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@@ -0,0 +1,7062 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Men, Women and Ghosts + +Author: Amy Lowell + +Posting Date: July 21, 2008 [EBook #841] +Release Date: March, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan Light + + + + + +MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS + +by Amy Lowell + + +by Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet and critic--1874-1925.] + + +[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters are broken +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors +have been corrected.] + + + + "'... See small portions of the Eternal World that ever groweth':... + So sang a Fairy, mocking, as he sat on a streak'd tulip, + Thinking none saw him: when he ceas'd I started from the trees, + And caught him in my hat, as boys knock down a butterfly." + William Blake. "Europe. A Prophecy." + + 'Thou hast a lap full of seed, + And this is a fine country.' + William Blake. + + + + + +Preface + + +This is a book of stories. For that reason I have excluded all purely +lyrical poems. But the word "stories" has been stretched to its fullest +application. It includes both narrative poems, properly so called; +tales divided into scenes; and a few pieces of less obvious +story-telling import in which one might say that the dramatis personae +are air, clouds, trees, houses, streets, and such like things. + +It has long been a favourite idea of mine that the rhythms of 'vers +libre' have not been sufficiently plumbed, that there is in them a power +of variation which has never yet been brought to the light of +experiment. I think it was the piano pieces of Debussy, with their +strange likeness to short vers libre poems, which first showed me the +close kinship of music and poetry, and there flashed into my mind the +idea of using the movement of poetry in somewhat the same way that the +musician uses the movement of music. + +It was quite evident that this could never be done in the strict pattern +of a metrical form, but the flowing, fluctuating rhythm of vers libre +seemed to open the door to such an experiment. First, however, I +considered the same method as applied to the more pronounced movements +of natural objects. If the reader will turn to the poem, "A Roxbury +Garden", he will find in the first two sections an attempt to give the +circular movement of a hoop bowling along the ground, and the up and +down, elliptical curve of a flying shuttlecock. + +From these experiments, it is but a step to the flowing rhythm of music. +In "The Cremona Violin", I have tried to give this flowing, changing +rhythm to the parts in which the violin is being played. The effect is +farther heightened, because the rest of the poem is written in the seven +line Chaucerian stanza; and, by deserting this ordered pattern for the +undulating line of vers libre, I hoped to produce something of the +suave, continuous tone of a violin. Again, in the violin parts +themselves, the movement constantly changes, as will be quite plain to +any one reading these passages aloud. + +In "The Cremona Violin", however, the rhythms are fairly obvious and +regular. I set myself a far harder task in trying to transcribe the +various movements of Stravinsky's "Three Pieces 'Grotesques', for String +Quartet". Several musicians, who have seen the poem, think the movement +accurately given. + +These experiments lead me to believe that there is here much food for +thought and matter for study, and I hope many poets will follow me in +opening up the still hardly explored possibilities of vers libre. + +A good many of the poems in this book are written in "polyphonic prose". +A form about which I have written and spoken so much that it seems +hardly necessary to explain it here. Let me hastily add, however, that +the word "prose" in its name refers only to the typographical +arrangement, for in no sense is this a prose form. Only read it aloud, +Gentle Reader, I beg, and you will see what you will see. For a purely +dramatic form, I know none better in the whole range of poetry. It +enables the poet to give his characters the vivid, real effect they have +in a play, while at the same time writing in the 'decor'. + +One last innovation I have still to mention. It will be found in +"Spring Day", and more fully enlarged upon in the series, "Towns in +Colour". In these poems, I have endeavoured to give the colour, and +light, and shade, of certain places and hours, stressing the purely +pictorial effect, and with little or no reference to any other aspect of +the places described. It is an enchanting thing to wander through a +city looking for its unrelated beauty, the beauty by which it captivates +the sensuous sense of seeing. + +I have always loved aquariums, but for years I went to them and looked, +and looked, at those swirling, shooting, looping patterns of fish, which +always defied transcription to paper until I hit upon the "unrelated" +method. The result is in "An Aquarium". I think the first thing which +turned me in this direction was John Gould Fletcher's "London +Excursion", in "Some Imagist Poets". I here record my thanks. + +For the substance of the poems--why, the poems are here. No one +writing to-day can fail to be affected by the great war raging in Europe +at this time. We are too near it to do more than touch upon it. But, +obliquely, it is suggested in many of these poems, most notably those in +the section, "Bronze Tablets". The Napoleonic Era is an epic subject, +and waits a great epic poet. I have only been able to open a few +windows upon it here and there. But the scene from the windows is +authentic, and the watcher has used eyes, and ears, and heart, in +watching. + + Amy Lowell +July 10, 1916. + + + + +Contents + + + + Figurines in Old Saxe + + Patterns + Pickthorn Manor + The Cremona Violin + The Cross-Roads + A Roxbury Garden + 1777 + + + Bronze Tablets + + The Fruit Shop + Malmaison + The Hammers + Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + + + War Pictures + + The Allies + The Bombardment + Lead Soldiers + The Painter on Silk + A Ballad of Footmen + + + The Overgrown Pasture + + Reaping + Off the Turnpike + The Grocery + Number 3 on the Docket + + + Clocks Tick a Century + + Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening + The Paper Windmill + The Red Lacquer Music-Stand + Spring Day + The Dinner-Party + Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet + Towns in Colour + Red Slippers + Thompson's Lunch Room--Grand Central Station + An Opera House + Afternoon Rain in State Street + An Aquarium + + + + + +The two sea songs quoted in "The Hammers" are taken from +'Songs: Naval and Nautical, of the late Charles Dibdin', London, +John Murray, 1841. The "Hanging Johnny" refrain, in "The Cremona Violin", +is borrowed from the old, well-known chanty of that name. + + + + + +MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS + + + + +FIGURINES IN OLD SAXE + + + + +Patterns + + + + I walk down the garden paths, + And all the daffodils + Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. + I walk down the patterned garden-paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, + I too am a rare + Pattern. As I wander down + The garden paths. + + My dress is richly figured, + And the train + Makes a pink and silver stain + On the gravel, and the thrift + Of the borders. + Just a plate of current fashion, + Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. + Not a softness anywhere about me, + Only whalebone and brocade. + And I sink on a seat in the shade + Of a lime tree. For my passion + Wars against the stiff brocade. + The daffodils and squills + Flutter in the breeze + As they please. + And I weep; + For the lime-tree is in blossom + And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. + + And the plashing of waterdrops + In the marble fountain + Comes down the garden-paths. + The dripping never stops. + Underneath my stiffened gown + Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, + A basin in the midst of hedges grown + So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, + But she guesses he is near, + And the sliding of the water + Seems the stroking of a dear + Hand upon her. + What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! + I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. + All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. + + I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, + And he would stumble after, + Bewildered by my laughter. + I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles + on his shoes. + I would choose + To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, + A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, + Till he caught me in the shade, + And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, + Aching, melting, unafraid. + With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, + And the plopping of the waterdrops, + All about us in the open afternoon-- + I am very like to swoon + With the weight of this brocade, + For the sun sifts through the shade. + + Underneath the fallen blossom + In my bosom, + Is a letter I have hid. + It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. + "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell + Died in action Thursday se'nnight." + As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, + The letters squirmed like snakes. + "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. + "No," I told him. + "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. + No, no answer." + And I walked into the garden, + Up and down the patterned paths, + In my stiff, correct brocade. + The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, + Each one. + I stood upright too, + Held rigid to the pattern + By the stiffness of my gown. + Up and down I walked, + Up and down. + + In a month he would have been my husband. + In a month, here, underneath this lime, + We would have broke the pattern; + He for me, and I for him, + He as Colonel, I as Lady, + On this shady seat. + He had a whim + That sunlight carried blessing. + And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." + Now he is dead. + + In Summer and in Winter I shall walk + Up and down + The patterned garden-paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + The squills and daffodils + Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. + I shall go + Up and down, + In my gown. + Gorgeously arrayed, + Boned and stayed. + And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace + By each button, hook, and lace. + For the man who should loose me is dead, + Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, + In a pattern called a war. + Christ! What are patterns for? + + + + +Pickthorn Manor + + + + I + + How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! + A steely silver, underlined with blue, + And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, + Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through + And tip the edges of the waves with shifts + And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems + Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp + As wind through leafless stems. + The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts + Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts + Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp. + + + II + + Her little feet tapped softly down the path. + Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze + Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath + Of fallen petals on the grass, could please + Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside + With a swift move, and a half-angry frown. + She stopped to pull a daffodil or two, + And held them to her gown + To test the colours; put them at her side, + Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried + Some new arrangement, but it would not do. + + + III + + A lady in a Manor-house, alone, + Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke + Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown + Too apathetic even to rebuke + Her idleness. What is she on this Earth? + No woman surely, since she neither can + Be wed nor single, must not let her mind + Build thoughts upon a man + Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth + Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth, + And when she thought of him her eyes were kind. + + + IV + + Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing. + Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel + Other than strange delight at her wife's doing. + Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal + Over her face, and then her lips would frame + Some little word of loving, and her eyes + Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw + Was the bright sun, slantwise + Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame + Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame + She shut her heart and bent before the law. + + + V + + He was a soldier, she was proud of that. + This was his house and she would keep it well. + His honour was in fighting, hers in what + He'd left her here in charge of. Then a spell + Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying + Upon the gardeners. Were their tools about? + Were any branches broken? Had the weeds + Been duly taken out + Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying + Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying + Their leaves and satisfying all their needs? + + + VI + + She picked a stone up with a little pout, + Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders. + Where should she put it? All the paths about + Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders. + No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So + She hurried to the river. At the edge + She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue + Beyond the river sedge. + She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow + Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, "Hullo, + My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through." + + + VII + + The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray + To save herself from tumbling in the shallows + Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away + She peered down stream among the budding sallows. + A youth in leather breeches and a shirt + Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon + An overhanging bole and deftly swayed + A well-hooked fish which shone + In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt + Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt + With crimson spots and moons which waned and played. + + + VIII + + The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed + And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade + Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged + With chipped and sparkled sunshine. And the shade + Broke up and splintered into shafts of light + Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air + And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod + Almost to snapping. Care + The young man took against the twigs, with slight, + Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight + Obedience to his will with every prod. + + + IX + + He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond. + He seemed uncertain what more he should do. + He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond, + Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw, + He caught it nearer to the point. At last + The fish was near enough to touch. He paused. + Eunice knew well the craft--"What's got the thing!" + She cried. "What can have caused-- + Where is his net? The moment will be past. + The fish will wriggle free." She stopped aghast. + He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling. + + + X + + The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket + Must hang from, held instead a useless arm. + "I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it." + He smiled, for she had spoke aloud. "The charm + Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced + When you must play your fish on land as well." + "How will you take him?" Eunice asked. "In truth + I really cannot tell. + 'Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced + I never thought of that until he glanced + Into the branches. 'Tis a bit uncouth." + + + XI + + He watched the fish against the blowing sky, + Writhing and glittering, pulling at the line. + "The hook is fast, I might just let him die," + He mused. "But that would jar against your fine + Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would," + Cried Eunice. "Let me do it." Swift and light + She ran towards him. "It is so long now + Since I have felt a bite, + I lost all heart for everything." She stood, + Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood + Tingled her lissom body to a glow. + + + XII + + She quickly seized the fish and with a stone + Ended its flurry, then removed the hook, + Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done, + She asked him where he kept his fishing-book. + He pointed to a coat flung on the ground. + She searched the pockets, found a shagreen case, + Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp + Filling the middle space. + Two letters half rubbed out were there, and round + About them gay rococo flowers wound + And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp. + + + XIII + + The Lady Eunice puzzled over these. + "G. D." the young man gravely said. "My name + Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please." + "Oh, Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame + For exploits in the field has reached my ears. + I did not know you wounded and returned." + "But just come back, Madam. A silly prick + To gain me such unearned + Holiday making. And you, it appears, + Must be Sir Everard's lady. And my fears + At being caught a-trespassing were quick." + + + XIV + + He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud. + "You are forgiven, Mr. Deane. Even more, + I offer you the fishing, and am proud + That you should find it pleasant from this shore. + Nobody fishes now, my husband used + To angle daily, and I too with him. + He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace. + He even had a whim + That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused + The greater fish. And he must be excused, + Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place." + + + XV + + She sighed because it seemed so long ago, + Those days with Everard; unthinking took + The path back to the orchard. Strolling so + She walked, and he beside her. In a nook + Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs, + Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down. + She questioned him about the war, the share + Her husband had, and grown + Eager by his clear answers, straight allows + Her hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouse + Her numbed love, which had slumbered unaware. + + + XVI + + Under the orchard trees daffodils danced + And jostled, turning sideways to the wind. + A dropping cherry petal softly glanced + Over her hair, and slid away behind. + At the far end through twisted cherry-trees + The old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricks + Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long, + Gabled, and with quaint tricks + Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these + Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze + Tossed into nothing. Then a thrush's song + + + XVII + + Needled its way through sound of bees and river. + The notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves, + Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver. + The Lady Eunice listens and believes. + Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord, + His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life. + She quite forgets who's speaking in the gladness + Of being this man's wife. + Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word + Is kindly said, but to a softer chord + She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness, + + + XVIII + + "And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I fain + Would know the truth." "Quite well, dear Lady, quite." + She smiled in her content. "So many slain, + You must forgive me for a little fright." + And he forgave her, not alone for that, + But because she was fingering his heart, + Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so + Only to ease her smart + Of painful, apprehensive longing. At + Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat + An hour there. The thrush flew to and fro. + + + XIX + + The Lady Eunice supped alone that day, + As always since Sir Everard had gone, + In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array + Of faded portraits in carved mouldings shone. + Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked. + Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout + And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame, + A peony just burst out, + With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked + Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked + It with the best, and scorned to change their name. + + + XX + + A sturdy family, and old besides, + Much older than her own, the Earls of Crowe. + Since Saxon days, these men had sought their brides + Among the highest born, but always so, + Taking them to themselves, their wealth, their lands, + But never their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong, + The Framptons fed their blood from richest streams, + Scorning the common throng. + Gazing upon these men, she understands + The toughness of the web wrought from such strands + And pride of Everard colours all her dreams. + + + XXI + + Eunice forgets to eat, watching their faces + Flickering in the wind-blown candle's shine. + Blue-coated lackeys tiptoe to their places, + And set out plates of fruit and jugs of wine. + The table glitters black like Winter ice. + The Dartle's rushing, and the gentle clash + Of blossomed branches, drifts into her ears. + And through the casement sash + She sees each cherry stem a pointed slice + Of splintered moonlight, topped with all the spice + And shimmer of the blossoms it uprears. + + + XXII + + "In such a night--" she laid the book aside, + She could outnight the poet by thinking back. + In such a night she came here as a bride. + The date was graven in the almanack + Of her clasped memory. In this very room + Had Everard uncloaked her. On this seat + Had drawn her to him, bade her note the trees, + How white they were and sweet + And later, coming to her, her dear groom, + Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloom + Of moon and shade, and whispered her to ease. + + + XXIII + + Her little taper made the room seem vast, + Caverned and empty. And her beating heart + Rapped through the silence all about her cast + Like some loud, dreadful death-watch taking part + In this sad vigil. Slowly she undrest, + Put out the light and crept into her bed. + The linen sheets were fragrant, but so cold. + And brimming tears she shed, + Sobbing and quivering in her barren nest, + Her weeping lips into the pillow prest, + Her eyes sealed fast within its smothering fold. + + + XXIV + + The morning brought her a more stoic mind, + And sunshine struck across the polished floor. + She wondered whether this day she should find + Gervase a-fishing, and so listen more, + Much more again, to all he had to tell. + And he was there, but waiting to begin + Until she came. They fished awhile, then went + To the old seat within + The cherry's shade. He pleased her very well + By his discourse. But ever he must dwell + Upon Sir Everard. Each incident + + + XXV + + Must be related and each term explained. + How troops were set in battle, how a siege + Was ordered and conducted. She complained + Because he bungled at the fall of Liege. + The curious names of parts of forts she knew, + And aired with conscious pride her ravelins, + And counterscarps, and lunes. The day drew on, + And his dead fish's fins + In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue. + At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew. + But she sat long in still oblivion. + + + XXVI + + Then he would bring her books, and read to her + The poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue river + Would murmur through the reading, and a stir + Of birds and bees make the white petals shiver, + And one or two would flutter prone and lie + Spotting the smooth-clipped grass. The days went by + Threaded with talk and verses. Green leaves pushed + Through blossoms stubbornly. + Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty, + Fell into strong and watchful loving, free + He thought, since always would his lips be hushed. + + + XXVII + + But lips do not stay silent at command, + And Gervase strove in vain to order his. + Luckily Eunice did not understand + That he but read himself aloud, for this + Their friendship would have snapped. She treated him + And spoilt him like a brother. It was now + "Gervase" and "Eunice" with them, and he dined + Whenever she'd allow, + In the oak parlour, underneath the dim + Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim + Figure, so bright against the chair behind. + + + XXVIII + + Eunice was happier than she had been + For many days, and yet the hours were long. + All Gervase told to her but made her lean + More heavily upon the past. Among + Her hopes she lived, even when she was giving + Her morning orders, even when she twined + Nosegays to deck her parlours. With the thought + Of Everard, her mind + Solaced its solitude, and in her striving + To do as he would wish was all her living. + She welcomed Gervase for the news he brought. + + + XXIX + + Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the sun, + Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other. + Eunice was standing, panting with her run + Up to the tool-house just to get another + Basket. All those which she had brought were filled, + And still Gervase pelted her from above. + The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher + Until his shoulders strove + Quite through the top. "Eunice, your spirit's filled + This tree. White-hearts!" He shook, and cherries spilled + And spat out from the leaves like falling fire. + + + XXX + + The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself + Over the quiet garden. And they packed + Full twenty baskets with the fruit. "My shelf + Of cordials will be stored with what it lacked. + In future, none of us will drink strong ale, + But cherry-brandy." "Vastly good, I vow," + And Gervase gave the tree another shake. + The cherries seemed to flow + Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail. + Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale, + Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake. + + + XXXI + + She gave a little cry and fell quite prone + In the long grass, and lay there very still. + Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan, + And kneeling over her, with clumsy skill + Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat, + And his unguarded lips pronounced his heart. + "Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt?" + His trembling fingers dart + Over her limbs seeking some wound. She strove + To answer, opened wide her eyes, above + Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert. + + + XXXII + + Her eyelids fell again at that sweet sight, + "My Love!" she murmured, "Dearest! Oh, my Dear!" + He took her in his arms and bore her right + And tenderly to the old seat, and "Here + I have you mine at last," she said, and swooned + Under his kisses. When she came once more + To sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowing + Herself laid as before + Close covered on his breast. And all her glowing + Youth answered him, and ever nearer growing + She twined him in her arms and soft festooned + + + XXXIII + + Herself about him like a flowering vine, + Drawing his lips to cling upon her own. + A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine + Where her half-opened bodice let be shown + Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress, + Half-gasping with her gladness. And her pledge + She whispers, melting with delight. A twig + Snaps in the hornbeam hedge. + A cackling laugh tears through the quietness. + Eunice starts up in terrible distress. + "My God! What's that?" Her staring eyes are big. + + + XXXIV + + Revulsed emotion set her body shaking + As though she had an ague. Gervase swore, + Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful taking + His face was ghastly with the look it wore. + Crouching and slipping through the trees, a man + In worn, blue livery, a humpbacked thing, + Made off. But turned every few steps to gaze + At Eunice, and to fling + Vile looks and gestures back. "The ruffian! + By Christ's Death! I will split him to a span + Of hog's thongs." She grasped at his sleeve, "Gervase! + + + XXXV + + What are you doing here? Put down that sword, + That's only poor old Tony, crazed and lame. + We never notice him. With my dear Lord + I ought not to have minded that he came. + But, Gervase, it surprises me that you + Should so lack grace to stay here." With one hand + She held her gaping bodice to conceal + Her breast. "I must demand + Your instant absence. Everard, but new + Returned, will hardly care for guests. Adieu." + "Eunice, you're mad." His brain began to reel. + + + XXXVI + + He tried again to take her, tried to twist + Her arms about him. Truly, she had said + Nothing should ever part them. In a mist + She pushed him from her, clasped her aching head + In both her hands, and rocked and sobbed aloud. + "Oh! Where is Everard? What does this mean? + So lately come to leave me thus alone!" + But Gervase had not seen + Sir Everard. Then, gently, to her bowed + And sickening spirit, he told of her proud + Surrender to him. He could hear her moan. + + + XXXVII + + Then shame swept over her and held her numb, + Hiding her anguished face against the seat. + At last she rose, a woman stricken--dumb-- + And trailed away with slowly-dragging feet. + Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass + The barrier set between them. All his rare + Joy broke to fragments--worse than that, unreal. + And standing lonely there, + His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass + He flung himself and wept. He knew, alas! + The loss so great his life could never heal. + + + XXXVIII + + For days thereafter Eunice lived retired, + Waited upon by one old serving-maid. + She would not leave her chamber, and desired + Only to hide herself. She was afraid + Of what her eyes might trick her into seeing, + Of what her