Part 7
He came in now grumbling and wiping his face with a coarse red handkerchief, remarking on the “catch” and upon the sorrow of the house of Agrippa, all in the one breath.
“There’s a touch of damp in the air,” he said, sniffing, his nose held back so that his small eyes gleamed directly behind it. “The fish have been bad catching and no-man’s-mare is going up the headlands, her tail stretched straight out.”
Tasha came forward with cakes and tea and paused, praying over them also, still looking for comfort. She was a small woman, with a round, wrinkled forehead and the dark eyes of her sister; today she felt inconvenienced because she could not understand her own feelings—once or twice she had looked upon the corpse with resentment because it had done something to Pauvla; however, she was glad to see the old man, and she prayed to him silently also, to see if it would help. Just what she prayed for she could not tell; the words she used were simple: “What is it, what is it?” over and over with her own childhood prayers to end with.
She had a great deal of the quietness of this village about her, the quietness that is in the roaring of the sea and the wind, and when she sighed it was like the sound made of great waters running back to sea between the narrow sides of little stones.
It was here that she, as well as her brothers and sisters, had been born. They fished in the fishing season and sold to the market at one-eighth of the market price, but when the markets went so low that selling would put the profits down for months, they turned the nets over and sent the fish back to sea.
Today Tasha was dressed in her ball-gown; she had been anticipating a local gathering that evening and then Pauvla Agrippa got her heart attack and died. This dress was low about the shoulders, with flounces of taffeta, and the sea-beaten face of Tasha rose out of its stiff elegance like a rock from heavy moss. Now that she had brought the cakes and tea, she sat listening to this neighbour as he spoke French to her younger brother.
When they spoke in this strange language she was always surprised to note that their voices became unfamiliar to her—she could not have told which was which, or if they were themselves at all. Closing her eyes, she tried to see if this would make any difference, and it didn’t. Then she slowly raised her small plump hands and pressed them to her ears—this was better, because now she could not tell that it was French that they were speaking, it was sound only and might have been anything, and again she sighed, and was glad that they were less strange to her; she could not bear this strangeness today, and wished they would stop speaking in a foreign tongue.
“What are you saying?” she enquired, taking the teacup in one hand, keeping the other over her ear.
“Talking about the horse,” he said, and went on.
Again Tasha became thoughtful. This horse that they were speaking about had been on the sands, it seemed to her, for as long as she could remember. It was a wild thing belonging to nobody. Sometimes in a coming storm, she had seen it standing with its head out toward the waters, its mane flying in the light air, and its thin sides fluttering with the beating of its heart.
It was old now, with sunken flanks and knuckled legs; it no longer stood straight—and the hair about its nose had begun to turn grey. It never interfered with the beach activities, and on the other hand it never permitted itself to be touched. Early in her memory of this animal, Tasha had tried to stroke it, but it had started, arched its neck and backed away from her with hurried jumping steps. Many of the ignorant fisherfolk had called it the sea horse and also “no-man’s-mare.” They began to fear it, and several of them thought it a bad omen.
Tasha knew better—sometimes it would be down upon the pebbly part of the shore, its head laid flat as though it were dead, but no one could approach within fifty feet without its instantly leaping up and standing with its neck thrust forward and its brown eyes watching from beneath the coarse lashes.
In the beginning people had tried to catch it and make it of use. Gradually everyone in the village had made the attempt; not one of them had ever succeeded.
The large black nostrils were always wet, and they shook as though someone were blowing through them—great nostrils like black flowers.
This mare was old now and did not get up so often when approached. Tasha had been as near to it as ten paces, and Pauvla Agrippa had once approached so near that she could see that its eyes were failing, that a thin mist lay over its right eyeball, so that it seemed to be flirting with her, and this made her sad and she hurried away, and she thought, “The horse had its own defence; when it dies it will be so horrifying perhaps that not one of us will approach it.” Though many had squabbled about which of them should have its long beautiful tail.
Pauvla Agrippa’s husband had finished his cigar and came in now, bending his head to get through the low casement. He spoke to the neighbour a few moments and then sat down beside his sister-in-law.
He began to tell her that something would have to be done with Pauvla, and added that they would have to manage to get her over to the undertaker’s at the end of the headland, but that they had no means of conveyance. Tasha thought of this horse because she had been thinking about it before he interrupted and she spoke of it timidly, but it was only an excuse to say something.
“You can’t catch it,” he said, shaking his head.
Here the neighbour broke in: “It’s easy enough to catch it; this last week three children have stroked it—it’s pretty low, I guess; but I doubt if it would be able to walk that far.”
