An October Night. A Version By Walter H. Pollock of Alfred de Musset’s ‘ La Nuit d’Octobre.’ The Poet. The grief that weighed me down has disappeared And left me like a dream—far off and dim Its memory seems, like night-engendered mists That with the dewdrops melt before the dawn. The Muse. Tell me, my Poet, what may be this pain That for so long has kept thee far from me. Ready to greet the name, the much-loved name Of comforter, I come to comfort thee. Grief’s grace is wasted in the secrecy That thou hast given it. Hadst thou called on me In thy first days of dark and silent woe, I had been there to help. I too have wept, Knowing thine absence, knowing not its cause. Tell me what grief it is I catch from thee ? Whence come the tears thine eyes have lent to mince ? The Poet. Thou wilt call mine the commonest of griefs, But ’tis man’s nature to exalt himself And think the world’s affliction his alone. The Muse. It is the common mind that makes grief common ; Let thy heart speak to mine, and gather strength, Sharing its weight of miseries with me. The Poet. I know not by what name to call my grief, If I must speak of it—whether to count it For pride, love, madness, or just such a thing As all men undergo ; nor can I tell If any man can profit by the tale— But thou shalt hear it ; take thy lyre, my Muse, And let my memory speak to its sweet chords. The Muse. Stay, Poet ! ere thou tell me of thy grief Bethink thee well—is it or not foregone ? Remember that, unswayed by love or hate, Thou must relate the story to thy Muse ; No remnant of the passion that has wrecked thee Must reach mine ears—unsullied they must be ; The Poet, not the Man, should speak to me. The Poet. I am so far recovered from mine ills, I cannot, when I would, remember them ; Or if they will assert themselves, it seems That they befell some stranger. Fear not then, Dear Muse : thine inspiration is a shield That shall keep both of us secure and sound. ’Tis sweet to weep, but double sweet to smile, Remembering sorrows that we can forget. The Muse. E’en as with loving watch a mother bends Across the cradle of her darling child, So stoop I trembling to the wakening heart That slept so long and gave no sign of life. Speak, dear one, for my lyre’s plaintive note Anticipates thy voice’s loved accords, And the brave sun shines forth to sweep away, Like a vain dream, the darkness of the past. The Poet. O days of work ! Mine only days of life ! O thrice-dear solitude ! praise be to heaven, Once more my Muse descends to light these walls, Once more my Muse and I will sing together ! To her I’ll bare my heart—she shall know all ! A woman was my tyrant ; I her slave, Who for one glimpse of bliss sold all my youth. When in the evening’s light beside the brook We walked together on the silvered grass, Where the white spectral aspen marked our path, And the cloud-haunted moon sent trembling rays To give us fitful guidance ; when these arms— O God ! I see it all ! let me forget it ! I guessed not then the goal of all my hopes, But wrathful Fate must have been poor of prey When it looked down and fixed its gaze on me, And plagued me thus for seeking happiness. The Muse. The memory’s sweet that hangs about thy heart, ’Tis fear that shuns it—let thy courage rise, And clasp remembrance of that happy time. From Fate, if it were cruel, take thy cue, And not in tears, but smiles, enshrine thy love. The Poet. No ! Smiles I keep for woe—but I have said it : Thou, Muse, shalt hear an unimpassioned tale Of all my weary dreams and bitter madness. I’ll tell the time, the occasion, and the place— How I remember ! ’Twas an autumn night, Chilled with the solemn rhythm of falling leaves ; The sighing wind, striking the same sad note, Half lulled the dark forebodings of my spirit. At an unlighted window, leaning out, I watched with greedy eyes for her return ; And as I listened, through the silent dark, There came about my heart an unknown grief That grew into the monster of suspicion. The street was sombre—not a soul astir— Far off, vague human forms passed here and there, And the wind, happening on some yawning gate, Dejected, howled, as mocking human sighs. I know not whence the dreadful presage came That gave my soul unrest and choked my hope. She came not ; then, with hand-supported head, I swept the view with love-enkindled eyes.