Songs and Satires Part 10

And the words of the letter flash and die like a fuse Dampened by rain--it's a dying mind that writes What Byron did for the Greeks against the Turks.

And a sickness enters our hearts. The jewelled hands Clutch at the arms of the chairs--about the room One hears the parting of lips, and a nervous shifting Of feet and arms.

And I look up and over The reader's shoulder and see the name of the writer.

What is it I see? The name of a man I knew!

You are an ironical trickster, Time, to bring After so many years and into a place like this This face before me: hair slicked down and parted In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness, Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes.

Such was your look in a photograph I saw In a silver frame on a woman's dresser--and such Your look in life, you thing of flesh alone!

And then As a soul looks down on the body it leaves-- A body by fever slain--I look on myself As I was a decade ago, while the letter is read:

I enter a box Of a theater with Jim, my friend of fifty, I being twenty-two. Two women are in the box One of an age for Jim and one of an age for me.

And mine is dressed in a dainty gown of dimity, And she fans herself with a fan of silver spangles Till a subtle odor of delicate powder or of herself Enters my blood and I stare at her snowy neck, And the glossy brownness of her hair until She feels my stare, and turns half-view and I see How like a Greek's is her nose, with just a little Aquiline touch; and I catch the flash of an eye, And the glint of a smile on the richness of her lips.

The company now discourses upon the letter But my dream goes on:

I re-live a rapture Which may be madness, and no man understands Until he feels it no more. The youth that was I From the theater under the city's lights follows the girl Desperate lest in the city's curious chances He never sees her again. And boldly he speaks.

And she and the older woman, her sister Smile and speak in turn, and Jim who stands While I break the ice comes up--and so Arm in arm we go to the restaurant, I in heaven walking with Arabel, And Jim with her older sister.

We drive them home under a summer moon, And while I explain to Arabel my boldness, And crave her pardon for it, Jim, the devil, Laughs apart with her sister while I wonder What Jim, the devil, is laughing at. No matter To-morrow I walk in the park with Arabel.

Just now the reader of the letter Tells of the writer's swift descent From wealth to want.

We are in the park next afternoon by the water.

I look at her white throat full as it were of song.

And her rounded virginal bosom, beautiful!

And I study her eyes, I search to the depths her eyes In the light of the sun. They are full of little rays Like the edge of a fleur de lys, and she smiles At first when I fling my soul at her feet.

But when I repeat I love her, love her only, A cloud of wonder pa.s.ses over her face, She veils her eyes. The color comes to her cheeks.

And when she picks some clover blossoms and tears them Her hand is trembling. And when I tell her again I love her, love her only, she blots her eyes With a handkerchief to hide a tear that starts.

And she says to me: "You do not know me at all, How can you love me? You never saw me before Last night." "Well, tell me about yourself."

And after a time she tells me the story: About her father who ran away from her mother; And how she hated her father, and how she grieved When her mother died; and how a good grandmother Helped her and helps her now. And how her sister Divorced her husband. And then she paused a moment: "I am not strong, you'd have to guard me gently, And that takes money, dear, as well as love.

Two years ago I was very ill, and since then I am not strong."

"Well I can work," I said.

"And what would you think of a little cottage Not too far out with a yard and hosts of roses, And a vine on the porch, and a little garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, When a morning breeze blows over your brow, And you sit across the table and serve me And neither of us can speak for happiness Without our voices breaking, or lips trembling."

She is looking down with little frowns on her brow.

"But if ever I had to work, I could not do it, I am not really well."

"But I can work," I said.

I rise and lift her up, holding her hand.

She slips her arm through mine and presses it.

"What a good man you are," she said. "Just like a brother-- I almost love you, I believe I love you."

The reader of the letter, being a doctor, Is talking learnedly of the writer's case Which has the cla.s.sical marks of paresis.

Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodize About a cottage with roses and a garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, And Arabel across the table. Jim is smoking And flicking the ashes, but never says a word Till I have finished. Then in a quiet voice: "Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight, But she isn't, my boy--she's just like Arabel's sister.

She knew you had the madness for Arabel.

That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked.

And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night, I shook you at the corner and went back, And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy, Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop The cottage and the roses."

They are still discussing the madman's letter.

And memory permeates me like a subtle drug: The memory of my love for Arabel, The torture, the doubt, the fear, the restless longing, The sleepless nights, the pity for all her sorrows, The speculation about her and her sister, And what her illness was; And whether the man I saw one time was leaving Her door or the next door to it, and if her door Whether he saw my Arabel or her sister....