He looked over the rim of the teacup to see how this remark would be taken—he felt excited all of a sudden at the thought that something was going to be attempted that had not been attempted in many years, and a feeling of misfortune took hold of him that he had certainly not felt at Pauvla Agrippa’s death. Everything about the place, and his life that had seemed to him quite normal and natural, now seemed strange.
The disrupting of one idea—that the horse could not be caught—put him into a mood that made all other accustomed things alien.
However, after this it seemed quite natural that they should make the effort and Tasha went into the room where Pauvla Agrippa lay.
The boy had fallen asleep in the corner and Pauvla’s baby was crawling over him, making for Pauvla, cooing softly and saying “mamma” with difficulty, because the little under-lip kept reaching to the upper lip to prevent the saliva from interrupting the call.
Tasha put her foot in the baby’s way and stood looking down at Pauvla Agrippa, where her small hands lay beneath her fine breast with its purple veins, and now Tasha did not feel quite the same resentment that she had felt earlier. It is true this body had done something irrevocable to Pauvla Agrippa, but she also realized that she, Tasha, must now do something to this body; it was the same with everything, nothing was left as it was, something was always altering something else. Perhaps it was an unrecognized law.
Pauvla Agrippa’s husband had gone out to see what could be done with the mare, and now the neighbour came in, saying that it would not come in over the sand, but that he—the husband—thought that it would walk toward the headland, as it was wont.
“If you could only carry her out to it,” he said.
Tasha called in two of her brothers and woke up the one on the floor. “Everything will be arranged for her comfort,” she said, “when we get her up there.” They lifted Pauvla Agrippa up and her baby began to laugh, asking to be lifted up also, and holding its little hands high that it might be lifted, but no one was paying any attention to him, because now they were moving his mother.
Pauvla Agrippa looked fine as they carried her, only her small hands parted and deserted the clef where they had lain, dropping down upon the shoulders of her brothers. Several children stood hand in hand watching, and one or two villagers appeared who had heard from the neighbours what was going on.
The mare had been induced to stand and someone had slipped a halter over its neck for the first time in many years; there was a frightened look in the one eye and the film that covered the other seemed to darken, but it made no objection when they raised Pauvla Agrippa and placed her on its back, tying her on with a fish net.
Then someone laughed, and the neighbour slapped his leg saying, “Look what the old horse has come to—caught and burdened at last.” And he watched the mare with small cruel eyes.
Pauvla Agrippa’s husband took the strap of the halter and began plodding through the sand, the two boys on either side of the horse holding to all that was left of Pauvla Agrippa. Tasha came behind, her hands folded, praying now to this horse, still trying to find peace, but she noticed with a little apprehension that the horse’s flanks had begun to quiver, and that this quiver was extending to its ribs and from its ribs to its forelegs.
Then she saw it turn a little, lifting its head. She called out to Pauvla Agrippa’s husband who, startled with the movement and the cry, dropped the rope.
The mare had turned toward the sea; for an instant it stood there, quivering, a great thin, bony thing with crooked legs; its blind eyes half covered with the black coarse lashes. Pauvla Agrippa with her head thrown a bit back rested easily, it seemed, the plaits of her yellow hair lying about her neck, but away from her face, because she was not supported quite right; still she looked like some strange new sea animal beneath the net that held her from falling.
Then without warning, no-man’s-mare jumped forward and plunged neck-deep into the water.
A great wave came up, covered it, receded and it could be seen swimming, its head out of the water, while Pauvla Agrippa’s loosened yellow hair floated behind. No one moved. Another wave rose high, descended, and again the horse was seen swimming with head up, and this time Pauvla Agrippa’s hands were parted and lay along the water as though she were swimming.
The most superstitious among them began crossing themselves, and one woman dropped on her knees, rocking from side to side; and still no one moved.
And this time the wave rose, broke and passed on, leaving the surface smooth.
That night Tasha picked up Pauvla Agrippa’s sleepy boy and standing in the doorway prayed to the sea, and this time she found comfort.
SIX SONGS OF KHALIDINE
_To the Memory of Mary Pyne_
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creep Upon your body that denies the gloom And feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consume The cold precision of your austere sleep— And all night long I beat it back, and weep.
It is not gentleness but mad despair That sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine, Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseen We call our soul. Yet thick within our hair The dusty ashes that our days prepare.
The dark comes up, my little love, and dyes Your fallen lids with stain of ebony, And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and me Pulling thin blindness down across our eyes— And far within the vale a lost bird cries.
Does not the wind moan round your painted towers Like rats within an empty granary? The clapper lost, and long blown out to sea Your windy doves. And here the black bat cowers Against your clock that never strikes the hours.
And now I say, has not the mountain’s base Here trembled long ago unto the cry “I love you, ah, I love you!” Now we die And lay, all silent, to the earth our face. Shall that cast out the echo of this place?
