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M. D R , who often jestingly waged war against me, used to say that I was getting thinner and thinner every day. Madame F told me one day that my sickly looks were very disagreeable to her, because wicked tongues would not fail to say that she treated me with cruelty. Strange, almost unnatural thought! On it I composed an idyll which I cannot read, even now, without feeling tears in my eyes.
The public could hardly keep up with the flight of Rankin's incarnations. Drawing-room comedy, pathetic pastoral, fantastic adventure, slum idyll and medieval romance, it was all one to Rankin. An infallible instinct told him which genre should be chosen at any given moment; a secret tocsin sounded far-off the hour of his success.
The summer idyll had passed, and though it left a scar on her heart, she had resolutely determined to put the sweet illusion out of her mind. "I was very foolish to let him see that I cared," she thought, "for it can never be, and by and by he will forget me, or if he does think of me, it will be to recall me as one of his summer girls who had a fit of silliness."
The forest idyll was over and Henry was alone in the berry patch. He felt bitter anger against the approaching warriors. Before he had regarded them merely as enemies whose interests put them in opposition to him. In their place, doubtless, he would do as they were doing, but now, seeking his death, they had broken the wilderness peace.
In the Idyll the refrain is an accompaniment, in the Song it is an intermezzo. In Theocritus refrains are links, in the Song they are breaks in the chain. Refrains are of the essence of lyric poetry as soon as anything like narrative enters into it. They are found throughout the lyrics of the Old Testament, the Psalms providing several examples.
These fine receptions are unconsciously a work of art, a kind of poetry, by which cultivated society reconstructs an idyll that is age-long dead. They are confused memories of the golden age, or aspirations after a harmony which mundane reality has not in it to give. Goethe Under the Lash I cannot like Goethe: he has little soul.
There is a good deal of natural bitterness in reference to the long refusal by the publishers of his first original work an idyll like Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, and our finest prose poem in philosophy. "Popularity," says Emerson, "is for dolls"; but it remains to find the preacher, prophet, or poet wholly impervious to unjust criticism.
As she pursued the idea Ainley's suggestions came back to her with hateful force, and she remembered the Indian girl's attitude after Stane's departure. Other things she remembered and her mind echoed the words which had awakened the man's anger at the time they were uttered. "Behold an idyll of the land!"
That night he finished his novel and got it ready for the publisher. Again Wen Ho, calm and uncomplaining, was sent out over the hill, and again the idyll was renewed, and Joan wore the collar and was almost as happy as before. Only one night she startled Prosper.
She agreed to his request, and they lived thus, innocently, till the winter was over and the spring came to bring to Italy its radiance once more. Even the spring was not an idyll. Rupert Carey had struggled upward, but Viola, too, had much to forget and very much to learn.
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