longing urge her then to do. + What was this dreadful illness solitude + Had tortured her into? + Her hours went by in a long constant fleeing + The thought of that one morning. And her being + Bruised itself on a happening so rude. + + + XXXIX + + It grew ripe Summer, when one morning came + Her tirewoman with a letter, printed + Upon the seal were the Deane crest and name. + With utmost gentleness, the letter hinted + His understanding and his deep regret. + But would she not permit him once again + To pay her his profound respects? No word + Of what had passed should pain + Her resolution. Only let them get + Back the old comradeship. Her eyes were wet + With starting tears, now truly she deplored + + + XL + + His misery. Yes, she was wrong to keep + Away from him. He hardly was to blame. + 'Twas she--she shuddered and began to weep. + 'Twas her fault! Hers! Her everlasting shame + Was that she suffered him, whom not at all + She loved. Poor Boy! Yes, they must still be friends. + She owed him that to keep the balance straight. + It was such poor amends + Which she could make for rousing hopes to gall + Him with their unfulfilment. Tragical + It was, and she must leave him desolate. + + + XLI + + Hard silence he had forced upon his lips + For long and long, and would have done so still + Had not she--here she pressed her finger tips + Against her heavy eyes. Then with forced will + She wrote that he might come, sealed with the arms + Of Crowe and Frampton twined. Her heart felt lighter + When this was done. It seemed her constant care + Might some day cease to fright her. + Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harms + Did come from too much sunshine. Her alarms + Would lessen when she saw him standing there, + + + XLII + + Simple and kind, a brother just returned + From journeying, and he would treat her so. + She knew his honest heart, and if there burned + A spark in it he would not let it show. + But when he really came, and stood beside + Her underneath the fruitless cherry boughs, + He seemed a tired man, gaunt, leaden-eyed. + He made her no more vows, + Nor did he mention one thing he had tried + To put into his letter. War supplied + Him topics. And his mind seemed occupied. + + + XLIII + + Daily they met. And gravely walked and talked. + He read her no more verses, and he stayed + Only until their conversation, balked + Of every natural channel, fled dismayed. + Again the next day she would meet him, trying + To give her tone some healthy sprightliness, + But his uneager dignity soon chilled + Her well-prepared address. + Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, crying + Of wild geese startled Eunice, and their flying + Whirred overhead for days and never stilled. + + + XLIV + + One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind, + Eunice awaited Gervase by the river. + The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined + Over the willow-roots, and a long sliver + Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank. + All through the garden, drifts of skirling leaves + Blew up, and settled down, and blew again. + The cherry-trees were weaves + Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank + Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank + With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain. + + + XLV + + Eunice paced up and down. No joy she took + At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown + Still held her. He was late. She sudden shook, + And caught at her stopped heart. Her eyes had shown + Sir Everard emerging from the mist. + His uniform was travel-stained and torn, + His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride + Jangled his spurs. A thorn + Entangled, trailed behind him. To the tryst + He hastened. Eunice shuddered, ran--a twist + Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide. + + + XLVI + + But he had seen her as she swiftly ran, + A flash of white against the river's grey. + "Eunice," he called. "My Darling. Eunice. Can + You hear me? It is Everard. All day + I have been riding like the very devil + To reach you sooner. Are you startled, Dear?" + He broke into a run and followed her, + And caught her, faint with fear, + Cowering and trembling as though she some evil + Spirit were seeing. "What means this uncivil + Greeting, Dear Heart?" He saw her senses blur. + + + XLVII + + Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried + To speak, but only gurgled in her throat. + At last, straining to hold herself, she cried + To him for pity, and her strange words smote + A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase + To leave her, 'twas too much a second time. + Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind + Repeated like a rhyme + This name he did not know. In sad amaze + He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze, + So unremembering and so unkind. + + + XLVIII + + Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt + With what he feared her madness. By and by + He pierced her understanding. Then he knelt + Upon the seat, and took her hands: "Now try + To think a minute I am come, my Dear, + Unharmed and back on furlough. Are you glad + To have your lover home again? To me, + Pickthorn has never had + A greater pleasantness. Could you not bear + To come and sit awhile beside me here? + A stone between us surely should not be." + + + XLIX + + She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile, + Then came to him and on his shoulder laid + Her head, and they two rested there awhile, + Each taking comfort. Not a word was said. + But when he put his hand upon her breast + And felt her beating heart, and with his lips + Sought solace for her and himself. She started + As one sharp lashed with whips, + And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest + Denied and shuddered from. And he, distrest, + Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted. + + + L + + Eunice was very quiet all that day, + A little dazed, and yet she seemed content. + At candle-time, he asked if she would play + Upon her harpsichord, at once she went + And tinkled airs from Lully's 'Carnival' + And 'Bacchus', newly brought away from France. + Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon + To please him with a dance + By Purcell, for he said that surely all + Good Englishmen had pride in national + Accomplishment. But tiring of it soon + + + LI + + He whispered her that if she had forgiven + His startling her that afternoon, the clock + Marked early bed-time. Surely it was Heaven + He entered when she opened to his knock. + The hours rustled in the trailing wind + Over the chimney. Close they lay and knew + Only that they were wedded. At his touch + Anxiety she threw + Away like a shed garment, and inclined + Herself to cherish him, her happy mind + Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch. + + + LII + + Eunice lay long awake in the cool night + After her husband slept. She gazed with joy + Into the shadows, painting them with bright + Pictures of all her future life's employ. + Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel, + Each shining with the other. Soft she turned + And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed + Her happiness was earned. + Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel + To light this Frampton's hearth-fire. By no cruel + Affrightings would she ever be dismayed. + + + LIII + + When Everard, next day, asked her in joke + What name it was that she had called him by, + She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke + She hardly realized it was a lie. + Her vision she related, but she hid + The fondness into which she had been led. + Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear, + And quite out of her head + The matter drifted. Then Sir Everard chid + Himself for laziness, and off he rid + To see his men and count his farming-gear. + + + LIV + + At supper he seemed overspread with gloom, + But gave no reason why, he only asked + More questions of Gervase, and round the room + He walked with restless strides. At last he tasked + Her with a greater feeling for this man + Than she had given. Eunice quick denied + The slightest interest other than a friend + Might claim. But he replied + He thought she underrated. Then a ban + He put on talk and music. He'd a plan + To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End. + + + LV + + Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed, + Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger. Pride + Kept him from speaking out. His probings ranged + All round his torment. Lady Eunice tried + To sooth him. So a week went by, and then + His anguish flooded over; with clenched hands + Striving to stem his words, he told her plain + Tony had seen them, "brands + Burning in Hell," the man had said. Again + Eunice described her vision, and how when + Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain. + + + LVI + + He could not credit it, and misery fed + Upon his spirit, day by day it grew. + To Gervase he forbade the house, and led + The Lady Eunice such a life she flew + At his approaching footsteps. Winter came + Snowing and blustering through the Manor trees. + All the roof-edges spiked with icicles + In fluted companies. + The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame + Kept herself sighing company. The flame + Of the birch fire glittered on the walls. + + + LVII + + A letter was brought to her as she sat, + Unsealed, unsigned. It told her that his wound, + The writer's, had so well recovered that + To join his regiment he felt him bound. + But would she not wish him one short "Godspeed", + He asked no more. Her greeting would suffice. + He had resolved he never should return. + Would she this sacrifice + Make for a dying man? How could she read + The rest! But forcing her eyes to the deed, + She read. Then dropped it in the fire to burn. + + + LVIII + + Gervase had set the river for their meeting + As farthest from the farms where Everard + Spent all his days. How should he know such cheating + Was quite expected, at least no dullard + Was Everard Frampton. Hours by hours he hid + Among the willows watching. Dusk had come, + And from the Manor he had long been gone. + Eunice her burdensome + Task set about. Hooded and cloaked, she slid + Over the slippery paths, and soon amid + The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone. + + + LIX + + Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed + Into the boat. She shook her head, but he + Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed + Words told her of what peril there might be + From listeners along the river bank. + A push would take them out of earshot. Ten + Minutes was all he asked, then she should land, + He go away again, + Forever this time. Yet how could he thank + Her for so much compassion. Here she sank + Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand + + + LX + + His boat. He cast the rope, and shoved the keel + Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside + Her; took the oars, and they began to steal + Under the overhanging trees. A wide + Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade + Into the gloom, and struck on Eunice sitting + Rigid and stark upon the after thwart. + It blazed upon their flitting + In merciless light. A moment so it stayed, + Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made + One leap, and landed just a fraction short. + + + LXI + + His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat + To straining balance. Everard lurched and seized + His wife and held her smothered to his coat. + "Everard, loose me, we shall drown--" and squeezed + Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped + "Never, by God!" The slidden boat gave way + And the black foamy water split--and met. + Bubbled up through the spray + A wailing rose and in the branches rasped, + And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped + In the blue evening, a clear moon was set. + + + LXII + + They lie entangled in the twisting roots, + Embraced forever. Their cold marriage bed + Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots + Of willows and pale birches. At the head, + White lilies, like still swans, placidly float + And sway above the pebbles. Here are waves + Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane + Gold-woven on their graves. + In perfect quietness they sleep, remote + In the green, rippled twilight. Death has smote + Them to perpetual oneness who were twain. + + + + +The Cremona Violin + + + + Part First + + Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. + A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind + Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before + Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind + The distant town was black, and sharp defined + Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, + Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers. + + A pasted city on a purple ground, + Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud + Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound + Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed, + Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud + Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom. + Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room. + + She bustled round to shake by constant moving + The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire, + She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving + Its careful setting, then her own attire + Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher + She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting + A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting + + This way or that to suit her. At last sitting, + Or rather plumping down upon a chair, + She took her work, the stocking she was knitting, + And watched the rain upon the window glare + In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare + Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!" + She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!" + + A roll of thunder set the casements clapping. + Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran, + Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping + She stood and gazed along the street. A man + Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran + Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear, + What in the name of patience brings you here? + + Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin + I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light. + This clasp is very much too worn and thin. + I'll take the other fiddle out to-night + If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite + Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I-- + Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry. + + Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you? + A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see. + Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few + Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea. + What do you say? That you were feared for me? + Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk. + I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk." + + Her needles still, her hands upon her lap + Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat + And watched the rain-run window. In his nap + Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that, + Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat, + Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room + Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom. + + But even rainy windows, silver-lit + By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give + But poor content to loneliness, and it + Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive + And down her eagerness and learn to live + In placid quiet. While her husband slept, + Charlotta in her upper chamber wept. + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man + Gentle and unambitious, that alone + Had kept him back. He played as few men can, + Drawing out of his instrument a tone + So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone + Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air, + Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair. + + Above all things, above Charlotta his wife, + Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine + Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life + Was flowering out of early discipline + When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine + The belly was. The back of broadly curled + Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled. + + The slanting, youthful sound-holes through + The belly of fine, vigorous pine + Mellowed each note and blew + It out again with a woody flavour + Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are + When breezes in their needles jar. + + The varnish was an orange-brown + Lustered like glass that's long laid down + Under a crumbling villa stone. + Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point + Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint + Clear, and bold, and thin. + Such was Herr Theodore's violin. + + Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone + With his best violin, the rain being stopped, + Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone + Watching the embers which the fire dropped. + The china shone upon the dresser, topped + By polished copper vessels which her skill + Kept brightly burnished. It was very still. + + An air from 'Orfeo' hummed in her head. + Herr Altgelt had been practising before + The night's performance. Charlotta had plead + With him to stay with her. Even at the door + She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore + You for this evening, Theodore," she had said. + "Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead." + + "A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her ear. + "You'd like to have our good Elector turn + Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer + Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn, + My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern, + And cold, and only love your work, I know. + But Theodore, for this evening, do not go." + + But he had gone, hurriedly at the end, + For she had kept him talking. Now she sat + Alone again, always alone, the trend + Of all her thinking brought her back to that + She wished to banish. What would life be? What? + For she was young, and loved, while he was moved + Only by music. Each day that was proved. + + Each day he rose and practised. While he played, + She stopped her work and listened, and her heart + Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed + And longing, she would hide from him her smart. + "Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start + She gave, and she would run to him and cry, + And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie. + + I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking! + You'll hear the thing enough before I've done." + And she would draw away from him, still shaking. + Had he but guessed she was another one, + Another violin. Her strings were aching, + Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again + He played and she almost broke at the strain. + + Where was the use of thinking of it now, + Sitting alone and listening to the clock! + She'd best make haste and knit another row. + Three hours at least must pass before his knock + Would startle her. It always was a shock. + She listened--listened--for so long before, + That when it came her hearing almost tore. + + She caught herself just starting in to listen. + What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks! + She wandered to the window, for the glisten + Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks + Of her two candles. Still she could not fix + To anything. The moon in a broad swath + Beckoned her out and down the garden-path. + + Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high + And black, their shadows doubling them. The night + Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh + Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight + Of insects, and the smell of aconite, + And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted + Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted + + The even flags. She let herself go dreaming + Of Theodore her husband, and the tune + From 'Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming + Changed--shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon + Showed her a passer-by, inopportune + Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding. + Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding. + + "The best laid plans of mice and men," alas! + The stranger came indeed, but did not pass. + Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate, + Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state, + Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass, + Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed, + And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed. + + He seemed a proper fellow standing there + In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced + With silver, and he wore his own brown hair + Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced + A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased + Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position + Was hardly easy. When would his volition + + Suggest his walking on? And then that tune! + A half-a-dozen bars from 'Orfeo' + Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune + Had brought him there to stare about him so? + "Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!" + Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on, + And seemed in no great hurry to be gone. + + Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes, + Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig. + If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes + Streamed over her. He would not care a fig, + He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig + Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose + Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose + + Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why + Do you stand there? I really must insist + Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly + To stay so long." The young man gave a twist + And turned about, and in the amethyst + Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen + From the green bushes which had been her prison. + + He swept his hat off in a hurried bow. + "Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea + I was not quite alone, and that is how + I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer + Impertinence. I thought no one was here, + And really gardens cry to be admired. + To-night especially it seemed required. + + And may I beg to introduce myself? + Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?" + Charlotta told him. And the artful elf + Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame. + So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came + To conversation with him. When she went + Into the house, she found the evening spent. + + Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased, + With all excitement in him burned away. + It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased, + And he had played his very best to-day, + But afterwards he had been forced to stay + And practise with the stupid ones. His head + Ached furiously, and he must get to bed. + + + Part Second + + Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played, + And the four strings of his violin + Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring. + The notes rose into the wide sun-mote + Which slanted through the window, + They lay like coloured beads a-row, + They knocked together and parted, + And started to dance, + Skipping, tripping, each one slipping + Under and over the others so + That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance + Or a comet's tail, + Behind them. + Then a wail arose--crescendo-- + And dropped from off the end of the bow, + And the dancing stopped. + A scent of lilies filled the room, + Long and slow. Each large white bloom + Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer, + And the hum of an organ tone, + And they waved like fans in a hall of stone + Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone. + Each lily bent slowly as it was blown. + Like smoke they rose from the violin-- + Then faded as a swifter bowing + Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing + In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion + Between broad meadows to an ocean + Wide as a day and blue as a flower, + Where every hour + Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed, + And over the marshes the Angelus pealed, + And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered + With spray. + And away a couple of frigates were starting + To race to Java with all sails set, + Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs, + And wide moonsails; and the shining rails + Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun. + All the sails went up with a run: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + And the sun had set and the high moon whitened, + And the ship heeled over to the breeze. + He drew her into the shade of the sails, + And whispered tales + Of voyages in the China seas, + And his arm around her + Held and bound her. + She almost swooned, + With the breeze and the moon + And the slipping sea, + And he beside her, + Touching her, leaning-- + The ship careening, + With the white moon steadily shining over + Her and her lover, + Theodore, still her lover! + + Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes, + And slowly floated + A single note which spread and spread + Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold, + And noises shivered throughout its length, + And tried its strength. + They pulled it, and tore it, + And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it. + Then a wide rent + Split the arching tent, + And balls of fire spurted through, + Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue. + One by one they were quenched as they fell, + Only the blue burned steadily. + Paler and paler it grew, and--faded--away. + Herr Altgelt stopped. + + "Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say? + I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner. + What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day. + I wonder how it happens I'm the winner + Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner; + You're like a bag of feathers on my knee. + Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me. + + I'm glad you're going out this afternoon. + The days are getting short, and I'm so tied + At the Court Theatre my poor little bride + Has not much junketing I fear, but soon + I'll ask our manager to grant a boon. + To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you, + And when I go, why Lotta can come too. + + Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup + To whip me up till that rehearsal's over. + You know it's odd how some women can stoop! + Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover, + A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover + If it's his money. But she lives alone + Practically. Gebnitz is a stone, + + Pores over books all day, and has no ear + For his wife's singing. Artists must have men; + They need appreciation. But it's queer + What messes people make of their lives, when + They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then + His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once. + I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce." + + Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went + Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind + Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent, + Audacious wind it was, now close behind, + Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined + The strings across her face, then from in front + Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt, + + Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing, + Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound + Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing + Itself upon her, so that she was wound + In draperies as clinging as those found + Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze + Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze + + The shops and houses had a quality + Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp + And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea. + The city streets were twanging like a harp. + Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly + She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing + Toward what destination she was going. + + She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop, + Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns, + And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop + And then float up again with lightness. Browns + Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns + Amid the gaiety of topaz seals, + Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels. + + A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard + Delighted her. And rings of every size + Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes, + Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred + To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred + Like rockets bursting on a festal day. + Charlotta could not tear herself away. + + With eyes glued tightly on a golden box, + Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue, + Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks + Of shades and lustres always darting through + Its level, superimposing sheet of blue, + Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching. + She started at the words: "Am I encroaching?" + + "Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought + We were to meet at three, is it quite that?" + "No, it is not," he answered, "but I've caught + The trick of missing you. One thing is flat, + I cannot go on this way. Life is what + Might best be conjured up by the word: 'Hell'. + Dearest, when will you come?" Lotta, to quell + + His effervescence, pointed to the gems + Within the window, asked him to admire + A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems + Uneasily the burning of a fire. + Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire. + Little by little she wooed him to her mood + Until at last he promised to be good. + + But here he started on another