tried no more.
The others were as outraged by the Paladin’s selfish conduct as I
was–and by his grand luck, too, of course–perhaps, indeed, that
was the main hurt. We talked our trouble over together, which was
natural, for rivals become brothers when a common affliction
assails them and a common enemy bears off the victory.
Each of us could do things that would please and get notice if it
were not for this person, who occupied all the time and gave others
no chance. I had made a poem, taking a whole night to it–a poem
in which I most happily and delicately celebrated that sweet girl’s
charms, without mentioning her name, but any one could see who
was meant; for the bare title–“The Rose of Orleans”–would reveal
that, as it seemed to me. It pictured this pure and dainty white rose
as growing up out of the rude soil of war and looking abroad out of
its tender eyes upon the horrid machinery of death, and then–note
this conceit–it blushes for the sinful nature of man, and turns red
in a single night. Becomes a red rose, you see–a rose that was
white before. The idea was my own, and quite new. Then it sent its
sweet perfume out over the embattled city, and when the
beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and wept.
This was also my own idea, and new. That closed that part of the
poem; then I put her into the similitude of the firmament–not the
whole of it, but only part. That is to say, she was the moon, and all
the constellations were following her about, their hearts in flames
for love of her, but she would not halt, she would not listen, for
’twas thought she loved another. ‘Twas thought she loved a poor
unworthy suppliant who was upon the earth, facing danger, death,
and possible mutilation in the bloody field, waging relentless war
against a heartless foe to save her from an all too early grave, and
her city from destruction. And when the sad pursuing
constellations came to know and realize the bitter sorrow that was
come upon them–note this idea–their hearts broke and their tears
gushed forth, filling the vault of heaven with a fiery splendor, for
those tears were falling stars. It was a rash idea, but beautiful;
beautiful and pathetic; wonderfully pathetic, the way I had it, with
the rhyme and all to help. At the end of each verse there was a
two-line refrain pitying the poor earthly lover separated so far, and
perhaps forever, from her he loved so well, and growing always
paler and weaker and thinner in his agony as he neared the cruel
grave–the most touching thing–even the boys themselves could
hardly keep back their tears, the way No‰l said those lines. There
were eight four-line stanzas in the first end of the poem–the end
about the rose, the horticultural end, as you may say, if that is not
too large a name for such a little poem–and eight in the
astronomical end–sixteen stanzas altogether, and I could have
made it a hundred and fifty if I had wanted to, I was so inspired
and so all swelled up with beautiful thoughts and fancies; but that
would have been too many to sing or recite before a company that
way, whereas sixteen was just right, and could be done over again
if desired.
The boys were amazed that I could make such a poem as that out
of my own head, and so was I, of course, it being as much a
surprise to me as it could be to anybody, for I did not know that it
was in me. If any had asked me a single day before if it was in me,
I should have told them frankly no, it was not.
That is the way with us; we may go on half of our life not knowing
such a thing is in us, when in reality it was there all the time, and
all we needed was something to turn up that would call for it.
Indeed, it was always so without family. My grandfather had a