The reader of the letter is telling how the writer Left his wife chasing the lure of women.

And it all comes back to me as clear as a vision: The night I sat with Arabel strong but conquered.

Whatever I did, I loved her, whatever she was.

Madness or love the terrible struggle must end.

She took my hand and said, "You must see my room."

We stood in the doorway together and on her dresser Was a silver frame with the photograph of a man-- I had seen him in life: hair slicked down and parted In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes.

"There is his picture," she said, "ask me whatever you will.

Take me as mistress or wife, it is yours to decide.

But take me as mistress and grow like the picture before you, Take me as wife and be the good man you can be.

Choose me as mistress--how can I do less for dearest?

Or make me your wife--fate makes me your mistress or wife."

"I can leave you," I said. "You can leave me," she echoed, "But how about hate in your heart."

"You are right," I replied.

The company is now discussing the subject of love-- They seem to know little about it.

But my wife, who is sitting beside me, exclaims: "Well, what is this jangle of madness and weakness, What has it to do with poetry, tell me?"

"Well, it's life," Arabel.

"There's the story of Hamlet, for instance," I added.

Then fell into silence.

JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER

Last night a friend of mine and I sat talking, When all at once I found 'twas one o'clock.

So we came out and he went home to wife And children, and I started for the club Which I call home; and then just like a flash You came into my mind. I bought a slug And stood, in the booth, with doubtful heart and heard The buzzer buzz. Well, it was sweet to me To hear your voice at last--it was so drowsy, Like a child's voice. And I could see your eyes Heavy with sleep, and I could see you standing In nightgown with head leaned against the wall....

Julia! the welcome of your drowsy voice Went through me like the warmth of priceless wine-- It showed your understanding, that you know How it is with a man, and how it is with me Who work by day and sometimes drift by night About this h.e.l.lish city. Though you know That I am fifty-one, can you imagine My feeling with no children growing up?

My feeling as of one who sees a play And afterwards sits somewhere at a table And talks with friends about the different parts Over a sandwich and a gla.s.s of beer?

My feeling with this money which I've made And cannot use? Sometimes the stress of working The money dulls the fancy which could use it In splendid dreams or in the art of life.

Well, here was I ringing your bell at last At half-past one, and there you stood before me With a sleepy voice and a sleepy smile, with hands So warm, and cheeks so red from sleep, not vexed, But like a child, awakened, who smiles at you With half-shut eyes and kisses you, so you Gave me a kiss. The world seems better, Julia, For that kiss which you gave me at the door....

Breakfast? Why, toast and coffee, not too strong, My heart acts queer of late....

I want to say Lest I forget it, if you ever hear From Arabel or Francis what I said To Francis when he told me he intended To marry Arabel, why just remember Our talk this morning and forget I said it-- I'm sorry that I said it. But, you see, That night we met, I being fifty-one And old at what men call the game, looked on With steady eye and quiet nerve, I saw you Just as I'd see a woman anywhere; And I found you as I'd found others before you, But with this difference so it seemed to me: What had been false with them was real with you, What had been shame with them with you was life, What had been craft with them with you was nature, What had been sin with them to you was good, What had been vice with them to you the honest And uncorrupted innocence of a human Heart so human looking on our souls.

What had been coa.r.s.e to them to you was clean As rain is, or fresh flowers, all things that grow And move and sing along creation's way.

You came to me like friendship, what you gave Was friendship's gift, when friends think least of self And least of motive. And it is through you That I have risen out of the pit where sneers And laughter, looks and words obscene, Blaspheme our nature. It is through you, Julia, As one amid great beach trees where soft mosses Pillow our heads and where we see the clouds Upon their infinite sailings and the lake Washes beneath us, and we lie and think How this has been forever and will be When we are dust a thousand, thousand years, Yet how life is eternal--just as one Who there falls into prayer for ecstasy Of wonder, prophecy could not blaspheme The Eternal Power (as he might well blaspheme The gospel hymns and ritual) that I Cannot blaspheme you, Julia.

For what is our communion, yours and mine, If it be not a way of laying hold On that mysterious essence which makes one Of heaven and earth, makes kindred human hands....

Tears are not like you, Julia; laugh, that's right!

Pour me a little coffee, if you please.