— I have not told thee—nor no words can tell— The madness of the love I bore to her. But I had rather died ten thousand deaths Than lived a single day beyond her sight. So, while this dreadful night dragged out its length, I strained each nerve to break the heavy chain That held me captive : called her frail and false, And counted o’er the wrongs that she had done me. Then came remembrance of her fatal beauty, And crushed rebellion even in its birth ; Day broke at last, and found me caught by sleep. When the sun waked, I waked and looked for her. I heard her step, I rushed to question her : “ Whence com’st thou? from whose arms ? whose kisses hang About thy lips ? ” What need to tell thee more, Or redeliver all the words that grief, And wrath, and shame conspired to heap on her ? “ Leave me ! ” I cried ; “ pale spectre of my youth, Reseck the tomb that should have guarded thee ; Let me forget the faith I once did hold, Or, if my memory will hold thee still, Let me believe I dreamed of such an one.” The Muse. Calm thee, my Poet, for thy very words Have made me shudder. Oh, my love, thy wound Is but too ready to re-open still ; Deep it must be, and this world’s miseries Most slow in their decay. Forget, my child, And wipe from out thy memory’s records That woman’s name that shall not pass my lips. The Poet. O shame on her who taught me truth could die ! Shame on thee, woman of the sombre glance, Whose fatal love o’ershadows all my youth !— ’Tis thy corrupting gaze has made me curse The very name and thought of happiness ; Thy loveliness doth measure my despair, And, if I even doubt the truth of tears, Why—I have seen thee weep. O, shame on thee ! Thou foundst me simple as a child ; my heart Opened to thine as flowers to the sun. Shame on thee, mother of my earliest grief ! Who struck the spring of tears, that nought will check Until they drown thy loathed memory ! The Muse. Enough, my Poet ! Faithless she has proved ; But though her faith had lasted but one day, Thou shouldst not wrong that one day’s memory, If ’tis beyond the stretch of human strength Wholly to pardon undeserved ills, Let not thy heart be gnawed by hatred’s fangs, But for forgiveness let oblivion stand. The dead sleep quietly within the earth : So should dead love within the human heart. Thinkst thou that heaven’s providence can sleep, Or aim its shafts at chance ? This grief of thine, Opening thy heart, has taught thee how to live. Man is apprenticed to his master, Sorrow, And he knows not himself who suffers nothing. It is-a law severe—a law supreme, Old as the world, and as fatality, That men must be baptised in suffering. Tears are the dew that quickens human hearts. How shouldst thou value life’s delights, if not By having known the pain that is their price ? How shouldst thou love the garden-scented breeze, The birds’ rejoicing anthem, and the arts That lend a grace to Nature, if through all Thou didst not hear the echo of past sighs ? The heaven’s illimitable harmony, The silence of the night, the murmuring flood— How shouldst thou love all these, unless thy pain Had made thee long for an eternal rest ? What, then, is thy lament ? Immortal hope Should spring in thee from sorrow. Wherefore hate Thy young experience, or deplore an ill From which is born thy better, wiser self ? My child, keep pity for that faithless one Whose beauty caused thy tears—for she it was Who showed thee Sorrow’s road to happiness. She loved thee ; but the Fates had chosen her To bring thee face to face with life’s intent— Pity her, for she was their instrument. Trust me, her tears were true ; and were they false, Pity her still—for thou knowst how to love. The Poet. Thou art right : and hatred is an evil thing, Whose viperous writhing in our hearts sets up Infinity of horror. Hearken, then, My goddess, and record this solemn vow : By the blue vault of yonder gracious heaven ; By the bright sphere that borrows Venus’ name, And pearl-like trembles in the far-off sky ; By Nature’s grandeur and almighty love ; By the firm star that is the sailor’s guide ; By all the meadows, all the woods and groves ; By life’s omnipotence—ay, by the pith That doth invigorate the universe, I banish thee for ever from my mind— Wreck of a maddening and insensate love, Dead memory of a bygone tale of woe ! For thee, who wert my heart’s love—my soul’s life, The moment-of forgetfulness shall be The time of pardon—each shall pardon each. The charm is broken, and with one last tear I waft thee to the echoes of the past. Now, Muse, to our loves ! Inspire me straight As thou wert wont, with some all-joyous song ! See how the flower-laden lawn awakes, To take the morning ; see how startled night Rolls, layer on layer, off before the dawn ! We two will rise again to newer life Beneath the blessing of the sun’s first rays !