Has not one in the dark funereal Heard foot-fall fearful, born of no man’s tread, And felt the wings of death, though no wing spread And on his cheek a tear, though no tear fell— And a voice saying without breath “Farewell!”
THE DOVE
PERSONS: │ AMELIA │_Sisters_ BURGSON │ VERA BURGSON│ 〃
THE DOVE— │_A young girl living with the_ BURGSONS
TIME—_Early morning_
PLACE—_The_ BURGSON _Apartment, a long, low rambling affair at the top of a house in the heart of the city_.
_The decoration is garish, dealing heavily in reds and pinks. There is an evident attempt to make the place look luxuriously sensual. The furniture is all of the reclining type._
_The walls are covered with a striped paper in red and white. Only two pictures are evident, one of the Madonna and child, and one of an early English tandem race._
_There are firearms everywhere. Many groups of swords, ancient and modern, are secured to the walls. A pistol or two lie in chairs, etc._
_There is only one door, which leads out into the back hall directly back centre._
AMELIA BURGSON _is a woman rather over the normal in height, with large braids of very yellow hair, done about a long face. She seems vitally hysterical_.
VERA BURGSON _is small, thin and dark_.
THE DOVE _is a slight girl barely out of her teens; she is as delicate as china with almost dangerously transparent skin. Her nose is high-bridged and thin, her hands and feet are also very long and delicate. She has red hair, very elegantly coiffured. When she moves_ [_seldom_] _the slightest line runs between her legs, giving her the expectant waiting air of a deer._
_At the rising of the curtain_ THE DOVE, _gowned in white, is seated on the divan polishing the blade of an immense sword. Half reclining to her right lies_ VERA _in a thin yellow morning gown. A French novel has half fallen from her hand. Her eyes are closed._
THE DOVE—Yes, I’m hurrying.
VERA—That’s best, she will be back soon.
THE DOVE—She is never gone long.
VERA—No, never very long—one would grow old waiting for the day on which she would stay an hour—a whole hour.
THE DOVE—Yes, that’s true.
VERA—[_Wearily._] She says we live dangerously; [_laughs_] why, we can’t even keep the flies out.
THE DOVE—Yes, there are a great many flies.
VERA—[_After a pause._] Shall I ever have a lover, do you suppose?
THE DOVE—[_Turning the sword over._] No, I suppose not.
VERA—Yet Amelia and I have made it our business to know—everything.
THE DOVE—Yes?
VERA—Yes. We say this little thing in French and that little thing in Spanish, and we collect knives and pistols, but we only shoot our buttons off with the guns and cut our darning cotton with the knives, and we’ll never, never be perverse though our entire education has been about knees and garters and pinches on hindquarters—elegantly bestowed—, and we keep a few animals—very badly—hoping to see something first-hand—and our beds are as full of yellow pages and French jokes as a bird’s nest is full of feathers— God! [_she stands up abruptly_] little one, why do I wear lace at my elbows?
THE DOVE—You have pretty arms.
VERA—Nonsense! Lace swinging back and forth like that, tickling my arms, well, that’s not beauty——
THE DOVE—I know.
VERA—[_Returning to her couch._] I sometimes wonder what you do know, you are such a strange happening, anyway. Well then, tell me what you think of me and what you think of my sister, you have been here long enough. Why do you stay? Do you love us?
THE DOVE—I love something that you have.
VERA—What?
THE DOVE—Your religious natures.
VERA—Good heavens!
THE DOVE—You misunderstand me. I call that imagination that is the growth of ignorance, religion.
VERA—And why do you like that?
THE DOVE—Because it goes farther than knowledge.
VERA—You know, sometimes I wish——
THE DOVE—Yes?
VERA—That you had lived all we pretend we have.
THE DOVE—Why?
VERA—I don’t know, but somehow someone like you should know—everything.
THE DOVE—Do I seem so young?
VERA—I know, that’s what’s so odd. [_Impatiently._] For heaven’s sake, will you stop polishing that infernal weapon!
THE DOVE—[_Quietly._] She said to me:
“Take all the blood stains off first, then polish it.”
VERA—There you are; she is quite mad, there’s no doubt. Blood stains! Why, she would be afraid to cut her chops with it—and as for the rest of her manifestations—nonsense!
THE DOVE—She carries a pistol with her, just to go around the corner for a pound of butter.
VERA—It’s wicked! She keeps an enormous blunderbuss in the corner of her room, but when I make up her bed, all I find is some Parisienne bathing girl’s picture stuck full of pin holes——
THE DOVE—I know, she sits beside me for hours making those pin holes in the borders of everything in sight.
VERA—[_With a strange anger._] Why do you stay?