tack; + To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose. + She vainly urged against him all her lack + Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use + A ring or brooch her husband might accuse + Her of extravagance, and ask to see + A strict accounting, or still worse might be. + + But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why + Should he not give her what he liked? And in + He went, determined certainly to buy + A thing so beautiful that it would win + Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin + He would outscore by such a handsome jewel + That Lotta could no longer be so cruel! + + Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways. + If she went in with him, the shopman might + Recognize her, give her her name; in days + To come he could denounce her. In her fright + She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite + Capable of pursuing. By and by + She pushed the door and entered hurriedly. + + It took some pains to keep him from bestowing + A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses, + The setting twined to represent the growing + Tendrils and leaves, upon her. "Who supposes + I could obtain such things! It simply closes + All comfort for me." So he changed his mind + And bought as slight a gift as he could find. + + A locket, frosted over with seed pearls, + Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck, + Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls + Should lie in it. And further to bedeck + His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck, + The merest puff of a thin, linked chain + To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain + + From weeping as they sauntered down the street. + She did not want the locket, yet she did. + To have him love her she found very sweet, + But it is hard to keep love always hid. + Then there was something in her heart which chid + Her, told her she loved Theodore in him, + That all these meetings were a foolish whim. + + She thought of Theodore and the life they led, + So near together, but so little mingled. + The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead, + And the fresh wind about her body tingled; + The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled; + Charlotta held her breath for very fear, + About her in the street she seemed to hear: + "They call me Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + + And it was Theodore, under the racing skies, + Who held her and who whispered in her ear. + She knew her heart was telling her no lies, + Beating and hammering. He was so dear, + The touch of him would send her in a queer + Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning + For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning + + Street after street as Heinrich wished it so. + He had some aim, she had forgotten what. + Their progress was confused and very slow, + But at the last they reached a lonely spot, + A garden far above the highest shot + Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town + Spread open like a chequer-board laid down. + + Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest, + Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain + About her neck. She treated it in jest, + And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain. + Then suddenly she felt as though a strain + Were put upon her, collared like a slave, + Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave. + + She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands + To snap it, but they held with odd persistence. + Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands + Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance + Melted within her, from remotest distance, + Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near, + And giving way she knew him very dear. + + For long he held her, and they both gazed down + At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river. + From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown + Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver + Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver + When, opening the locket, they were placed + Under the glass, commingled and enlaced. + + "When will you have it so with us?" He sighed. + She shook her head. He pressed her further. "No, + No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me," and she tried + To free herself and rise. He held her so, + Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go. + "But you love me," he whispered, with his face + Burning against her through her kerchief's lace. + + Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew + That what her husband lit this other man + Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few + Women were so discreet as she, who ran + No danger since she knew what things to ban. + She opened her house door at five o'clock, + A short half-hour before her husband's knock. + + + Part Third + + The 'Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed + With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, + That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed + With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring + Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting + Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting + From muffled tympani made a dark slatting + + Across the silver shimmering of flutes; + A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; + The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, + And mutterings of double basses trailed + Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed + Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter + They lost themselves amid the general clatter. + + Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone, + Felt lifted up into another world. + Before her eyes a thousand candles shone + In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled + And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. + She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, + And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering + + All round her in the boxes. Red and gold, + The house, like rubies set in filigree, + Filliped the candlelight about, and bold + Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly + Ogled fair beauties in the balcony. + An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling. + Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling + + About a play-bill he had bought and lost. + Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected. + Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post + Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected + The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected + When with no glance about him or her way, + He lifted up his violin to play. + + The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so, + Charlotta never saw it go. + The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing + Only came to her like the ringing + Of bells at a festa + Which swing in the air + And nobody realizes they are there. + They jingle and jangle, + And clang, and bang, + And never a soul could tell whether they rang, + For the plopping of guns and rockets + And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets, + And the shuffling and clapping of feet, + And the loud flapping + Of flags, with the drums, + As the military comes. + It's a famous tune to walk to, + And I wonder where they're off to. + Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums. + But the rhythm changes as though a mist + Were curling and twisting + Over the landscape. + For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog + Encompasses her. Then her senses jog + To the breath of a stately minuet. + Herr Altgelt's violin is set + In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances, + To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances. + Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights + When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights + Blundering insects knock, + And the 'Rathaus' clock + Booms twice, through the shrill sounds + Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds. + Pressed against him in the mazy wavering + Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering + She leans upon the beating, throbbing + Music. Laughing, sobbing, + Feet gliding after sliding feet; + His--hers-- + The ballroom blurs-- + She feels the air + Lifting her hair, + And the lapping of water on the stone stair. + He is there! He is there! + Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins, + That the dancers may dance, and never discover + The old stone stair leading down to the river + With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over + Her and her lover. + Theodore, still her lover! + + The evening passed like this, in a half faint, + Delirium with waking intervals + Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint + Of a large company, the constant calls + For oranges or syrops from the stalls + Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro, + Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito. + + She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded, + The music vaunted as most excellent. + The scenery and the costumes were applauded, + The latter it was whispered had been sent + From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent + A fortune on them, so the gossips said. + Charlotta felt a lightness in her head. + + When the next act began, her eyes were swimming, + Her prodded ears were aching and confused. + The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming + Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused + Into the music, Theodore's music! Used + To hear him play, she caught his single tone. + For all she noticed they two were alone. + + + Part Fourth + + Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street, + Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down + Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat + A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown + Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown + The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes + Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise. + + Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm, + Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman + And ordered off. However, no great harm + Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan + When Theodore, her belated guardian, + Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling, + Half out of fear, half out of the assembling + + Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given. + Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know. + "Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!" + "Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so? + Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow + Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops, + A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops." + + He was so simple, so matter-of-fact, + Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say + To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact + Kept him explaining all the homeward way + How this thing had gone well, that badly. "Stay, + Theodore!" she cried at last. "You know to me + Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy." + + And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed + Herself so much, and said so. "But it's good + To be got home again." He was employed + In looking at his violin, the wood + Was old, and evening air did it no good. + But when he drew up to the table for tea + Something about his wife's vivacity + + Struck him as hectic, worried him in short. + He talked of this and that but watched her close. + Tea over, he endeavoured to extort + The cause of her excitement. She arose + And stood beside him, trying to compose + Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life, + And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife. + + Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp, + Her music-kindled love crashed on him there. + Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp + Her arms about him, weighing down his chair, + Sobbing out all her hours of despair. + "Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved. + Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved." + + Theodore went under in this tearing wave, + He yielded to it, and its headlong flow + Filled him with all the energy she gave. + He was a youth again, and this bright glow, + This living, vivid joy he had to show + Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying, + She asked assurances there's no denying. + + Over and over again her questions, till + He quite convinced her, every now and then + She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still. + But later when they were composed and when + She dared relax her probings, "Lottachen," + He asked, "how is it your love has withstood + My inadvertence? I was made of wood." + + She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly, + That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky + To her. And even if conscience were unruly + She salved it by neat sophistries, but why + Suppose her insincere, it was no lie + She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot + As though he'd never been within earshot. + + But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing + Fumbled against the locket where it lay + Upon her neck. "What is this thing I'm pressing?" + He asked. "Let's bring it to the light of day." + He lifted up the locket. "It should stay + Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste. + To keep it hidden surely is a waste." + + Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused + Out of her happiness. The locket brought + A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused + Under its icy spurting she was caught, + And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought + The clasp, but with such art was this contrived + Her fumbling fingers never once arrived + + Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round, + She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring + And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound, + Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing + To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string + Binding her folly to her, and those curls + Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls! + + Again she tried to break the cord. It stood. + "Unclasp it, Theodore," she begged. But he + Refused, and being in a happy mood, + Twitted her with her inefficiency, + Then looking at her very seriously: + "I think, Charlotta, it is well to have + Always about one what a mother gave. + + As she has taken the great pains to send + This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be + Ingratitude if you do not intend + To carry it about you constantly. + With her fine taste you cannot disagree, + The locket is most beautifully designed." + He opened it and there the curls were, twined. + + Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches. + She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze. + Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches, + She heard her husband asking: "What are those?" + Put out her hand quickly to interpose, + But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded + At the calm way the question was propounded. + + "A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare. + Indeed I will not let you put it off. + A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!" + Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough. + "Never with my connivance shall you doff + This charming gift." He kissed her on the cheek, + And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek. + + When later in their room she lay awake, + Watching the moonlight slip along the floor, + She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake. + She had loved Heinrich also, and the core + Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore + She vowed from now to break this double life + And see herself only as Theodore's wife. + + + Part Fifth + + It was no easy matter to convince + Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say + That though they could not meet (he saw her wince) + She still must keep the locket to allay + Suspicion in her husband. She would pay + Him from her savings bit by bit--the oath + He swore at that was startling to them both. + + Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt + Adhered to it, and suffered no regret. + She found her husband all that she had felt + His music to contain. Her days were set + In his as though she were an amulet + Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining; + Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining. + + Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks + Were furbished up to seem like rituals. + She baked and brewed as one who only asks + The right to serve. Her daily manuals + Of prayer were duties, and her festivals + When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said + She had a knack in making up a bed. + + So Autumn went, and all the mountains round + The city glittered white with fallen snow, + For it was Winter. Over the hard ground + Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow. + On the swept flags behind the currant row + Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip + Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership + + Was first again. This evening he had got + Important news. The opera ordered from + Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot, + The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come + Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot + From copying, had been tried over. Never + Had any music started such a fever. + + The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse, + The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made, + With such a great attraction through the course + Of Carnival time. In what utter shade + All other cities would be left! The trade + In music would all drift here naturally. + In his excitement he forgot his tea. + + Lotta was forced to take his cup and put + It in his hand. But still he rattled on, + Sipping at intervals. The new catgut + Strings he was using gave out such a tone + The "Maestro" had remarked it, and had gone + Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled, + He was as happy as a little child. + + From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more, + Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first + Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore + Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst + Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst; + That his short interest in her was a light + Flared up an instant only in the night. + + 'Idomeneo' was the opera's name, + A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate. + Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came + Home for his tea, and it was very late, + Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state + Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin + Is thin with pulling, and all dented in. + + He practised every morning and her heart + Followed his bow. But often she would sit, + While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart, + Absently fingering and touching it, + The locket, which now seemed to her a bit + Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears, + And through the notes he played, her dreading ears + + Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed; + Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take + Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged + Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take + Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake, + Along the street where Heinrich had his shop. + What harm to pass it since she should not stop! + + It matters nothing how one day she met + Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by. + Nor how the following week he stood to let + Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly. + How once he took her basket, and once he + Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck + Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck + + How many times their business took them each + Right to the other. Then at last he spoke, + But she would only nod, he got no speech + From her. Next time he treated it in joke, + And that so lightly that her vow she broke + And answered. So they drifted into seeing + Each other as before. There was no fleeing. + + Christmas was over and the Carnival + Was very near, and tripping from each tongue + Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall + Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung, + What singers hired. Pictures of the young + "Maestro" were for sale. The town was mad. + Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad. + + Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will + And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore + And him. Sometimes she wished to kill + Herself to solve her problem. For a score + Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore + Her moods with patience, and so surely urged + Himself upon her, she was slowly merged + + Into his way of thinking, and to fly + With him seemed easy. But next morning would + The Stradivarius undo her mood. + Then she would realize that she must cleave + Always to Theodore. And she would try + To convince Heinrich she should never leave, + And afterwards she would go home and grieve. + + All thought in Munich centered on the part + Of January when there would be given + 'Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart. + The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even + Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven + Behind the highest gallery, were sold. + The inches of the theatre went for gold. + + Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin + With work, he hardly printed black behind + The candle. He and his old violin + Made up one person. He was not unkind, + But dazed outside his playing, and the rind, + The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded + A part of him which he had quite discarded. + + It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights, + In little lights, + Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering, + Here--there-- + Spurting, sputtering, + Fading and lighting, + Together, asunder-- + Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder, + And the faint grey patch of the window shone + Upon her sitting there, alone. + For Theodore slept. + + The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day, + 'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant + Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play + His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent + Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went + Into the kitchen, with a weary word + Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard. + + Lotta heard more than his spoken word. + She heard the vibrating of strings and wood. + She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds, + When the sound began, + Long as the span + Of a white road snaking about a hill. + The orchards are filled + With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise. + Hawthorn buds are cracking, + And in the distance a shepherd is clacking + His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep. + The notes are asleep, + Lying adrift on the air + In level lines + Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines, + Strung and threaded, + All imbedded + In the blue-green of the hazy pines. + Lines--long, straight lines! + And stems, + Long, straight stems + Pushing up + To the cup of blue, blue sky. + Stems growing misty + With the many of them, + Red-green mist + Of the trees, + And these + Wood-flavoured notes. + The back is maple and the belly is pine. + The rich notes twine + As though weaving in and out of leaves, + Broad leaves + Flapping slowly like elephants' ears, + Waving and falling. + Another sound peers + Through little pine fingers, + And lingers, peeping. + Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping. + There is a twittering up in the branches, + A chirp and a lilt, + And crimson atilt on a swaying twig. + Wings! Wings! + And a little ruffled-out throat which sings. + The forest bends, tumultuous + With song. + The woodpecker knocks, + And the song-sparrow trills, + Every fir, and cedar, and yew + Has a nest or a bird, + It is quite absurd + To hear them cutting across each other: + Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once, + And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother + A wood-pigeon perched on a birch, + "Roo--coo--oo--oo--" + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's one for you!" + A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill! + And the great trees toss + And leaves blow down, + You can almost hear them splash on the ground. + The whistle again: + It is double and loud! + The leaves are splashing, + And water is dashing + Over those creepers, for they are shrouds; + And men are running up them to furl the sails, + For there is a capful of wind to-day, + And we are already well under way. + The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze. + "Theodore, please. + Oh, Dear, how you tease!" + And the boatswain's whistle sounds again, + And the men pull on the sheets: + "My name is Hanging Johnny, + Away-i-oh; + They call me Hanging Johnny, + So hang, boys, hang." + The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts; + They are swinging over + Her and her lover. + Almost swooning + Under the ballooning canvas, + She lies + Looking up in his eyes + As he bends farther over. + Theodore, still her lover! + + The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands, + She leant against the table for support, + Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands + Burning upon his music. He stopped short. + Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands + Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart, + Her fingers touched the locket with a start. + + Herr Altgelt put his violin away + Listlessly. "Lotta, I must have some rest. + The strain will be a hideous one to-day. + Don't speak to me at all. It will be best + If I am quiet till I go." And lest + She disobey, he left her. On the stairs + She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers! + + He could not hear, he was not there, for she + Was married to a mummy, a machine. + Her hand closed on the locket bitterly. + Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen + Case of his violin. She saw the clean + Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge + Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge. + + A heavy cart went by, a distant bell + Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate. + She was alone. Her throat began to swell + With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait? + The violin she had begun to hate + Lay in its case before her. Here she flung + The cover open. With the fiddle swung + + Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking + Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused + The little door in it came open, flicking + A wooden cuckoo out: "Cuckoo!" It caused + The forest dream to come again. "Cuckoo!" + Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two. + + "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" the clock kept striking on; + But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone. + + + + +The Cross-Roads + + + +A bullet through his heart at dawn. On the table a letter signed with a +woman's name. A wind that goes howling round the house, and weeping as +in shame. Cold November dawn peeping through the windows, cold dawn +creeping over the floor, creeping up his cold legs, creeping over his +cold body, creeping across his cold face. A glaze of thin yellow +sunlight on the staring eyes. Wind howling through bent branches. A +wind which never dies down. Howling, wailing. The gazing eyes glitter +in the sunlight. The lids are frozen open and the eyes glitter. + + +The thudding of a pick on hard earth. A spade grinding and crunching. +Overhead, branches writhing, winding, interlacing, unwinding, +scattering; tortured twinings, tossings, creakings. Wind flinging +branches apart, drawing them together, whispering and whining among +them. A waning, lopsided moon cutting through black clouds. A stream +of pebbles and earth and the empty spade gleams clear in the moonlight, +then is rammed again into the black earth. Tramping of feet. Men and +horses. Squeaking of wheels. + +"Whoa! Ready, Jim?" + +"All ready." + +Something falls, settles, is still. Suicides have no coffin. + +"Give us the stake, Jim. Now." + +Pound! Pound! + +"He'll never walk. Nailed to the ground." + +An ash stick pierces his heart, if it buds the roots will hold him. He +is a part of the earth now, clay to clay. Overhead the branches sway, +and writhe, and twist in the wind. He'll never walk with a bullet in +his heart, and an ash stick nailing him to the cold, black ground. + + +Six months he lay still. Six months. And the water welled up in his +body, and soft blue spots chequered it. He lay still, for the ash stick +held him in place. Six months! Then her face came out of a mist of +green. Pink and white and frail like Dresden china, lilies-of-the-valley +at her breast, puce-coloured silk sheening about her. Under the young +green leaves, the horse at a foot-pace, the high yellow wheels of the +chaise scarcely turning, her face, rippling like grain a-blowing, under +her puce-coloured bonnet; and burning beside her, flaming within his +correct blue coat and brass buttons, is someone. What has dimmed the +sun? The horse steps on a rolling stone; a wind in the branches makes a +moan. The little leaves tremble and shake, turn and quake, over and +over, tearing their stems. There is a shower of young leaves, and a +sudden-sprung gale wails in the trees. + +The yellow-wheeled chaise is rocking--rocking, and all the branches +are knocking--knocking. The sun in the sky is a flat, red plate, the +branches creak and grate. She screams and cowers, for the green foliage +is a lowering wave surging to smother her. But she sees nothing. The +stake holds firm. The body writhes, the body squirms. The blue spots +widen, the flesh tears, but the stake wears well in the deep, black +ground. It holds the body in the still, black ground. + + +Two years! The body has been in the ground two years. It is worn away; +it is clay to clay. Where the heart moulders, a greenish dust, the +stake is thrust. Late August it is, and night; a night flauntingly +jewelled with stars, a night of shooting stars and loud insect noises. +Down the road to Tilbury, silence--and the slow flapping of large +leaves. Down the road to Sutton, silence--and the darkness of +heavy-foliaged trees. Down the road to Wayfleet, silence--and the +whirring scrape of insects in the branches. Down the road to +Edgarstown, silence--and stars like stepping-stones in a pathway +overhead. It is very quiet at the cross-roads, and the sign-board +points the way down the four roads, endlessly points the way where +nobody wishes to go. + +A horse is galloping, galloping up from Sutton. Shaking the wide, still +leaves as he goes under them. Striking sparks with his iron shoes; +silencing the katydids. Dr. Morgan riding to a child-birth over Tilbury +way; riding to deliver a woman of her first-born son. One o'clock from +Wayfleet bell tower, what a shower of shooting stars! And a breeze all +of a sudden, jarring the big leaves and making them jerk up and down. +Dr. Morgan's hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and curves +away from the sign-post. An oath--spurs--a blurring of grey mist. A +quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing down the +Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him. + +The stake has wrenched, the stake has started, the body, flesh from +flesh, has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball, and +clamping them down in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged +through ribs and spine. The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but +the stake holds them still in line. The breeze goes down, and the round +stars shine, for the stake holds the fleshless bones in line. + + +Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body has powdered itself +away; it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown earth. +Only flaky bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not +one bone is knit to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, +but upright still, and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a +straight line. + +Yellow stillness is on the cross-roads, yellow stillness is on the +trees. The leaves hang drooping, wan. The four roads point four yellow +ways, saffron and gamboge ribbons to the gaze. A little swirl of dust +blows up Tilbury road, the wind which fans it has not strength to do +more; it ceases, and the dust settles down. A little whirl of wind +comes up Tilbury road. It brings a sound of wheels and feet. The wind +reels a moment and faints to nothing under the sign-post. Wind again, +wheels and feet louder. Wind again--again--again. A drop of rain, +flat into the dust. Drop!