

THE KEY TO GRIEF 185

A MATTER OF INTEREST 213

ENVOI 283

THE PURPLE EMPEROR.

THE PURPLE EMPEROR.

Un souvenir heureux est peut-être, sur terre, Plus vrai que le bonheur.

A. DE MUSSET.

I.

The Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning out six feet more of waterproof silk, and, as the line hissed through the air far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water like drifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered.

"You see," he said, "I am right. There is not a trout in Brittany that will rise to a tailed fly."

"They do in America," I replied.

"Zut! for America!" observed the Purple Emperor.

"And trout take a tailed fly in England," I insisted sharply.

"Now do I care what things or people do in England?" demanded the Purple Emperor.

"You don't care for anything except yourself and your wriggling caterpillars," I said, more annoyed than I had yet been.

The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features bore that obstinate expression which always irritated me. Perhaps the manner in which he wore his hat intensified the irritation, for the flapping brim rested on both ears, and the two little velvet ribbons which hung from the silver buckle in front wiggled and fluttered with every trivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed nose were out of all keeping with his fat red face. When he met my eye, he chuckled.