--Drop! Thick heavy raindrops, and a +shrieking wind bending the great trees and wrenching off their leaves. + +Under the black sky, bowed and dripping with rain, up Tilbury road, +comes the procession. A funeral procession, bound for the graveyard at +Wayfleet. Feet and wheels--feet and wheels. And among them one who +is carried. + +The bones in the deep, still earth shiver and pull. There is a quiver +through the rotted stake. Then stake and bones fall together in a +little puffing of dust. + +Like meshes of linked steel the rain shuts down behind the procession, +now well along the Wayfleet road. + +He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like +smoke, his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign-post, in the +pouring rain, he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting +down the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. It flickers +among the trees. He licks out and winds about them. Over, under, +blown, contorted. Spindrift after spindrift; smoke following smoke. +There is a wailing through the trees, a wailing of fear, and after it +laughter--laughter--laughter, skirling up to the black sky. +Lightning jags over the funeral procession. A heavy clap of thunder. +Then darkness and rain, and the sound of feet and wheels. + + + + + +A Roxbury Garden + + + + I + + Hoops + + Blue and pink sashes, + Criss-cross shoes, + Minna and Stella run out into the garden + To play at hoop. + + Up and down the garden-paths they race, + In the yellow sunshine, + Each with a big round hoop + White as a stripped willow-wand. + + Round and round turn the hoops, + Their diamond whiteness cleaving the yellow sunshine. + The gravel crunches and squeaks beneath them, + And a large pebble springs them into the air + To go whirling for a foot or two + Before they touch the earth again + In a series of little jumps. + + Spring, Hoops! + Spit out a shower of blue and white brightness. + The little criss-cross shoes twinkle behind you, + The pink and blue sashes flutter like flags, + The hoop-sticks are ready to beat you. + Turn, turn, Hoops! In the yellow sunshine. + Turn your stripped willow whiteness + Along the smooth paths. + + Stella sings: + "Round and round, rolls my hoop, + Scarcely touching the ground, + With a swoop, + And a bound, + Round and round. + With a bumpety, crunching, scattering sound, + Down the garden it flies; + In our eyes + The sun lies. + See it spin + Out and in; + Through the paths it goes whirling, + About the beds curling. + Sway now to the loop, + Faster, faster, my hoop. + Round you come, + Up you come, + Quick and straight as before. + Run, run, my hoop, run, + Away from the sun." + + And the great hoop bounds along the path, + Leaping into the wind-bright air. + + Minna sings: + "Turn, hoop, + Burn hoop, + Twist and twine + Hoop of mine. + Flash along, + Leap along, + Right at the sun. + Run, hoop, run. + Faster and faster, + Whirl, twirl. + Wheel like fire, + And spin like glass; + Fire's no whiter + Glass is no brighter. + Dance, + Prance, + Over and over, + About and about, + With the top of you under, + And the bottom at top, + But never a stop. + Turn about, hoop, to the tap of my stick, + I follow behind you + To touch and remind you. + Burn and glitter, so white and quick, + Round and round, to the tap of a stick." + + The hoop flies along between the flower-beds, + Swaying the flowers with the wind of its passing. + + Beside the foxglove-border roll the hoops, + And the little pink and white bells shake and jingle + Up and down their tall spires; + They roll under the snow-ball bush, + And the ground behind them is strewn with white petals; + They swirl round a corner, + And jar a bee out of a Canterbury bell; + They cast their shadows for an instant + Over a bed of pansies, + Catch against the spurs of a columbine, + Jostle the quietness from a cluster of monk's-hood. + Pat! Pat! behind them come the little criss-cross shoes, + And the blue and pink sashes stream out in flappings of colour. + + Stella sings: + "Hoop, hoop, + Roll along, + Faster bowl along, + Hoop. + Slow, to the turning, + Now go!--Go! + Quick! + Here's the stick. + Rat-a-tap-tap it, + Pat it, flap it. + Fly like a bird or a yellow-backed bee, + See how soon you can reach that tree. + Here is a path that is perfectly straight. + Roll along, hoop, or we shall be late." + + Minna sings: + "Trip about, slip about, whip about + Hoop. + Wheel like a top at its quickest spin, + Then, dear hoop, we shall surely win. + First to the greenhouse and then to the wall + Circle and circle, + And let the wind push you, + Poke you, + Brush you, + And not let you fall. + Whirring you round like a wreath of mist. + Hoopety hoop, + Twist, + Twist." + + Tap! Tap! go the hoop-sticks, + And the hoops bowl along under a grape arbour. + For an instant their willow whiteness is green, + Pale white-green. + Then they are out in the sunshine, + Leaving the half-formed grape clusters + A-tremble under their big leaves. + + "I will beat you, Minna," cries Stella, + Hitting her hoop smartly with her stick. + "Stella, Stella, we are winning," calls Minna, + As her hoop curves round a bed of clove-pinks. + A humming-bird whizzes past Stella's ear, + And two or three yellow-and-black butterflies + Flutter, startled, out of a pillar rose. + Round and round race the little girls + After their great white hoops. + + Suddenly Minna stops. + Her hoop wavers an instant, + But she catches it up on her stick. + "Listen, Stella!" + Both the little girls are listening; + And the scents of the garden rise up quietly about them. + "It's the chaise! It's Father! + Perhaps he's brought us a book from Boston." + Twinkle, twinkle, the little criss-cross shoes + Up the garden path. + Blue--pink--an instant, against the syringa hedge. + But the hoops, white as stripped willow-wands, + Lie in the grass, + And the grasshoppers jump back and forth + Over them. + + + II + + Battledore and Shuttlecock + + The shuttlecock soars upward + In a parabola of whiteness, + Turns, + And sinks to a perfect arc. + Plat! the battledore strikes it, + And it rises again, + Without haste, + Winged and curving, + Tracing its white flight + Against the clipped hemlock-trees. + Plat! + Up again, + Orange and sparkling with sun, + Rounding under the blue sky, + Dropping, + Fading to grey-green + In the shadow of the coned hemlocks. + "Ninety-one." "Ninety-two." "Ninety-three." + The arms of the little girls + Come up--and up-- + Precisely, + Like mechanical toys. + The battledores beat at nothing, + And toss the dazzle of snow + Off their parchment drums. + "Ninety-four." Plat! + "Ninety-five." Plat! + Back and forth + Goes the shuttlecock, + Icicle-white, + Leaping at the sharp-edged clouds, + Overturning, + Falling, + Down, + And down, + Tinctured with pink + From the upthrusting shine + Of Oriental poppies. + + The little girls sway to the counting rhythm; + Left foot, + Right foot. + Plat! Plat! + Yellow heat twines round the handles of the battledores, + The parchment cracks with dryness; + But the shuttlecock + Swings slowly into the ice-blue sky, + Heaving up on the warm air + Like a foam-bubble on a wave, + With feathers slanted and sustaining. + Higher, + Until the earth turns beneath it; + Poised and swinging, + With all the garden flowing beneath it, + Scarlet, and blue, and purple, and white-- + Blurred colour reflections in rippled water-- + Changing--streaming-- + For the moment that Stella takes to lift her arm. + Then the shuttlecock relinquishes, + Bows, + Descends; + And the sharp blue spears of the air + Thrust it to earth. + + Again it mounts, + Stepping up on the rising scents of flowers, + Buoyed up and under by the shining heat. + Above the foxgloves, + Above the guelder-roses, + Above the greenhouse glitter, + Till the shafts of cooler air + Meet it, + Deflect it, + Reject it, + Then down, + Down, + Past the greenhouse, + Past the guelder-rose bush, + Past the foxgloves. + + "Ninety-nine," Stella's battledore springs to the impact. + Plunk! Like the snap of a taut string. + "Oh! Minna!" + The shuttlecock drops zigzagedly, + Out of orbit, + Hits the path, + And rolls over quite still. + Dead white feathers, + With a weight at the end. + + + III + + Garden Games + + The tall clock is striking twelve; + And the little girls stop in the hall to watch it, + And the big ships rocking in a half-circle + Above the dial. + Twelve o'clock! + Down the side steps + Go the little girls, + Under their big round straw hats. + Minna's has a pink ribbon, + Stella's a blue, + That is the way they know which is which. + Twelve o'clock! + An hour yet before dinner. + Mother is busy in the still-room, + And Hannah is making gingerbread. + + Slowly, with lagging steps, + They follow the garden-path, + Crushing a leaf of box for its acrid smell, + Discussing what they shall do, + And doing nothing. + + "Stella, see that grasshopper + Climbing up the bank! + What a jump! + Almost as long as my arm." + Run, children, run. + For the grasshopper is leaping away, + In half-circle curves, + Shuttlecock curves, + Over the grasses. + Hand in hand, the little girls call to him: + "Grandfather, grandfather gray, + Give me molasses, or I'll throw you away." + + The grasshopper leaps into the sunlight, + Golden-green, + And is gone. + + "Let's catch a bee." + Round whirl the little girls, + And up the garden. + Two heads are thrust among the Canterbury bells, + Listening, + And fingers clasp and unclasp behind backs + In a strain of silence. + + White bells, + Blue bells, + Hollow and reflexed. + Deep tunnels of blue and white dimness, + Cool wine-tunnels for bees. + There is a floundering and buzzing over Minna's head. + + "Bend it down, Stella. Quick! Quick!" + The wide mouth of a blossom + Is pressed together in Minna's fingers. + The stem flies up, jiggling its flower-bells, + And Minna holds the dark blue cup in her hand, + With the bee + Imprisoned in it. + Whirr! Buzz! Bump! + Bump! Whiz! Bang! + BANG!! + The blue flower tears across like paper, + And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine. + + "If we could fly, we could catch him." + The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face, + As she stares after the bee. + "We'll follow him in a dove chariot. + Come on, Stella." + Run, children, + Along the red gravel paths, + For a bee is hard to catch, + Even with a chariot of doves. + + Tall, still, and cowled, + Stand the monk's-hoods; + Taller than the heads of the little girls. + A blossom for Minna. + A blossom for Stella. + Off comes the cowl, + And there is a purple-painted chariot; + Off comes the forward petal, + And there are two little green doves, + With green traces tying them to the chariot. + "Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds. + Fly, Doves, up in the sky, + With Minna and me, + After the bee." + + Up one path, + Down another, + Run the little girls, + Holding their dove chariots in front of them; + But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle, + With his wings folded along his back. + + The dove chariots are thrown away, + And the little girls wander slowly through the garden, + Sucking the salvia tips, + And squeezing the snapdragons + To make them gape. + "I'm so hot, + Let's pick a pansy + And see the little man in his bath, + And play we're he." + A royal bath-tub, + Hung with purple stuffs and yellow. + The great purple-yellow wings + Rise up behind the little red and green man; + The purple-yellow wings fan him, + He dabbles his feet in cool green. + Off with the green sheath, + And there are two spindly legs. + "Heigho!" sighs Minna. + "Heigho!" sighs Stella. + There is not a flutter of wind, + And the sun is directly overhead. + + Along the edge of the garden + Walk the little girls. + Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses, + Are dangling by the ribbons. + The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies; + Buttercups and daisies streaming away + Up the hill. + The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet; + The garden is hot with colours. + But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green, + Cool, and long, and quiet. + The little girls pick buttercups + And hold them under each other's chins. + "You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box. + You're going to be very rich, Minna." + "Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings + Just like Aunt Nancy's. + I wonder if he will. + I know. We'll tell fortunes. + That's what we'll do." + Plump down in the meadow grass, + Stella and Minna, + With their round yellow hats, + Like cheeses, + Beside them. + Drop, + Drop, + Daisy petals. + "One I love, + Two I love, + Three I love I say..." + The ground is peppered with daisy petals, + And the little girls nibble the golden centres, + And play it is cake. + + A bell rings. + Dinner-time; + And after dinner there are lessons. + + + + +1777 + + + + I + + The Trumpet-Vine Arbour + + The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, + And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight. + They bray and blare at the burning sky. + Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, + Trumpeted at the blue sky. + In long streaks of sound, molten metal, + The vine declares itself. + Clang!--from its red and yellow trumpets. + Clang!--from its long, nasal trumpets, + Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. + + I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight. + It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets, + I only know that they are red and open, + And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat. + My quill is newly mended, + And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. + Down the long, white paper it makes little lines, + Just lines--up--down--criss-cross. + My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; + It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. + My hand marches to a squeaky tune, + It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. + My pen and the trumpet-flowers, + And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest. + "Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British, + Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. + What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. + Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. + Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! + Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top + Through Father's spy-glass. + The red city, and the blue, bright water, + And puffs of smoke which you made. + Twenty miles away, + Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, + But the smoke was white--white! + To-day the trumpet-flowers are red--red-- + And I cannot see you fighting, + But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, + And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking. + The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, + And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. + + + II + + The City of Falling Leaves + + Leaves fall, + Brown leaves, + Yellow leaves streaked with brown. + They fall, + Flutter, + Fall again. + The brown leaves, + And the streaked yellow leaves, + Loosen on their branches + And drift slowly downwards. + One, + One, two, three, + One, two, five. + All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves-- + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + + "That sonnet, Abate, + Beautiful, + I am quite exhausted by it. + Your phrases turn about my heart + And stifle me to swooning. + Open the window, I beg. + Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! + 'Tis really a shame to stop indoors. + Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. + Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! + See how straight the leaves are falling. + Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, + It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. + Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'? + You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey? + Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?" + "Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'? + A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, + And Venus herself shines less..." + "You bore me, Abate, + I vow I must change you! + A letter, Achmet? + Run and look out of the window, Abate. + I will read my letter in peace." + The little black slave with the yellow satin turban + Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. + His yellow turban and black skin + Are gorgeous--barbaric. + The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings + Lies on a chair + Beside a black mantle and a black mask. + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous--barbaric. + The lady reads her letter, + And the leaves drift slowly + Past the long windows. + "How silly you look, my dear Abate, + With that great brown leaf in your wig. + Pluck it off, I beg you, + Or I shall die of laughing." + + A yellow wall + Aflare in the sunlight, + Chequered with shadows, + Shadows of vine leaves, + Shadows of masks. + Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, + Then passing on, + More masks always replacing them. + Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind + Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels, + The sunlight shining under their insteps. + One, + One, two, + One, two, three, + There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, + Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. + Yellow sunlight and black shadows, + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous--barbaric. + Two masks stand together, + And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, + Marking the wall where they are not. + From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, + From elbow to sword-hilt, + The leaf falls. + The shadows mingle, + Blur together, + Slide along the wall and disappear. + Gold of mosaics and candles, + And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. + Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections. + A cloak brushes aside, + And the yellow of satin + Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement. + Under the gold crucifixes + There is a meeting of hands + Reaching from black mantles. + Sighing embraces, bold investigations, + Hide in confessionals, + Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. + Gorgeous--barbaric + In its mail of jewels and gold, + Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks; + And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, + Flutter, + Fall. + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + + Blue-black, the sky over Venice, + With a pricking of yellow stars. + There is no moon, + And the waves push darkly against the prow + Of the gondola, + Coming from Malamocco + And streaming toward Venice. + It is black under the gondola hood, + But the yellow of a satin dress + Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. + Yellow compassed about with darkness, + Yellow and black, + Gorgeous--barbaric. + The boatman sings, + It is Tasso that he sings; + The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, + And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. + But at Malamocco in front, + In Venice behind, + Fall the leaves, + Brown, + And yellow streaked with brown. + They fall, + Flutter, + Fall. + + + + + +BRONZE TABLETS + + + + +The Fruit Shop + + + + Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, + High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; + A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown + She pluckered her little brows into + As she picked her dainty passage through + The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle, + A dirty pathway, we need rain, + My poor fruits suffer, and the shell + Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain + Here in the sun it has shrunk again. + The baker down at the corner says + We need a battle to shake the clouds; + But I am a man of peace, my ways + Don't look to the killing of men in crowds. + Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds! + Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun. + Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool + In here, for the green leaves I have run + In a curtain over the door, make a pool + Of shade. You see the pears on that stool-- + The shadow keeps them plump and fair." + Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves + Held back the sun, a greenish flare + Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves + Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves, + Shot from the golden letters, broke + And splintered to little scattered lights. + Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke + Bonnet tilted itself to rights, + And her face looked out like the moon on nights + Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I + Want gooseberries, an apple or two, + Or excellent plums, but not if they're high; + Haven't you some which a strong wind blew? + I've only a couple of francs for you." + Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands. + What could he do, the times were sad. + A couple of francs and such demands! + And asking for fruits a little bad. + Wind-blown indeed! He never had + Anything else than the very best. + He pointed to baskets of blunted pears + With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest, + All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears. + Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears. + He took up a pear with tender care, + And pressed it with his hardened thumb. + "Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there + Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come + Only from having a dish at home. + And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine, + Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey. + They're only this morning off the vine, + And I paid for them down in silver money. + The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony + Brought them in at sunrise to-day. + Those oranges--Gold! They're almost red. + They seem little chips just broken away + From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead + You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay, + When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray. + Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs, + They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships + Make it a little hard for our rigs. + They must be forever giving the slips + To the cursed English, and when men clips + Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts + A bit in price. Those almonds now, + I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts + A life or two in a nigger row + With the man who grew them, it does seem how + They would come dear; and then the fight + At sea perhaps, our boats have heels + And mostly they sail along at night, + But once in a way they're caught; one feels + Ivory's not better nor finer--why peels + From an almond kernel are worth two sous. + It's hard to sell them now," he sighed. + "Purses are tight, but I shall not lose. + There's plenty of cheaper things to choose." + He picked some currants out of a wide + Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue + Almost fly out to suck them, bride + Currants they are, they were planted long + Ago for some new Marquise, among + Other great beauties, before the Chateau + Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife, + He that marched off to his death at Marengo, + Sells them to me; she keeps her life + From snuffing out, with her pruning knife. + She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade + When her man was young, and the young Marquis + Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made + All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that he + Was no friend to the people, and so they laid + Some charge against him, a cavalcade + Of citizens took him away; they meant + Well, but I think there was some mistake. + He just pottered round in his garden, bent + On growing things; we were so awake + In those days for the New Republic's sake. + He's gone, and the garden is all that's left + Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots, + And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft + Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots, + Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft + Or worm among them, and as for theft, + How the old woman keeps them I cannot say, + But they're finer than any grown this way." + Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring + Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down + And shook it, two coins fell with a ding + Of striking silver, beneath her gown + One rolled, the other lay, a thing + Sparked white and sharply glistening, + In a drop of sunlight between two shades. + She jerked the purse, took its empty ends + And crumpled them toward the centre braids. + The whole collapsed to a mass of blends + Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends + We have always been. In the days before + The Great Revolution my aunt was kind + When you needed help. You need no more; + 'Tis we now who must beg at your door, + And will you refuse?" The little man + Bustled, denied, his heart was good, + But times were hard. He went to a pan + And poured upon the counter a flood + Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood. + He took a melon with rough green rind + And rubbed it well with his apron tip. + Then he hunted over the shop to find + Some walnuts cracking at the lip, + And added to these a barberry slip + Whose acrid, oval berries hung + Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round + Basket, with handles, from where it swung + Against the wall, laid it on the ground + And filled it, then he searched and found + The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall. + "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?" + She smiled, "The next time that I call, + Monsieur. You know that very well." + 'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell. + Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed. + She took her basket and stepped out. + The sunlight was so bright it flashed + Her eyes to blindness, and the rout + Of the little street was all about. + Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed. + The heavy basket was a care. + She heard a shout and almost grazed + The panels of a chaise and pair. + The postboy yelled, and an amazed + Face from the carriage window gazed. + She jumped back just in time, her heart + Beating with fear. Through whirling light + The chaise departed, but her smart + Was keen and bitter. In the white + Dust of the street she saw a bright + Streak of colours, wet and gay, + Red like blood. Crushed but fair, + Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way. + Monsieur Popain joined her there. + "Tiens, Mademoiselle, + c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre!" + + + + +Malmaison + + + +I + +How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, +beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings, +over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like +ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the +sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and +curving river. A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom +at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the +Citoyenne Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and +powdered with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! +Roses with smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves... Roses +... They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her +shoulders and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would +be back in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely. + + +The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles in +the sun. + + +II + +Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people, +and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs, and your +children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come in a +'caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates, +you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your +master, the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle +and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for +joy at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman +here for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since when have you taken to +gossiping. Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That--all green, and +red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony--that is a slave; a +bloodthirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to +cure your tongue of idle whispering. + + +A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees. + + +"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I +pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her +prophecy! My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them +away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb--Imperial, but.. +. My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, +no, Bonaparte, not that--spare me that--did we not bury that last +night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, +Dear, no, thank God, not long." + +The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting +dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely +milkily white. + +The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What need for +roses? Smooth, open petals--her arms. Fragrant, outcurved +petals--her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch +the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open +roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden-trees, and the +tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with +canvas. + + +III + +The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The gravel of +the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An officer +gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with his +charger kicking. 'Valets de pied' run about in ones, and twos, and +groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is +changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along +the roads toward Paris. + +The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely, +the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone, and onyx now +for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New rocks and +fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing antique +temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone, bridges +of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere, new +flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed, the +roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and advancing, +trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop. Laughter, and +spur janglings in tessellated vestibules. Tripping of clocked and +embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth +grass-plots. India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide +through trees--mingle--separate--white day fireflies flashing +moon-brilliance in the shade of foliage. + +"The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangaroos." + +"As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden alley and +feeding the cockatoos." + +"They say that Madame Bonaparte's breed of sheep is the best in all +France." + +"And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted when the +First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo?" + +Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over the +trees the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line +bright with canvas. + +Prisoners'-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping. +The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls. But he +picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late, M. Le +Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you. Quickly, my +dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager, and as graceful +as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too, but lightly, +warily, bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon the air than +running, never far from goal. She is there, borne up above her guests +as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles. A blown rose, +smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging back and down. A +rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes it, resting upon +its leaves in a faintness of perfume. + + +There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of women, +and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte stands on the +wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing the pink and +silver water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its smoothness into +pleats of changing colour with his breast. Madame Bonaparte presses +against the parapet of the bridge, and the crushed roses at her belt +melt, petal by petal, into the pink water. + + +IV + +A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress will +soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best not +consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce is not +for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are muddy. +The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart down and down, +edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage grows out of the +mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat. It is only Her Majesty's +dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies in Waiting, Porter. +Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, I suppose it is, but the +blinds are drawn. + +"In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before passed the +gate without giving me a smile!" + +You're a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head in the +pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think about. + +Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be coming +to Malmaison to-night. + + +White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the +antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to dust. +Ashes of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth! + +Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches the rain. Behind her a +clock ticks--ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought with the +echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her ears, but +the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years to come each +knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years, and tears, and +cold pouring rain. + +"I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that I am +no more." + +Rain! Heavy, thudding rain! + + +V + +The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips, myrtles, +geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths. All the +year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand, die, and +give way to others, always others. From distant countries they have +been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France. +There is the 'Bonapartea' from Peru; the 'Napoleone Imperiale'; the +'Josephinia Imperatrix', a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the +calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as a +lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself +to hide the hollow within. + +The glass-houses grow and grow, and every year fling up hotter +reflections to the sailing sun. + +The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to console +herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and patience, and +then patience and backgammon, and stake gold napoleons on each game won. +Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could ask better. With her +jewels, her laces, her shawls; her two hundred and twenty dresses, her +fichus, her veils; her pictures, her busts, her birds. It is absurd +that she cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts under the thought of her +ingratitude. What could he do more? And yet she spends, spends as never +before. It is ridiculous. Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure? +Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex-wife. She owes her +chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant, her sweetmeat purveyor; her +grocer, her butcher, her poulterer; her architect, and the shopkeeper +who sells her rouge; her perfumer, her dressmaker, her merchant of +shoes. She owes for fans, plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes +masons and carpenters, vintners, lingeres. The lady's affairs are in +sad confusion. + +And why? Why? + +Can a river flow when the spring is dry? + + +Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one. The +clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old bit +of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing. She is +soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing +against her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress crushes +her breasts with her hands and weeps. And the tall clouds sail over +Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon. + + +Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of +soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial +harnesses, four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperor's +arms on the panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where +else under the Heavens could you see such splendour! + +They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a Colonel +of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seed-pod, and as pale. +The house has memories. The satin seed-pod holds his germs of Empire. +We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds. She +draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it. Her +soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering. He speaks to her +of debts, of resignation; of her children, and his; he promises that she +shall see the King of Rome; he says some harsh things and some pleasant. +But she is there, close to him, rose toned to amber, white shot with +violet, pungent to his nostrils as embalmed rose-leaves in a twilit +room. + +Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the +looping Seine. + + +VI + +Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks and +ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they have +forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom! Boom! It +is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses bloom at +Malmaison. Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves, rotting beneath +them. Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen flowers for a +fallen Emperor! The General in charge of him draws back and watches. +Snatches of music--snarling, sneering music of bagpipes. They say a +Scotch regiment is besieging Saint-Denis. The Emperor wipes his face, +or is it his eyes. His tired eyes which see nowhere the grace they long +for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a question, he does not answer, +somebody else does that. There are voices, but one voice he does not +hear, and yet he hears it all the time. Josephine! The Emperor puts up +his hand to screen his face. The white light of a bright cloud spears +sharply through the linden-trees. 'Vive l'Empereur!' There are troops +passing beyond the wall, troops which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose +is jarred off its stem and falls at the Emperor's feet. + +"Very well. I go." Where! Does it matter? There is no sword to +clatter. Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a +click. + +"Quick, fellow, don't spare your horses." + +A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one's eyes following a fleck of +dust. + + +VII + +Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along the +sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights are +broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds. Wreckage +and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old +recollections. + +The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in the +gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you +touch it, the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through +a chink in the shutters, one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky +toward the Roman arches of the Marly Aqueduct. + + + + +The Hammers + + + + I + + Frindsbury, Kent, 1786 + + Bang! + Bang! + Tap! + Tap-a-tap! Rap! + All through the lead and silver Winter days, + All through the copper of Autumn hazes. + Tap to the red rising sun, + Tap to the purple setting sun. + Four years pass before the job is done. + Two thousand oak trees grown and felled, + Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald, + Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks + With huge boles + Round which the tape rolls + Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks. + Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir; + Planking from Dantzig. + My! What timber goes into a ship! + Tap! Tap! + Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways, + Tapping, tapping. + You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze. + Through the fog down the reaches of the river, + The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever. + The church-bells chime + Hours and hours, + Dropping days in showers. + Bang! Rap! Tap! + Go the hammers all the time. + They have planked up her timbers + And the nails are driven to the head; + They have decked her over, + And again, and again. + The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain. + Black and blue breeches, + Pigtails bound and shining: + Like ants crawling about, + The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out. + Joiners, calkers, + And they are all terrible talkers. + Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales + Of whales, and spice islands, + And pirates off the Barbary coast. + He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails. + Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice, + He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings: + "The second in command was blear-eyed Ned: + While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping, + A nine-pounder came and smack went his head, + Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say; + Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!" + Every Sunday + People come in crowds + (After church-time, of course) + In curricles, and gigs, and wagons, + And some have brought cold chicken and flagons + Of wine, + And beer in stoppered jugs. + "Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship. + There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham." + + The third Summer's roses have started in to blow, + When the fine stern carving is begun. + Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls, + Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls. + Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place. + Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like Irish lace. + The Three Town's people never saw such grace. + And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf! + Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief. + And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky + Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry. + Oh, my! Oh, my! + They have coppered up the bottom, + And the copper nails + Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails. + Bang! Clash! Bang! + "And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, + And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, + And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, + And swore there was nothing like grog." + It seems they sing, + Even though coppering is not an easy thing. + What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman, + Say the people of the Three Towns, + As they walk about the dockyard + To the sound of the evening church-bells. + And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour. + What immense taste and labour! + Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet, + Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it, + When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky; + Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky, + She explains. + Mr. Nichols says he is delighted + (He is the firm); + His work is all requited + If Miss Jessie can approve. + Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love". + The sides are yellow as marigold, + The port-lids are red when the ports are up: + Blood-red squares like an even chequer + Of yellow asters and portulaca. + There is a wide "black strake" at the waterline + And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine. + The inner bulwarks are painted red. + "Why?" asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note." + Mr. Nichols clears his throat, + And tells her the launching day is set. + He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet." + But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown + Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down. + "It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown. + + Tap! Tap! Rap! + An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful of wind. + Three broad flags ripple out behind + Where the masts will be: + Royal Standard at the main, + Admiralty flag at the fore, + Union Jack at the mizzen. + The hammers tap harder, faster, + They must finish by noon. + The last nail is driven. + But the wind has increased to half a gale, + And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways. + The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming + In his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs; + The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King"; + And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches. + The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers. + The wind hums over the ship, + And slips round the dog-shores, + Jostling them almost to falling. + There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands. + Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands. + He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below: + "Let her go!" + Bang! Bang! Pound! + The dog-shores fall to the ground, + And the ship slides down the greased planking. + A splintering of glass, + And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers. + "Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!" + And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway. + + + II + + Paris, March, 1814 + + Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor. + Ten o'clock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris. + Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters: + "Martin--Parfumeur", and something more. + A large gilded wooden something. + Listen! What a ringing of hammers! + Tap! + Tap! + Squeak! + Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap! + "Blaise." + "Oui, M'sieu." + "Don't touch the letters. My name stays." + "Bien, M'sieu." + "Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees." + "As M'sieu pleases." + Tap! Squeak! Tap! + The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two, + Then stops. + "He! Patron! + They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien! + What if I break them?" + "Break away, + You and Paul must have them down to-day." + "Bien." + And the hammers start again, + Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood. + Sunshine in a golden flood + Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses, + Glittering each window to a flash. + Squeak! Squeak! Tap! + The hammers beat and rap. + A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash. + From other shops, the noise of striking blows: + Pounds, thumps, and whacks; + Wooden sounds: splinters--cracks. + Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers. + "Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack + That you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your back + And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole. + I've just been taking a stroll. + The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees. + I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils. + Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frills + Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to go + Out of business if you lived in Russia. So! + We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we? + Blaise, + Be careful of the hen, + Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days. + That eagle's rather well cut, Martin. + But I'm sick of smelling Cossack, + Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack + Of orris-root and musk." + Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk + Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass, + Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass + Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold. + Gold and glass, + And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass. + The perfumer sits down and shakes his head: + "Always the same, Monsieur Antoine, + You artists are wonderful folk indeed." + But Antoine Vernet does not heed. + He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls, + Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls. + "What have we here? 'Eau Imperial Odontalgique.' + I must say, mon cher, your names are chic. + But it won't do, positively it will not do. + Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another: + 'Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smother + Regrets. A little lubricant, too, + Might be useful. I have it, + 'Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submit + This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale." + "Monsieur Antoine, don't rail + At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly." + "And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely." + "Heaven forbid!" Bang! Whack! + Squeak! Squeak! Crack! + CRASH! + "Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash. + The whole street is covered with golden bees. + They look like so many yellow peas, + Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it. + 'Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, it + Might take with the Kings. Shall I try?" "Oh, Sir, + You distress me, you do." "Poor old Martin's purr! + But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know. + Now let us get back to the powders and patches. + Foolish man, + The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan + To change all these titles as fast as we can. + 'Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink-- + 'Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think? + Not the same receipt? + Now, Martin, put away your conceit. + Who will ever know? + 'Extract of Nobility'--excellent, since most of them are killed." + "But, Monsieur Antoine--" + "You are self-willed, + Martin. You need a salve + For your conscience, do you? + Very well, we'll halve + The compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices; + Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses. + 'Oil of Bitter Almonds'--the Empress Josephine can have that. + 'Oil of Parma Violets' fits the other one pat." + Rap! Rap! Bang! + "What a hideous clatter! + Blaise seems determined to batter + That poor old turkey into bits, + And pound to jelly my excellent wits. + Come, come, Martin, you mustn't shirk. + 'The night cometh soon'--etc. Don't jerk + Me up like that. 'Essence de la Valliere'-- + That has a charmingly Bourbon air. + And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this!-- + 'Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs'. Nothing amiss + With that--England, Austria, Russia and Prussia! + Martin, you're a wonder, + Upheavals of continents can't keep you under." + "Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeed + At such levity. What France has gone through--" + "Very true, Martin, very true, + But never forget that a man must feed." + Pound! Pound! Thump! + Pound! + "Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the ground." + Martin shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, well, what then?--" + Antoine, with a laugh: "I'll give you two sous for that antiquated hen." + The Imperial Eagle sells for two sous, + And the lilies go up. + A man must choose! + + + III + + Paris, April, 1814 + + Cold, impassive, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Haughty, contemptuous, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Like a woman raped by force, rising above her fate, + Borne up by the cold rigidity of hate, + Stands the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel. + Tap! Clink-a-tink! + Tap! Rap! Chink! + What falls to the ground like a streak of flame? + Hush! It is only a bit of bronze flashing in the sun. + What are all those soldiers? Those are not the uniforms of France. + Alas! No! The uniforms of France, Great Imperial France, are done. + They will rot away in chests and hang to dusty tatters in barn lofts. + These are other armies. And their name? + Hush, be still for shame; + Be still and imperturbable like the marble arch. + Another bright spark falls through the blue air. + Over the Place du Carrousel a wailing of despair. + Crowd your horses back upon the people, Uhlans and Hungarian Lancers, + They see too much. + Unfortunately, Gentlemen of the Invading Armies, what they do not see, + they hear. + Tap! Clink-a-tink! + Tap! + Another sharp spear + Of brightness, + And a ringing of quick metal lightness + On hard stones. + Workmen are chipping off the names of Napoleon's victories + From the triumphal arch of the Place du Carrousel. + + Do they need so much force to quell the crowd? + An old Grenadier of the line groans aloud, + And each hammer tap points the sob of a woman. + Russia, Prussia, Austria, and the faded-white-lily Bourbon king + Think it well + To guard against tumult, + A mob is an undependable thing. + Ding! Ding! + Vienna is scattered all over the Place du Carrousel + In glittering, bent, and twisted letters. + Your betters have clattered over Vienna before, + Officer of his Imperial Majesty our Father-in-Law! + Tink! Tink! + A workman's chisel can strew you to the winds, + Munich. + Do they think + To pleasure Paris, used to the fall of cities, + By giving her a fall of letters! + + It is a month too late. + One month, and our lily-white Bourbon king + Has done a colossal thing; + He has curdled love, + And soured the desires of a people. + Still the letters fall, + The workmen creep up and down their ladders like lizards on a wall. + Tap! Tap! Tink! + Clink! Clink! + "Oh, merciful God, they will not touch Austerlitz! + Strike me blind, my God, my eyes can never look on that. + I would give the other leg to save it, it took one. + Curse them! Curse them! Aim at his hat. + Give me the stone. Why didn't you give it to me? + I would not have missed. Curse him! + Curse all of them! They have got the 'A'!" + Ding! Ding! + "I saw the Terror, but I never saw so horrible a thing as this. + 'Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!'" + "Don't strike him, Fritz. + The mob will rise if you do. + Just run him out to the 'quai', + That will get him out of the way. + They are almost through." + Clink! Tink! Ding! + Clear as the sudden ring + Of a bell + "Z" strikes the pavement. + Farewell, Austerlitz, Tilsit, Presbourg; + Farewell, greatness departed. + Farewell, Imperial honours, knocked broadcast by the beating hammers + of ignorant workmen. + Straight, in the Spring moonlight, + Rises the deflowered arch. + In the silence, shining bright, + She stands naked and unsubdued. + Her marble coldness will endure the march + Of decades. + Rend her bronzes, hammers; + Cast down her inscriptions. + She is unconquerable, austere, + Cold as the moon that swims above her + When the nights are clear. + + + IV + + Croissy, Ile-de-France, June, 1815 + + "Whoa! Victorine. + Devil take the mare! I've never seen so vicious a beast. + She kicked Jules the last time she was here, + He's been lame ever since, poor chap." + Rap! Tap! + Tap-a-tap-a-tap! Tap! Tap! + "I'd rather be lame than dead at Waterloo, M'sieu Charles." + "Sacre Bleu! Don't mention Waterloo, and the damned grinning British. + We didn't run in the old days. + There wasn't any running at Jena. + Those were decent days, + And decent men, who stood up and fought. + We never got beaten, because we wouldn't be. + See!" + "You would have taught them, wouldn't you, Sergeant Boignet? + But to-day it's everyone for himself, + And the Emperor isn't what he was." + "How the Devil do you know that? + If he was beaten, the cause + Is the green geese in his army, led by traitors. + Oh, I say no names, Monsieur Charles, + You needn't hammer so loud. + If there are any spies lurking behind the bellows, + I beg they come out. Dirty fellows!" + The old Sergeant seizes a red-hot poker + And advances, brandishing it, into the shadows. + The rows of horses flick + Placid tails. + Victorine gives a savage kick + As the nails + Go in. Tap! Tap! + Jules draws a horseshoe from the fire + And beats it from red to peacock-blue and black, + Purpling darker at each whack. + Ding! Dang! Dong! + Ding-a-ding-dong! + It is a long time since any one spoke. + Then the blacksmith brushes his hand over his eyes, + "Well," he sighs, + "He's broke." + The Sergeant charges out from behind the bellows. + "It's the green geese, I tell you, + Their hearts are all whites and yellows, + There's no red in them. Red! + That's what we want. Fouche should be fed + To the guillotine, and all Paris dance the carmagnole. + That would breed jolly fine lick-bloods + To lead his armies to victory." + "Ancient history, Sergeant. + He's done." + "Say that again, Monsieur Charles, and I'll stun + You where you stand for a dung-eating Royalist." + The Sergeant gives the poker a savage twist; + He is as purple as the cooling horseshoes. + The air from the bellows creaks through the flues. + Tap! Tap! The blacksmith shoes Victorine, + And through the doorway a fine sheen + Of leaves flutters, with the sun between. + By a spurt of fire from the forge + You can see the Sergeant, with swollen gorge, + Puffing, and gurgling, and choking; + The bellows keep on croaking. + They wheeze, + And sneeze, + Creak! Bang! Squeeze! + And the hammer strokes fall like buzzing bees + Or pattering rain, + Or faster than these, + Like the hum of a waterfall struck by a breeze. + Clank! from the bellows-chain pulled up and down. + Clank! + And sunshine twinkles on Victorine's flank, + Starting it to blue, + Dropping it to black. + Clack! Clack! + Tap-a-tap! Tap! + Lord! What galloping! Some mishap + Is making that man ride so furiously. + "Francois, you! + Victorine won't be through + For another quarter of an hour." "As you hope to die, + Work faster, man, the order has come." + "What order? Speak out. Are you dumb?" + "A chaise, without arms on the panels, at the gate + In the far side-wall, and just to wait. + We must be there in half an hour with swift cattle. + You're a stupid fool if you don't hear that rattle. + Those are German guns. Can't you guess the rest? + Nantes, Rochefort, possibly Brest." + Tap! Tap! as though the hammers were mad. + Dang! Ding! Creak! The farrier's lad + Jerks the bellows till he cracks their bones, + And the stifled air hiccoughs and groans. + The Sergeant is lying on the floor + Stone dead, and his hat with the tricolore + Cockade has rolled off into the cinders. Victorine snorts and lays back + her ears. + What glistens on the anvil? Sweat or tears? + + + V + + St. Helena, May, 1821 + + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Through the white tropic night. + Tap! Tap! + Beat the hammers, + Unwearied, indefatigable. + They are hanging dull black cloth about the dead. + Lustreless black cloth + Which chokes the radiance of the moonlight + And puts out the little moving shadows of leaves. + Tap! Tap! + The knocking makes the candles quaver, + And the long black hangings waver + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Tap! Tap! + In the ears which do not heed. + Tap! Tap! + Above the eyelids which do not flicker. + Tap! Tap! + Over the hands which do not stir. + Chiselled like a cameo of white agate against the hangings, + Struck to brilliance by the falling moonlight, + A face! + Sharp as a frozen flame, + Beautiful as an altar lamp of silver, + And still. Perfectly still. + In the next room, the men chatter + As they eat their midnight lunches. + A knife hits against a platter. + But the figure on the bed + Between the stifling black hangings + Is cold and motionless, + Played over by the moonlight from the windows + And the indistinct shadows of leaves. + + Tap! Tap! + Upholsterer Darling has a fine shop in Jamestown. + Tap! Tap! + Andrew Darling has ridden hard from Longwood to see to the work in his shop + in Jamestown. + He has a corps of men in it, toiling and swearing, + Knocking, and measuring, and planing, and squaring, + Working from a chart with figures, + Comparing with their rules, + Setting this and that part together with their tools. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Haste indeed! + So great is the need + That carpenters have been taken from the new church, + Joiners have been called from shaping pews and lecterns + To work of greater urgency. + Coffins! + Coffins is what they are making this bright Summer morning. + Coffins--and all to measurement. + There is a tin coffin, + A deal coffin, + A lead coffin, + And Captain Bennett's best mahogany dining-table + Has been sawed up for the grand outer coffin. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Sunshine outside in the square, + But inside, only hollow coffins and the tapping upon them. + The men whistle, + And the coffins grow under their hammers + In the darkness of the shop. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + + Tramp of men. + Steady tramp of men. + Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtails + Bearing oblong things upon their shoulders + March slowly along the road to Longwood. + Their feet fall softly in the dust of the road; + Sometimes they call gutturally to each other and stop to shift shoulders. + Four coffins for the little dead man, + Four fine coffins, + And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table! + And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and able + And of assured neutrality. + Ah! George of England, Lord Bathhurst & Co. + Your princely munificence makes one's heart glow. + Huzza! Huzza! For the Lion of England! + + Tap! Tap! Tap! + Marble likeness of an Emperor, + Dead man, who burst your heart against a world too narrow, + The hammers drum you to your last throne + Which always you shall hold alone. + Tap! Tap! + The glory of your past is faded as a sunset fire, + Your day lingers only like the tones of a wind-lyre + In a twilit room. + Here is the emptiness of your dream + Scattered about you. + Coins of yesterday, + Double napoleons stamped with Consul or Emperor, + Strange as those of Herculaneum-- + And you just dead! + Not one spool of thread + Will these buy in any market-place. + Lay them over him, + They are the baubles of a crown of mist + Worn in a vision and melted away at waking. + Tap! Tap! + His heart strained at kingdoms + And now it is content with a silver dish. + Strange World! Strange Wayfarer! + Strange Destiny! + Lower it gently beside him and let it lie. + Tap! Tap! Tap! + + + + +Two Travellers in the Place Vendome + + Reign of Louis Philippe + + + + A great tall column spearing at the sky + With a little man on top. Goodness! Tell me why? + He looks a silly thing enough to stand up there so high. + + What a strange fellow, like a soldier in a play, + Tight-fitting coat with the tails cut away, + High-crowned hat which the brims overlay. + + Two-horned hat makes an outline like a bow. + Must have a sword, I can see the light glow + Between a dark line and his leg. Vertigo + + I get gazing up at him, a pygmy flashed with sun. + A weathercock or scarecrow or both things in one? + As bright as a jewelled crown hung above a throne. + + Say, what is the use of him if he doesn't turn? + Just put up to glitter there, like a torch to burn, + A sort of sacrificial show in a lofty urn? + + But why a little soldier in an obsolete dress? + I'd rather see a Goddess with a spear, I confess. + Something allegorical and fine. Why, yes-- + + I cannot take my eyes from him. I don't know why at all. + I've looked so long the whole thing swims. I feel he ought to fall. + Foreshortened there among the clouds he's pitifully small. + + What do you say? There used to be an Emperor standing there, + With flowing robes and laurel crown. Really? Yet I declare + Those spiral battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair. + + A togaed, laurelled man's I mean. Now this chap seems to feel + As though he owned those soldiers. Whew! How he makes one reel, + Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel. + + Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's, + Flashing sparks like cannon-balls from his own long guns. + Perhaps my sight is tired, but that figure simply stuns. + + How low the houses seem, and all the people are mere flies. + That fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies. + Impudent! Audacious! But, by Jove, he blinds the eyes! + + + + + +WAR PICTURES + + + + +The Allies + +August 14th, 1914 + + + +Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging +cry of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the +head of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching +men. Men weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war. +The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky. + +This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men a +cause? + +Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle +is red and its head is flame. + + +In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher. + +His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance at +the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies, +and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks, +"God damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike out new +shoots." + +His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in +the shoulder of the worm. + + +A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet. + +He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers. +He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink. The +sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are wet and +rippling. They cool his heart. + +He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity, +and loveliness printed on white paper. + + +The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills. + +He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck +away his men. + +But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying +stars, and there are no more wars. + + +Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers--men, sway and +sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure +roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the +eagle and his scorching sword. + +One! Two!--One! Two!--clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles +against the sky. + +Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it +lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the +eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the +battle, stubbornly. + +This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause: +PEACE! + + + + +The Bombardment + + + +Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment +on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and +trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a +gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral +square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep +about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, +again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil +from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! + + +The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the +firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of +rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the 'etagere'. Her hands are +restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will +it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration +shatters a glass on the 'etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing, +with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, +blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. +The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." "Alas! +Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my +father brought it--" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes. +Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom! + + +It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is +shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his +ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced +with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses +itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin +he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp +in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, +bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and +higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The +fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and +flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table, +the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom!--Boom!--Boom! He +stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in +fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! +Boom! + + +A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made +the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my +Darling, I am here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the +room shook." Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! +"Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. +The house trembles and creaks. Boom! + + +Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing +across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, +goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is +his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. +Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. +Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see +the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and +the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the +lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms +the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round +the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the +night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on +the white, wet night. + + +Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to +scorch. Boom! The bohemian glass on the 'etagere' is no longer there. +Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old +lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. +Boom!--Boom!--Boom! + + +The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of +silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. +The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run +the flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its +gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and +lisps and chuckles along the floors. + + +The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower +flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the +ceiling beams. + + +The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning +Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter +and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly +and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple +crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes +along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom! + + + + +Lead Soldiers + + + +The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions +and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets +peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a +night of victorious wars. + +The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, +slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into +the air and nods--forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a +crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green +eyes stare into the air, and he nods--nods. + + + Tommy's soldiers march to battle, + Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle. + Bayonets flash, and sabres glance-- + How the horses snort and prance! + Cannon drawn up in a line + Glitter in the dizzy shine + Of the morning sunlight. Flags + Ripple colours in great jags. + Red blows out, then blue, then green, + Then all three--a weaving sheen + Of prismed patriotism. March + Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch, + Boldly stepping to the rattle + Of the drums, they go to battle. + + +Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts +his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their +instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers, +and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from +the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The +song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet. +Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a +squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool. + + +The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods--nods. The fire +makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold +song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle. + +Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney. + + + Tommy's army's off to war-- + Not a soldier knows what for. + But he knows about his rifle, + How to shoot it, and a trifle + Of the proper thing to do + When it's he who is shot through. + Like a cleverly trained flea, + He can follow instantly + Orders, and some quick commands + Really make severe demands + On a mind that's none too rapid, + Leaden brains tend to the vapid. + But how beautifully dressed + Is this army! How impressed + Tommy is when at his heel + All his baggage wagons wheel + About the patterned carpet, and + Moving up his heavy guns + He sees them glow with diamond suns + Flashing all along each barrel. + And the gold and blue apparel + Of his gunners is a joy. + Tommy is a lucky boy. + Boom! Boom! Ta-ra! + +The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand +shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and +shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles. + + +Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must +pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the +wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading +the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has +flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie +overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks +glistening to the fire's shine. + +The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its +sparkles. + +The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and +steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the +hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song +jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still +upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers +all bright and new? + + + Tommy's leaden soldiers we, + Glittering with efficiency. + Not a button's out of place, + Tons and tons of golden lace + Wind about our officers. + Every manly bosom stirs + At the thought of killing--killing! + Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling. + We are gaudy, savage, strong, + And our loins so ripe we long + First to kill, then procreate, + Doubling so the laws of Fate. + On their women we have sworn + To graft our sons. And overborne + They'll rear us younger soldiers, so + Shall our race endure and grow, + Waxing greater in the wombs + Borrowed of them, while damp tombs + Rot their men. O Glorious War! + Goad us with your points, Great Star! + + + +The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and +back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles, +thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured +snakes. + +The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old +man nods. + + +Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new, +gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud +and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the +door to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees +to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his +soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky +boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy. + + +Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the +pitcher. He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The +pitcher falls, and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its +lip. It slips between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is +not water which oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a +spark from the firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, +new soldiers, licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, +lapping at the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the +painted uniforms. + + +The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose +is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers +under his purple umbrella, and nods--forward and back, staring into +the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a +rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to +the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and +grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from +the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly +forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream +of blood. + + +The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the +chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars. + + + + +The Painter on Silk + + + + There was a man + Who made his living + By painting roses + Upon silk. + + He sat in an upper chamber + And painted, + And the noises of the street + Meant nothing to him. + + When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums, + He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses + Bursting in the sunshine, + And smiled as he worked. + + He thought only of roses, + And silk. + When he could get no more silk + He stopped painting + And only thought + Of roses. + + The day the conquerors + Entered the city, + The old man + Lay dying. + He heard the bugles and drums, + And wished he could paint the roses + Bursting into sound. + + + + +A Ballad of Footmen + + + + Now what in the name of the sun and the stars + Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars? + + Do men find life so full of humour and joy + That for want of excitement they smash up the toy? + + Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses + All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" + + Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears, + And nine nations of women choking with tears. + + It is folly to think that the will of a king + Can force men to make ducks and drakes of a thing + + They value, and life is, at least one supposes, + Of some little interest, even if roses + + Have not grown up between one foot and the other. + What a marvel bureaucracy is, which can smother + + Such quite elementary feelings, and tag + A man with a number, and set him to wag + + His legs and his arms at the word of command + Or the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned, + + Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold lace + And an upturned moustache can set him to face + + Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases, + Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases. + + If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say, + With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day," + + Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? + A king and his minions are really so few. + + Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! + But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or + + The dire results which could not be inflicted. + With no one to execute sentence, convicted + + Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. + What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows! + + To be killing each other, unmercifully, + At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea." + + Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws + They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws + + So patiently builded, are nothing to drinking + More blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking. + + I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows, + And, as to men--what are men, when their marrows + + Are running with blood they have gulped; it is plain + Such excellent sport does not recollect pain. + + Toll the bells in the steeples left standing. Half-mast + The flags which meant order, for order is past. + + Take the dust of the streets and sprinkle your head, + The civilization we've worked for is dead. + + Squeeze into this archway, the head of the line + Has just swung round the corner to 'Die Wacht am Rhein'. + + + + + +THE OVERGROWN PASTURE + + + + +Reaping + + + + You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer? + My! ain't men blinder'n moles? + It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that. + Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed + Me changin' under your very nose, + Each day a little diff'rent. + But you never see nothin', you don't. + Don't touch me, Jake, + Don't you dars't to touch me, + I ain't in no humour. + That's what's come over me; + Jest a change clear through. + You lay still, an' I'll tell yer, + I've had it on my mind to tell yer + Fer some time. + It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night, + An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now. + An' don't make any mistake about one thing, + When I married yer I loved yer. + Why, your voice 'ud make + Me go hot and cold all over, + An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'. + Lord! I was a silly fool. + But that's the way 'twas. + Well, I married yer + An' thought Heav'n was comin' + To set on the door-step. + Heav'n didn't do no settin', + Though the first year warn't so bad. + The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess, + An' then I took her death real hard, + An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man. + I ain't blamin' yer exactly. + But that's how 'twas. + Do lay quiet, + I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought. + There come a time when I got to be + More wife agin than mother. + The mother part was sort of a waste + When we didn't have no other child. + But you'd got used ter lots o' things, + An' you was all took up with the farm. + Many's the time I've laid awake + Watchin' the moon go clear through the elm-tree, + Out o' sight. + I'd foller yer around like a dog, + An' set in the chair you'd be'n settin' in, + Jest to feel its arms around me, + So long's I didn't have yours. + It preyed on me, I guess, + Longin' and longin' + While you was busy all day, and snorin' all night. + Yes, I know you're wide awake now, + But now ain't then, + An' I guess you'll think diff'rent + When I'm done. + Do you mind the day you went to Hadrock? + I didn't want to stay home for reasons, + But you said someone 'd have to be here + 'Cause Elmer was comin' to see t' th' telephone. + An' you never see why I was so set on goin' with yer, + Our married life hadn't be'n any great shakes, + Still marriage is marriage, an' I was raised God-fearin'. + But, Lord, you didn't notice nothin', + An' Elmer hangin' around all Winter! + 'Twas a lovely mornin'. + The apple-trees was jest elegant + With their blossoms all flared out, + An' there warn't a cloud in the sky. + You went, you wouldn't pay no 'tention to what I said, + An' I heard the Ford chuggin' for most a mile, + The air was so still. + Then Elmer come. + It's no use your frettin', Jake, + I'll tell you all about it. + I know what I'm doin', + An' what's worse, I know what I done. + Elmer fixed th' telephone in about two minits, + An' he didn't seem in no hurry to go, + An' I don't know as I wanted him to go either, + I was awful mad at your not takin' me with yer, + An' I was tired o' wishin' and wishin' + An' gittin' no comfort. + I guess it ain't necessary to tell yer all the things. + He stayed to dinner, + An' he helped me do the dishes, + An' he said a home was a fine thing, + An' I said dishes warn't a home + Nor yet the room they're in. + He said a lot o' things, + An' I fended him off at first, + But he got talkin' all around me, + Clost up to the things I'd be'n thinkin', + What's the use o' me goin' on, Jake, + You know. + He got all he wanted, + An' I give it to him, + An' what's more, I'm glad! + I ain't dead, anyway, + An' somebody thinks I'm somethin'. + Keep away, Jake, + You can kill me to-morrer if you want to, + But I'm goin' to have my say. + Funny thing! Guess I ain't made to hold a man. + Elmer ain't be'n here for mor'n two months. + I don't want to pretend nothin', + Mebbe if he'd be'n lately + I shouldn't have told yer. + I'll go away in the mornin', o' course. + What you want the light fer? + I don't look no diff'rent. + Ain't the moon bright enough + To look at a woman that's deceived yer by? + Don't, Jake, don't, you can't love me now! + It ain't a question of forgiveness. + Why! I'd be thinkin' o' Elmer ev'ry minute; + It ain't decent. + Oh, my God! It ain't decent any more either way! + + + + +Off the Turnpike + + + + Good ev'nin', Mis' Priest. + I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye. + Yes, it's all over. + All my things is packed + An' every last one o' them boxes + Is on Bradley's team + Bein' hauled over to th' depot. + No, I ain't goin' back agin. + I'm stoppin' over to French's fer to-night, + And goin' down first train in th' mornin'. + Yes, it do seem kinder queer + Not to be goin' to see Cherry's Orchard no more, + But Land Sakes! When a change's comin', + Why, I al'ays say it can't come too quick. + Now, that's real kind o' you, + Your doughnuts is always so tasty. + Yes, I'm goin' to Chicago, + To my niece, + She's married to a fine man, hardware business, + An' doin' real well, she tells me. + Lizzie's be'n at me to go out ther for the longest while. + She ain't got no kith nor kin to Chicago, you know + She's rented me a real nice little flat, + Same house as hers, + An' I'm goin' to try that city livin' folks say's so pleasant. + Oh, yes, he was real generous, + Paid me a sight o' money fer the Orchard; + I told him 'twouldn't yield nothin' but stones, + But he ain't farmin' it. + Lor', no, Mis' Priest, + He's jest took it to set and look at the view. + Mebbe he wouldn't be so stuck on the view + Ef he'd seed it every mornin' and night for forty year + Same's as I have. + I dessay it's pretty enough, + But it's so pressed into me + I c'n see't with my eyes shut. + No. I ain't cold, Mis' Priest, + Don't shut th' door. + I'll be all right in a minit. + But I ain't a mite sorry to leave that view. + Well, mebbe 'tis queer to feel so, + An' mebbe 'taint. + My! But that tea's revivin'. + Old things ain't always pleasant things, Mis' Priest. + No, no, I don't cal'late on comin' back, + That's why I'd ruther be to Chicago, + Boston's too near. + It ain't cold, Mis' Priest, + It's jest my thoughts. + I ain't sick, only-- + Mis' Priest, ef you've nothin' ter take yer time, + An' have a mind to listen, + Ther's somethin' I'd like ter speak about + I ain't never mentioned it, + But I'd like to tell yer 'fore I go. + Would you mind lowerin' them shades, + Fall twilight's awful grey, + An' that fire's real cosy with the shades drawed. + Well, I guess folks about here think I've be'n dret'ful onsociable. + You needn't say 'taint so, 'cause I know diff'rent. + An' what's more, it's true. + Well, the reason is I've be'n scared out o' my life. + Scared ev'ry minit o' th' time, fer eight year. + Eight mortal year 'tis, come next June. + 'Twas on the eighteenth o' June, + Six months after I'd buried my husband, + That somethin' happened ter me. + Mebbe you'll mind that afore that + I was a cheery body. + Hiram was too, + Al'ays liked to ask a neighbor in, + An' ev'n when he died, + Barrin' low sperrits, I warn't averse to seein' nobody. + But that eighteenth o' June changed ev'rythin'. + I was doin' most o' th' farmwork myself, + With jest a hired boy, Clarence King, 'twas, + Comin' in fer an hour or two. + Well, that eighteenth o' June + I was goin' round, + Lockin' up and seein' to things 'fore I went to bed. + I was jest steppin' out t' th' barn, + Goin' round outside 'stead o' through the shed, + 'Cause there was such a sight o' moonlight + Somehow or another I thought 'twould be pretty outdoors. + I got settled for pretty things that night, I guess. + I ain't stuck on 'em no more. + Well, them laylock bushes side o' th' house + Was real lovely. + Glitt'rin' and shakin' in the moonlight, + An' the smell o' them rose right up + An' most took my breath away. + The colour o' the spikes was all faded out, + They never keep their colour when the moon's on 'em, + But the smell fair 'toxicated me. + I was al'ays partial to a sweet scent, + An' I went close up t' th' bushes + So's to put my face right into a flower. + Mis' Priest, jest's I got breathin' in that laylock bloom + I saw, layin' right at my feet, + A man's hand! + It was as white's the side o' th' house, + And sparklin' like that lum'nous paint they put on gate-posts. + I screamed right out, + I couldn't help it, + An' I could hear my scream + Goin' over an' over + In that echo be'ind th' barn. + Hearin' it agin an' agin like that + Scared me so, I dar'sn't scream any more. + I jest stood ther, + And looked at that hand. + I thought the echo'd begin to hammer like my heart, + But it didn't. + There was only th' wind, + Sighin' through the laylock leaves, + An' slappin' 'em up agin the house. + Well, I guess I looked at that hand + Most ten minits, + An' it never moved, + Jest lay there white as white. + After a while I got to thinkin' that o' course + 'Twas some drunken tramp over from Redfield. + That calmed me some, + An' I commenced to think I'd better git him out + From under them laylocks. + I planned to drag him in t' th' barn + An' lock him in ther till Clarence come in th' mornin'. + I got so mad thinkin' o' that all-fired brazen tramp + Asleep in my laylocks, + I jest stooped down and grabbed th' hand and give it an awful pull. + Then I bumped right down settin' on the ground. + Mis' Priest, ther warn't no body come with the hand. + No, it ain't cold, it's jest that I can't abear thinkin' of it, + Ev'n now. + I'll take a sip o' tea. + Thank you, Mis' Priest, that's better. + I'd ruther finish now I've begun. + Thank you, jest the same. + I dropped the hand's ef it'd be'n red hot + 'Stead o' ice cold. + Fer a minit or two I jest laid on that grass + Pantin'. + Then I up and run to them laylocks + An' pulled 'em every which way. + True es I'm settin' here, Mis' Priest, + Ther warn't nothin' ther. + I peeked an' pryed all about 'em, + But ther warn't no man ther + Neither livin' nor dead. + But the hand was ther all right, + Upside down, the way I'd dropped it, + And glist'nin' fit to dazzle yer. + I don't know how I done it, + An' I don't know why I done it, + But I wanted to git that dret'ful hand out o' sight + I got in t' th' barn, somehow, + An' felt roun' till I got a spade. + I couldn't stop fer a lantern, + Besides, the moonlight was bright enough in all conscience. + Then I scooped that awful thing up in th' spade. + I had a sight o' trouble doin' it. + It slid off, and tipped over, and I couldn't bear + Ev'n to touch it with my foot to prop it, + But I done it somehow. + Then I carried it off be'ind the barn, + Clost to an old apple-tree + Where you couldn't see from the house, + An' I buried it, + Good an' deep. + + I don't rec'lect nothin' more o' that night. + Clarence woke me up in th' mornin', + Hollerin' fer me to come down and set th' milk. + When he'd gone, + I stole roun' to the apple-tree + And seed the earth all new turned + Where I left it in my hurry. + I did a heap o' gardenin' + That mornin'. + I couldn't cut no big sods + Fear Clarence would notice and ask me what I wanted 'em fer, + So I got teeny bits o' turf here and ther, + And no one couldn't tell ther'd be'n any diggin' + When I got through. + They was awful days after that, Mis' Priest, + I used ter go every mornin' and poke about them bushes, + An' up and down the fence, + Ter find the body that hand come off of. + But I couldn't never find nothin'. + I'd lay awake nights + Hearin' them laylocks blowin' and whiskin'. + At last I had Clarence cut 'em down + An' make a big bonfire of 'em. + I told him the smell made me sick, + An' that warn't no lie, + I can't abear the smell on 'em now; + An' no wonder, es you say. + I fretted somethin' awful 'bout that hand + I wondered, could it be Hiram's, + But folks don't rob graveyards hereabouts. + Besides, Hiram's hands warn't that awful, starin' white. + I give up seein' people, + I was afeared I'd say somethin'. + You know what folks thought o' me + Better'n I do, I dessay, + But mebbe now you'll see I couldn't do nothin' diff'rent. + But I stuck it out, + I warn't goin' to be downed + By no loose hand, no matter how it come ther + But that ain't the worst, Mis' Priest, + Not by a long ways. + Two year ago, Mr. Densmore made me an offer for Cherry's Orchard. + Well, I'd got used to th' thought o' bein' sort o' blighted, + An' I warn't scared no more. + Lived down my fear, I guess. + I'd kinder got used to th' thought o' that awful night, + And I didn't mope much about it. + Only I never went out o' doors by moonlight; + That stuck. + Well, when Mr. Densmore's offer come, + I started thinkin' 'bout the place + An' all the things that had gone on ther. + Thinks I, I guess I'll go and see where I put the hand. + I was foolhardy with the long time that had gone by. + I know'd the place real well, + Fer I'd put it right in between two o' the apple roots. + I don't know what possessed me, Mis' Priest, + But I kinder wanted to know + That the hand had been flesh and bone, anyway. + It had sorter bothered me, thinkin' I might ha' imagined it. + I took a mornin' when the sun was real pleasant and warm; + I guessed I wouldn't jump for a few old bones. + But I did jump, somethin' wicked. + Ther warn't no bones! + Ther warn't nothin'! + Not ev'n the gold ring I'd minded bein' on the little finger. + I don't know ef ther ever was anythin'. + I've worried myself sick over it. + I be'n diggin' and diggin' day in and day out + Till Clarence ketched me at it. + Oh, I know'd real well what you all thought, + An' I ain't sayin' you're not right, + But I ain't goin' to end in no county 'sylum + If I c'n help it. + The shiv'rin' fits come on me sudden like. + I know 'em, don't you trouble. + I've fretted considerable about the 'sylum, + I guess I be'n frettin' all the time I ain't be'n diggin'. + But anyhow I can't dig to Chicago, can I? + Thank you, Mis' Priest, + I'm better now. I only dropped in in passin'. + I'll jest be steppin' along down to French's. + No, I won't be seein' nobody in the mornin', + It's a pretty early start. + Don't you stand ther, Mis' Priest, + The wind'll blow yer lamp out, + An' I c'n see easy, I got aholt o' the gate now. + I ain't a mite tired, thank you. + Good-night. + + + + +The Grocery + + + + "Hullo, Alice!" + "Hullo, Leon!" + "Say, Alice, gi' me a couple + O' them two for five cigars, + Will yer?" + "Where's your nickel?" + "My! Ain't you close! + Can't trust a feller, can yer." + "Trust you! Why + What you owe this store + Would set you up in business. + I can't think why Father 'lows it." + "Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly + Than you be. That's a fact. + Besides, he knows I got a vote." + "A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote! + A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father + When all his bank account + Has run away in credits. + There's your cigars, + If you can relish smokin' + With all you owe us standin'." + "I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent. + You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't. + I work when anythin's doin'. + I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure. + Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring." + "Come Spring, and this December! + I've no patience with you, Leon, + Shilly-shallyin' the way you do. + Here, lift over them crates o' oranges + I wanter fix 'em in the winder." + "It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work. + You pepper up about it somethin' good. + You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite. + Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder. + Th' oranges c'n wait, + An' I don't like talkin' to yer back." + "Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what you can git. + Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon. + They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em, + Don't they? + Now hand me them bananas + An' I'll string 'em right acrost." + "What do yer mean + 'Bout me not havin' you to talk to? + Are yer springin' somethin' on me?" + "I don't know 'bout springin' + When I'm tellin' you right out. + I'm goin' away, that's all." + "Where? Why? + What yer mean--goin' away?" + "I've took a place + Down to Boston, in a candy store + For the holidays." + "Good Land, Alice, + What in the Heavens fer!" + "To earn some money, + And to git away from here, I guess." + "Ain't yer Father got enough? + Don't he give yer proper pocket-money?" + "He'd have a plenty, if you folks paid him." + "He's rich I tell yer. + I never figured he'd be close with you." + "Oh, he ain't. Not close. + That ain't why. + But I must git away from here. + I must! I must!" + "You got a lot o' reason in yer + To-night. + How long d' you cal'late + You'll be gone?" + "Maybe for always." + "What ails yer, Alice? + Talkin' wild like that. + Ain't you an' me goin' to be married + Some day." + "Some day! Some day! + I guess the sun'll never rise on some day." + "So that's the trouble. + Same old story. + 'Cause I ain't got the cash to settle right now. + You know I love yer, + An' I'll marry yer as soon + As I c'n raise the money." + "You've said that any time these five year, + But you don't do nothin'." + "Wot could I do? + Ther ain't no work here Winters. + Not fer a carpenter, ther ain't." + "I guess you warn't born a carpenter. + Ther's ice-cuttin' a plenty." + "I got a dret'ful tender throat; + Dr. Smiles he told me + I mustn't resk ice-cuttin'." + "Why haven't you gone to Boston, + And hunted up a job?" + "Have yer forgot the time I went expressin' + In the American office, down ther?" + "And come back two weeks later! + No, I ain't." + "You didn't want I should git hurted, + Did yer? + I'm a sight too light fer all that liftin' work. + My back was commencin' to strain, as 'twas. + Ef I was like yer brother now, + I'd ha' be'n down to the city long ago. + But I'm too clumsy fer a dancer. + I ain't got Arthur's luck." + "Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks, + And git locked up in jail!" + "Oh, come now, Alice, + 'Disgrace' is a mite strong. + Why, the jail was a joke. + Art's all right." + "All right! + All right to dance, and smirk, and lie + For a livin', + And then in the end + Lead a silly girl to give you + What warn't hers to give + By pretendin' you'd marry her-- + And she a pupil." + "He'd ha' married her right enough, + Her folks was millionaires." + "Yes, he'd ha' married her! + Thank God, they saved her that." + "Art's a fine feller. + I wish I had his luck. + Swellin' round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits, + And eatin' in rest'rants. + But somebody's got to stick to the old place, + Else Foxfield'd have to shut up shop, + Hey, Alice?" + "You admire him! + You admire Arthur! + You'd be like him only you can't dance. + Oh, Shame! Shame! + And I've been like that silly girl. + Fooled with your promises, + And I give you all I had. + I knew it, oh, I knew it, + But I wanted to git away 'fore I proved it. + You've shamed me through and through. + Why couldn't you hold your tongue, + And spared me seein' you + As you really are." + "What the Devil's the row? + I only said Art was lucky. + What you spitfirin' at me fer? + Ferget it, Alice. + We've had good times, ain't we? + I'll see Cleve 'bout that job agin to-morrer, + And we'll be married 'fore hayin' time." + "It's like you to remind me o' hayin' time. + I've good cause to love it, ain't I? + Many's the night I've hid my face in the dark + To shut out thinkin'!" + "Why, that ain't nothin'. + You ain't be'n half so kind to me + As lots o' fellers' girls. + Gi' me a kiss, Dear, + And let's make up." + "Make up! + You poor fool. + Do you suppose I care a ten cent piece + For you now. + You've killed yourself for me. + Done it out o' your own mouth. + You've took away my home, + I hate the sight o' the place. + You're all over it, + Every stick an' stone means you, + An' I hate 'em all." + "Alice, I say, + Don't go on like that. + I can't marry yer + Boardin' in one room, + But I'll see Cleve to-morrer, + I'll make him----" + "Oh, you fool! + You terrible fool!" + "Alice, don't go yit, + Wait a minit, + I'll see Cleve----" + "You terrible fool!" + "Alice, don't go. + Alice----" (Door slams) + + + + +Number 3 on the Docket + + + + The lawyer, are you? + Well! I ain't got nothin' to say. + Nothin'! + I told the perlice I hadn't nothin'. + They know'd real well 'twas me. + Ther warn't no supposin', + Ketchin' me in the woods as they did, + An' me in my house dress. + Folks don't walk miles an' miles + In the drifted snow, + With no hat nor wrap on 'em + Ef everythin's all right, I guess. + All right? Ha! Ha! Ha! + Nothin' warn't right with me. + Never was. + Oh, Lord! Why did I do it? + Why ain't it yesterday, and Ed here agin? + Many's the time I've set up with him nights + When he had cramps, or rheumatizm, or somethin'. + I used ter nurse him same's ef he was a baby. + I wouldn't hurt him, I love him! + Don't you dare to say I killed him. 'Twarn't me! + Somethin' got aholt o' me. I couldn't help it. + Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! + Yes, Sir. + No, Sir. + I beg your pardon, I--I-- + Oh, I'm a wicked woman! + An' I'm desolate, desolate! + Why warn't I struck dead or paralyzed + Afore my hands done it. + Oh, my God, what shall I do! + No, Sir, ther ain't no extenuatin' circumstances, + An' I don't want none. + I want a bolt o' lightnin' + To strike me dead right now! + Oh, I'll tell yer. + But it won't make no diff'rence. + Nothin' will. + Yes, I killed him. + Why do yer make me say it? + It's cruel! Cruel! + I killed him because o' th' silence. + The long, long silence, + That watched all around me, + And he wouldn't break it. + I tried to make him, + Time an' agin, + But he was terrible taciturn, Ed was. + He never spoke 'cept when he had to, + An' then he'd only say "yes" and "no". + You can't even guess what that silence was. + I'd hear it whisperin' in my ears, + An' I got frightened, 'twas so thick, + An' al'ays comin' back. + Ef Ed would ha' talked sometimes + It would ha' driven it away; + But he never would. + He didn't hear it same as I did. + You see, Sir, + Our farm was off'n the main road, + And set away back under the mountain; + And the village was seven mile off, + Measurin' after you'd got out o' our lane. + We didn't have no hired man, + 'Cept in hayin' time; + An' Dane's place, + That was the nearest, + Was clear way 'tother side the mountain. + They used Marley post-office + An' ours was Benton. + Ther was a cart-track took yer to Dane's in Summer, + An' it warn't above two mile that way, + But it warn't never broke out Winters. + I used to dread the Winters. + Seem's ef I couldn't abear to see the golden-rod bloomin'; + Winter'd come so quick after that. + You don't know what snow's like when yer with it + Day in an' day out. + Ed would be out all day loggin', + An' I set at home and look at the snow + Layin' over everythin'; + It 'ud dazzle me blind, + Till it warn't white any more, but black as ink. + Then the quiet 'ud commence rushin' past my ears + Till I most went mad listenin' to it. + Many's the time I've dropped a pan on the floor + Jest to hear it clatter. + I was most frantic when dinner-time come + An' Ed was back from the woods. + I'd ha' give my soul to hear him speak. + But he'd never say a word till I asked him + Did he like the raised biscuits or whatever, + An' then sometimes he'd jest nod his answer. + Then he'd go out agin, + An' I'd watch him from the kitchin winder. + It seemed the woods come marchin' out to meet him + An' the trees 'ud press round him an' hustle him. + I got so I was scared o' th' trees. + I thought they come nearer, + Every day a little nearer, + Closin' up round the house. + I never went in t' th' woods Winters, + Though in Summer I liked 'em well enough. + It warn't so bad when my little boy was with us. + He used to go sleddin' and skatin', + An' every day his father fetched him to school in the pung + An' brought him back agin. + We scraped an' scraped fer Neddy, + We wanted him to have a education. + We sent him to High School, + An' then he went up to Boston to Technology. + He was a minin' engineer, + An' doin' real well, + A credit to his bringin' up. + But his very first position ther was an explosion in the mine. + And I'm glad! I'm glad! + He ain't here to see me now. + Neddy! Neddy! + I'm your mother still, Neddy. + Don't turn from me like that. + I can't abear it. I can't! I can't! + What did you say? + Oh, yes, Sir. + I'm here. + I'm very sorry, + I don't know what I'm sayin'. + No, Sir, + Not till after Neddy died. + 'Twas the next Winter the silence come, + I don't remember noticin' it afore. + That was five year ago, + An' it's been gittin' worse an' worse. + I asked Ed to put in a telephone. + I thought ef I felt the whisperin' comin' on + I could ring up some o' th' folks. + But Ed wouldn't hear of it. + He said we'd paid so much for Neddy + We couldn't hardly git along as 'twas. + An' he never understood me wantin' to talk. + Well, this year was worse'n all the others; + We had a terrible spell o' stormy weather, + An' the snow lay so thick + You couldn't see the fences even. + Out o' doors was as flat as the palm o' my hand, + Ther warn't a hump or a holler + Fer as you could see. + It was so quiet + The snappin' o' the branches back in the wood-lot + Sounded like pistol shots. + Ed was out all day + Same as usual. + An' it seemed he talked less'n ever. + He didn't even say 'Good-mornin'', once or twice, + An' jest nodded or shook his head when I asked him things. + On Monday he said he'd got to go over to Benton + Fer some oats. + I'd oughter ha' gone with him, + But 'twas washin' day + An' I was afeared the fine weather'd break, + An' I couldn't do my dryin'. + All my life I'd done my work punctual, + An' I couldn't fix my conscience + To go junketin' on a washin'-day. + I can't tell you what that day was to me. + It dragged an' dragged, + Fer ther warn't no Ed ter break it in the middle + Fer dinner. + Every time I stopped stirrin' the water + I heerd the whisperin' all about me. + I stopped oftener'n I should + To see ef 'twas still ther, + An' it al'ays was. + An' gittin' louder + It seemed ter me. + Once I threw up the winder to feel the wind. + That seemed most alive somehow. + But the woods looked so kind of menacin' + I closed it quick + An' started to mangle's hard's I could, + The squeakin' was comfortin'. + Well, Ed come home 'bout four. + I seen him down the road, + An' I run out through the shed inter th' barn + To meet him quicker. + I hollered out, 'Hullo!' + But he didn't say nothin', + He jest drove right in + An' climbed out o' th' sleigh + An' commenced unharnessin'. + I asked him a heap o' questions; + Who he'd seed + An' what he'd done. + Once in a while he'd nod or shake, + But most o' th' time he didn't do nothin'. + 'Twas gittin' dark then, + An' I was in a state, + With the loneliness + An' Ed payin' no attention + Like somethin' warn't livin'. + All of a sudden it come, + I don't know what, + But I jest couldn't stand no more. + It didn't seem 's though that was Ed, + An' it didn't seem as though I was me. + I had to break a way out somehow, + Somethin' was closin' in + An' I was stiflin'. + Ed's loggin' axe was ther, + An' I took it. + Oh, my God! + I can't see nothin' else afore me all the time. + I run out inter th' woods, + Seemed as ef they was pullin' me; + An' all the time I was wadin' through the snow + I seed Ed in front of me + Where I'd laid him. + An' I see him now. + There! There! + What you holdin' me fer? + I want ter go to Ed, + He's bleedin'. + Stop holdin' me. + I got to go. + I'm comin', Ed. + I'll be ther in a minit. + Oh, I'm so tired! + (Faints) + + + + + +CLOCKS TICK A CENTURY + + + + +Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening + + After a Print by George Cruikshank + + + + It was a gusty night, + With the wind booming, and swooping, + Looping round corners, + Sliding over the cobble-stones, + Whipping and veering, + And careering over the roofs + Like a thousand clattering horses. + Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city, + Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait, + And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins + And laughed as it whistled past him. + It rolled him along the street, + With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk, + And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him. + It bumped him against area railings, + And chuckled in his ear when he said "Ouch!" + Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet + And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter. + The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking. + It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins, + And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door + It was a relief, + Although the breath was quite knocked out of him. + The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up, + And the keyhole was as big as a barn door; + The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star, + And the keyhole went out with it. + Such a stabbing, and jabbing, + And sticking, and picking, + And poking, and pushing, and prying + With that key; + And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two, + Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll. + But the door opened at last, + And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall + And slammed the door to so hard + That the knocker banged five times before it stopped. + Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle, + And all the time the moon winked at him through the window. + "Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?" + Taunted the wind. + "I can find the keyhole." + And the wind, thin as a wire, + Darted in and seized the candle flame + And knocked it over to one side + And pummelled it down--down--down--! + But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin, + And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner, + For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, "Spruggins! Spruggins!" + behind him. + The fire in his bedroom burned brightly. + The room with its crimson bed and window curtains + Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle. + It was still and warm. + There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened; + And no moon, + For the curtains were drawn. + The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear + In a wide brass dish. + Mr. Spruggins sighed with content; + He was safe at home. + The fire glowed--red and yellow roses + In the black basket of the grate-- + And the bed with its crimson hangings + Seemed a great peony, + Wide open and placid. + Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler. + He slipped off his bottle-green coat + And his flowered waistcoat. + He put on a flannel dressing-gown, + And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin. + He wound his large gold watch + And placed it under his pillow. + Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. + There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds; + But behind him was his quiet candle. + There was the wind whisking along the street. + The window rattled, but it was fastened. + Did the wind say, "Spruggins"? + All Mr. Spruggins heard was "S-s-s-s-s--" + Dying away down the street. + He dropped the curtain and got into bed. + Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan; + The bed was warm, + And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers, + With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head. + Mr. Spruggins dozed. + He had forgotten to put out the candle, + But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright... + Too bright! + The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids, + They scorched him back to consciousness. + He tried to shift his position; + He could not move. + Something weighed him down, + He could not breathe. + He was gasping, + Pinned down and suffocating. + He opened his eyes. + The curtains of the window were flung back, + The fire and the candle were out, + And the room was filled with green moonlight. + And pressed against the window-pane + Was a wide, round face, + Winking--winking-- + Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other. + Tick--tock--went the watch under his pillow, + Wink--wink--went the face at the window. + It was not the fire roses which had pricked him, + It was the winking eyes. + Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up; + He could not, because-- + His heart flapped up into his mouth + And fell back dead. + On his chest was a fat pink pig, + On the pig a blackamoor + With a ten pound weight for a cap. + His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes, + And his eyes rolled round and round, + With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing, + And appearing again on the other side. + The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles, + And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar, + While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind. + He dug his spurs into the pig, + Which trampled and snorted, + And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins. + Then the green light on the floor began to undulate. + It heaved and hollowed, + It rose like a tide, + Sea-green, + Full of claws and scales + And wriggles. + The air above his bed began to move; + It weighed over him + In a mass of draggled feathers. + Not one lifted to stir the air. + They drooped and dripped + With a smell of port wine and brandy, + Closing down, slowly, + Trickling drops on the bed-quilt. + Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass, + And the moon burst into the room, + Sizzling--"S-s-s-s-s--Spruggins! Spruggins!" + It rolled toward him, + A green ball of flame, + With two eyes in the center, + A red eye and a yellow eye, + Dropping their lids slowly, + One after the other. + Mr. Spruggins tried to scream, + But the blackamoor + Leapt off his pig + With a cry, + Drew his scimitar, + And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth. + + Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn + And remade the fire. + Then he crept back to bed + By the light which seeped in under the window curtains, + And lay there, shivering, + While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven. + + + + +The Paper Windmill + + + +The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out +at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square +glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced, and +shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water +of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots +piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if +they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, "Oh!" with +delight, and pressed against the window with all his might. + + +The golden cock on the top of the 'Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open +like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it. +"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy. "Can't you hear me through +the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow when you see +the eggs of your cousin, the great roc." But the golden cock stood +stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind. He could not +understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico" when he said anything. +But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing. His eyes glittered to +the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses drifted away down the +canal. + + +It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind +was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart +beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune: +"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee +to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white," and the +man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop! milk for your tea. +Plop! trop! drink it to-night." It was very pleasant out there, but it +was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear. + + +It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still. Nothing +was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment it had +changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner, there was only +an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head, picking her way +over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves in the basket +this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage. The sun +patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed +sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his +disordered toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours +were dull. The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left +for toys. + + +The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it, +spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the +square, the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never +stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned. It +burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked, +and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of +saffron, and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a +myriad cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel, and +the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square was +filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another, +faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze, +staring in amaze. + + +The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came, a +great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now, and the +little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more than the wind +which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame on his +shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills, each +one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful, and +the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy who +had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy. + + +The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed, for +the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer came the +windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy in the window of +the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass between the boy and the +windmills. They slid round before his eyes in rapidly revolving +splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours--big, little, +thick, thin--all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor dipped +and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued to the +window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything! Rings and rings +of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred those +other toys which never stirred. "Nursie, come quickly. Look! I want a +windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you? I +want that silver one, with the big ring of blue." + + +So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue, and +smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment to +pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute he was +standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end of a +stick which he held out to the little boy. "But I wanted a windmill +which went round," cried the little boy. "That is the one you asked +for, Master Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do. +"See, it is silver, and here is the blue." "But it is only a blue +streak," sobbed the little boy. "I wanted a blue ring, and this silver +doesn't sparkle." "Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted, now +run away and play with it, for I am very busy." + + +The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the +floor lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick. +But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big +wheel of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling +rainbow, and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it +seemed a maze of spattering diamonds. "Cocorico!" crowed the golden +cock on the top of the 'Stadhuis'. "That is something worth crowing +for." But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the +crumpled bit of paper on the floor. + + + + +The Red Lacquer Music-Stand + + + + A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought + In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought + With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold, + The slender shaft all twined about and thickly scrolled + With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils, whirling, curling, + Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, and swirling + Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams; + Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams + Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen, + Long streaks of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean. + Four desks, adjustable, to suit the heights of players + Sitting to viols or standing up to sing, four layers + Of music to serve every instrument, are there, + And on the apex a large flat-topped golden pear. + It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights, + When the sun flares the old barn-chamber with its flights + And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards, + Legless and mouldy, and hops, glint to glint, on hoards + Of scythes, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools + Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools. + With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust + Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust + Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range, + The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change; + To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws; + To dart a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws; + To puff out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade + Back to a still, faint outline obliterate in shade. + Creeping up the ladder into the loft, the Boy + Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy. + He sees the dusty sun-mote slit by streaks of red, + He sees it split and stream, and all about his head + Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking, flicking, + Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking + The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom. + The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room. + The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door + And the sun widens out all along the floor, + Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward light, + So not one blurred outline can tease the mind to fright. + + "O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, + and Magnify Him for ever." + + The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded fair, + Will heap it with the Works of the Lord. In the morning air, + Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled, + Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World + Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise. + The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze + An altar meet and worthy, but each table and chair + Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair + To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs, + The tables are uneven, and every highboy lacks + A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised and worn, + And even a wide sofa has its cane seat torn. + Only in the gloom far in the corner there + The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare, + Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread, + The sound of old quartets, a tenuous, faint thread, + Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme-- + Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme! + + A candle on the bookcase feels a draught and wavers, + Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers. + A bed-post, grown colossal, jigs about the ceiling, + And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing + Eagles, and rabbits, and weird faces pulled awry, + And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly. + Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun + Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one + Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones, + And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock cones, + An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly blown, + The rattle of a rattlesnake, and three large brown + Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled + With a green luna moth, a snake-skin freshly scaled, + Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell, + A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell + The stand will hold no more. The Boy with humming head + Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed. + + The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind + Blows gustily and clear, and slaps against the blind. + He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy + It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free + For adoration only, for worship. Dedicate, + His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate. + The hours strike below from the clock on the stair. + The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer. + Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him + Whose splendour must be veiled by starry cherubim, + Whose Feet shimmer like crystal in the streets of Heaven. + Like an open rose the sun will stand up even, + Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement glows + Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows + From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite + The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light. + Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim, + 'Viols d'amore' and 'hautbois' accorded to a hymn. + The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings + Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings. + He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes + Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise. + + The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the wall + When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness, started his ritual. + He washed, all shivering and pointed like a flame. + He threw the shutters open, and in the window-frame + The morning glimmered like a tarnished Venice glass. + He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass + Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate + Worthy to hold them burning. Alas! He had been late + In thinking of this need, and now he could not find + Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind. + The house was not astir, and he dared not go down + Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown + And slam before the draught he made as he went out. + The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about. + A flash of almost crimson from the gilded pear + Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there. + The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared, + Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared. + He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid + Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed + To light with ease, then stood a little to one side, + Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly tried + To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays + Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze. + Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation flame, + Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came. + The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced, + Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced, + A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense pile + Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile + Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up, + A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup. + + "O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever. + O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him + for ever." + + A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled, seeming + A chalice foamed with sunrise. The Boy woke from his dreaming. + A spike of flame had caught the card of butterflies, + The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries + Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue + Of gleaming, brutal fire. The Boy instantly swung + His pitcher off the wash-stand and turned it upside down. + The flames drooped back and sizzled, and all his senses grown + Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed + And flung it over all, and then with aching head + He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains + Of his holy offering. The lacquer stand had stains + Ugly and charred all over, and where the golden pear + Had been, a deep, black hole gaped miserably. His dear + Treasures were puffs of ashes; only the stones were there, + Winking in the brightness. + The clock upon the stair + Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate. + The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late. + + + + +Spring Day + + +Bath + +The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and +narcissus in the air. + +The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the +water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It +cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright +light. + +Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, +dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir +of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes +of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the +green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is +almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright +day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. + +The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a +whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air. + + +Breakfast Table + +In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. +It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and +colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its +side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver +coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and +twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels +prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread +themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout +orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! +Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service +with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, +suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue +sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and +fair with good smells in the air. + + +Walk + +Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching. + +On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber +and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. +The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass +marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under +rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there +are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a +girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind +flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. +Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among +the flowers on her hat. + +A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green +and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water +over the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and +narcissus. + +The thickening branches make a pink 'grisaille' against the blue sky. + +Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. +Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white +dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead +of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green. + +A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, +irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and +sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet +and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air. + + +Midday and Afternoon + +Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still +brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch +and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in +the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, +darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings +out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and +motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the +jar of a church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a +piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. +Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, +skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and +advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them +clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent +as tulips and narcissus. + +The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the +shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame. + + +Night and Sleep + +The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out +along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and +blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in +spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a +new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver +of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug +of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky +is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours? + +I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees +and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and +clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers +in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus. + +My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the +distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no +stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants +and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, +glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing +for the Spring. + +The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in +the air. + +Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams +into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer +tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses +down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the +sky when it is fresh-washed and fair... I smell the stars... they +are like tulips and narcissus... I smell them in the air. + + + + +The Dinner-Party + + + + Fish + + "So..." they said, + With their wine-glasses delicately poised, + Mocking at the thing they cannot understand. + "So..." they said again, + Amused and insolent. + The silver on the table glittered, + And the red wine in the glasses + Seemed the blood I had wasted + In a foolish cause. + + + Game + + The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers + Sneered languidly over his quail. + Then my heart flew up and laboured, + And I burst from my own holding + And hurled myself forward. + With straight blows I beat upon him, + Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him. + But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, + And I recoiled upon myself, + Panting. + + + Drawing-Room + + In a dress all softness and half-tones, + Indolent and half-reclined, + She lay upon a couch, + With the firelight reflected in her jewels. + But her eyes had no reflection, + They swam in a grey smoke, + The smoke of smouldering ashes, + The smoke of her cindered heart. + + + Coffee + + They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups. + One dropped in a lump of sugar, + One stirred with a spoon. + I saw them as a circle of ghosts + Sipping blackness out of beautiful china, + And mildly protesting against my coarseness + In being alive. + + + Talk + + They took dead men's souls + And pinned them on their breasts for ornament; + Their cuff-links and tiaras + Were gems dug from a grave; + They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts; + And I took a green liqueur from a servant + So that he might come near me + And give me the comfort of a living thing. + + + Eleven O'Clock + + The front door was hard and heavy, + It shut behind me on the house of ghosts. + I flattened my feet on the pavement + To feel it solid under me; + I ran my hand along the railings + And shook them, + And pressed their pointed bars + Into my palms. + The hurt of it reassured me, + And I did it again and again + Until they were bruised. + When I woke in the night + I laughed to find them aching, + For only living flesh can suffer. + + + + +Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet + + + + First Movement + + Thin-voiced, nasal pipes + Drawing sound out and out + Until it is a screeching thread, + Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting, + It hurts. + Whee-e-e! + Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump! + There are drums here, + Banging, + And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones + Of the market-place. + Whee-e-e! + Sabots slapping the worn, old stones, + And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones; + Clumsy and hard they are, + And uneven, + Losing half a beat + Because the stones are slippery. + Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong! + The thin Spring leaves + Shake to the banging of shoes. + Shoes beat, slap, + Shuffle, rap, + And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices, + Little pigs' voices + Weaving among the dancers, + A fine white thread + Linking up the dancers. + Bang! Bump! Tong! + Petticoats, + Stockings, + Sabots, + Delirium flapping its thigh-bones; + Red, blue, yellow, + Drunkenness steaming in colours; + Red, yellow, blue, + Colours and flesh weaving together, + In and out, with the dance, + Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together. + Pigs' cries white and tenuous, + White and painful, + White and-- + Bump! + Tong! + + + Second Movement + + Pale violin music whiffs across the moon, + A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon, + Cherry petals fall and flutter, + And the white Pierrot, + Wreathed in the smoke of the violins, + Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling, + Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth + With his finger-nails. + + + Third Movement + + An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church, + It wheezes and coughs. + The nave is blue with incense, + Writhing, twisting, + Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests. + 'Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine'; + The priests whine their bastard Latin + And the censers swing and click. + The priests walk endlessly + Round and round, + Droning their Latin + Off the key. + The organ crashes out in a flaring chord, + And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone. + 'Dies illa, dies irae, + Calamitatis et miseriae, + Dies magna et amara valde.' + A wind rattles the leaded windows. + The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter, + 'Dies illa, dies irae;' + The swaying smoke drifts over the altar, + 'Calamitatis et miseriae;' + The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water, + 'Dies magna et amara valde;' + And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them + Stretched upon a bier. + His ears are stone to the organ, + His eyes are flint to the candles, + His body is ice to the water. + Chant, priests, + Whine, shuffle, genuflect, + He will always be as rigid as he is now + Until he crumbles away in a dust heap. + 'Lacrymosa dies illa, + Qua resurget ex favilla + Judicandus homo reus.' + Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness. + + + + +Towns in Colour + + + + I + + Red Slippers + +Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey, +windy sleet! + + +Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red, +festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes +of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections +against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and +salmon into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon +lights upon the tops of umbrellas. + +The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding, it +bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light, fluid and +fluctuating, a hot rain--and freeze again to red slippers, myriadly +multiplied in the mirror side of the window. + + +They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson +lacquer; they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked +in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds, flared +and burnished by red rockets. + +Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous +block of shops. + +They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets into the +crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement. + + +People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther +down, is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few +minutes and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair, +lolling awkwardly in its flower chair. + +One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before? + + +The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are +only red slippers. + + + + II + + Thompson's Lunch Room--Grand Central Station + + Study in Whites + + + Wax-white-- + Floor, ceiling, walls. + Ivory shadows + Over the pavement + Polished to cream surfaces + By constant sweeping. + The big room is coloured like the petals + Of a great magnolia, + And has a patina + Of flower bloom + Which makes it shine dimly + Under the electric lamps. + Chairs are ranged in rows + Like sepia seeds + Waiting fulfilment. + The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap + Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall-- + Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow + Through the wavering uncertainty of steam. + Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections, + Ice-green carboys, shifting--greener, bluer--with the jar of moving water. + Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass + Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar + Above the lighthouse-shaped castors + Of grey pepper and grey-white salt. + Grey-white placards: "Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters": + Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines. + Dropping on the white counter like horn notes + Through a web of violins, + The flat yellow lights of oranges, + The cube-red splashes of apples, + In high plated 'epergnes'. + The electric clock jerks every half-minute: + "Coming!--Past!" + "Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie," + Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily. + A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair. + Two rice puddings and a salmon salad + Are pushed over the counter; + The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them. + A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone, + And the sound throws across the room + Sharp, invisible zigzags + Of silver. + + + + III + + An Opera House + + + Within the gold square of the proscenium arch, + A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds, + Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind. + Gold carving edges the balconies, + Rims the boxes, + Runs up and down fluted pillars. + Little knife-stabs of gold + Shine out whenever a box door is opened. + Gold clusters + Flash in soft explosions + On the blue darkness, + Suck back to a point, + And disappear. + Hoops of gold + Circle necks, wrists, fingers, + Pierce ears, + Poise on heads + And fly up above them in coloured sparkles. + Gold! + Gold! + The opera house is a treasure-box of gold. + Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit: + Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas; + Gold--spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold + Of harps. + The conductor raises his baton, + The brass blares out + Crass, crude, + Parvenu, fat, powerful, + Golden. + Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes. + Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped, + Crash. + The orange curtain parts + And the prima-donna steps forward. + One note, + A drop: transparent, iridescent, + A gold bubble, + It floats... floats... + And bursts against the lips of a bank president + In the grand tier. + + + + IV + + Afternoon Rain in State Street + + + Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, + Slant lines of black rain + In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings. + Below, + Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal, + The street. + And over it, umbrellas, + Black polished dots + Struck to white + An instant, + Stream in two flat lines + Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil. + Like a four-sided wedge + The Custom House Tower + Pokes at the low, flat sky, + Pushing it farther and farther up, + Lifting it away from the house-tops, + Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin, + With the lever of its apex. + The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely, + Scratching lines of black wire across it, + Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface + With the sharp precision of tools. + The city is rigid with straight lines and angles, + A chequered table of blacks and greys. + Oblong blocks of flatness + Crawl by with low-geared engines, + And pass to short upright squares + Shrinking with distance. + A steamer in the basin blows its whistle, + And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings, + A narrow, level bar of steel. + Hard cubes of lemon + Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings + As the windows light up. + But the lemon cubes are edged with angles + Upon which they cannot impinge. + Up, straight, down, straight--square. + Crumpled grey-white papers + Blow along the side-walks, + Contorted, horrible, + Without curves. + A horse steps in a puddle, + And white, glaring water spurts up + In stiff, outflaring lines, + Like the rattling stems of reeds. + The city is heraldic with angles, + A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable + And countercoloured bends of rain + Hung over a four-square civilization. + When a street lamp comes out, + I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds + To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe. + + + + V + + An Aquarium + + + Streaks of green and yellow iridescence, + Silver shiftings, + Rings veering out of rings, + Silver--gold-- + Grey-green opaqueness sliding down, + With sharp white bubbles + Shooting and dancing, + Flinging quickly outward. + Nosing the bubbles, + Swallowing them, + Fish. + Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, + The light rippling over them + In steel-bright tremors. + Outspread translucent fins + Flute, fold, and relapse; + The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles + In scarcely tarnished twinklings. + Curving of spotted spines, + Slow up-shifts, + Lazy convolutions: + Then a sudden swift straightening + And darting below: + Oblique grey shadows + Athwart a pale casement. + Roped and curled, + Green man-eating eels + Slumber in undulate rhythms, + With crests laid horizontal on their backs. + Barred fish, + Striped fish, + Uneven disks of fish, + Slip, slide, whirl, turn, + And never touch. + Metallic blue fish, + With fins wide and yellow and swaying + Like Oriental fans, + Hold the sun in their bellies + And glow with light: + Blue brilliance cut by black bars. + An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, + Across it, in a tangent, + A smear of rose, black, silver. + Short twists and upstartings, + Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: + Sunshine playing between red and black flowers + On a blue and gold lawn. + Shadows and polished surfaces, + Facets of mauve and purple, + A constant modulation of values. + Shaft-shaped, + With green bead eyes; + Thick-nosed, + Heliotrope-coloured; + Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; + In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations. + + Outside, + A willow-tree flickers + With little white jerks, + And long blue waves + Rise steadily beyond the outer islands. + + + + + +Some Books by Amy Lowell + + + + Poetry + + + What's O'Clock + Legends + Pictures of the Floating World + Can Grande's Castle + Men, Women and Ghosts + Sword Blades and Poppy Seed + A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (already online) + A Critical Fable + + Fir-Flower Tablets: Poems Translated from the Chinese + (In collaboration with Florence Ayscough) + + + Prose + + Tendencies in Modern American Poetry + Six French Poets: Studies in Contemporary Literature + John Keats + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 841.txt or 841.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/4/841/ + +Produced by Alan Light + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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