THE DOVE—Why should I go?
VERA—I should think this house and two such advanced virgins as Amelia and myself would drive you to despair——
THE DOVE—No, no, I’m not driven to despair——
VERA—What do you find here?
THE DOVE—I love Amelia.
VERA—Another reason for going away.
THE DOVE—Is it?
VERA—Yes, it is.
THE DOVE—Strange, I don’t feel that way about it.
VERA—Sometimes I think——
THE DOVE—Yes?
VERA—That you are the mad one, and that we are just eccentric.
THE DOVE—Yet my story is quite simple.
VERA—I’m not so certain.
THE DOVE—Yet you have heard it.
VERA—There’s more than one hears.
THE DOVE—I was born on a farm——
VERA—So you say.
THE DOVE—I became very fond of moles—it’s so daring of them to be in the darkness underground. And then I like the open fields, too—they say there’s nothing like nature for the simple spirit.
VERA—Yes, and I’ve long had my suspicions of nature.
THE DOVE—Be that as it may, my brothers were fond of me—in a way, and my father in—a way—then I came to New York——
VERA—And took up the painting of china——
THE DOVE—Exactly. I was at that for three years, then one day I met you walking through the park, do you remember? You had a parasol, you tipped it back of your head, you looked at me a long time. Then I met Amelia, by the same high fence in the same park, and I bowed to her in an almost military fashion, my heels close together——
VERA—And you never did anything wild, insane——
THE DOVE—It depends on what you call wild, insane——
VERA—[_With great excitement._] Have you ever taken opium or hasheesh?
THE DOVE—[_As if answering._] There are many kinds of dreams—in one you laugh, in another you weep——
VERA—[_Wringing her hands._] Yes, yes, once I dreamed. A dream in the day, with my eyes wide open. I dreamt I was a Dresden doll and that I had been blown down by the wind and that I broke all to pieces—that is, my arms and my head broke all to pieces—but that I was surprised to find that my china skirt had become flexible, as if it were made of chiffon and lace.
THE DOVE—You see, there are many dreams——
VERA—Have you ever felt that your bones were utterly sophisticated but that your flesh was keeping them from expressing themselves?
THE DOVE—Or vice versa?
VERA—Yes, or vice versa.
THE DOVE—There are many kinds of dreams——
VERA—You know, I’m afraid of you!
THE DOVE—Me?
VERA—Yes, you seem so gentle—do we not call you the Dove? And you are so little—so little it’s almost immoral, you make me feel as if——
THE DOVE—As if?
VERA—Well, as if your terrible quality were not one of action, but just the opposite, as if you wanted to prevent nothing.
THE DOVE—There are enough people preventing things, aren’t there?
VERA—Yes—that’s why you frighten me.
THE DOVE—Because I let everything go on, as far as it can go?
VERA—Yes, because you disturb nothing.
THE DOVE—I see.
VERA—You never meddle——
THE DOVE—No, I never meddle.
VERA—You don’t even observe as other people do, you don’t watch. Why, if I were to come to you, wringing my hands saying, “Amelia has shot herself,” I don’t believe you would stand up.
THE DOVE—No, I don’t suppose I would, but I would do something for all that.
VERA—What?
THE DOVE—I should want to be very sure you wrung your hands as much as possible, and that Amelia had gotten all there was to get out of the bullet before she died.
VERA—It’s all very well, but why don’t you do something?
THE DOVE—A person who is capable of anything needs no practice.
VERA—You are probably maligning yourself, you are a gentle creature, a very girl——
THE DOVE—If you were sensitive you would not say that.
VERA—Well, perhaps. [_She laughs a hard laugh._] What can you expect of a lumber dealer’s daughter?
THE DOVE—Why are you so restless, Vera?
VERA—Because I’m a woman. I leave my life entirely to my imagination and my imagination is terrific. I can’t even turn to religion for the _prie-dieu_ inclines me to one thing only—so there you are!
THE DOVE—You imagine—many things?
VERA—You know well enough—sitting here day after day, giving my mind everything to do, the body nothing——
THE DOVE—What do you want, Vera?
VERA—Some people would say a lover, but I don’t say a lover; some people would say a home, but I don’t say a home. You see I have imagined myself beyond the need of the usual home and beyond the reach of the usual lover——
THE DOVE—Then?
VERA—Perhaps what I really want is a reason for using one of these pistols! [_She laughs and lies back._ THE DOVE, _having risen, goes up behind_ VERA _and places her hand on her throat_.]
THE DOVE—Now you may use one of those pistols.
VERA—[_Startled, but making no attempt to remove the_ DOVE’S _hand_.] For such a _little_ thing?
THE DOVE—[_Dropping her hand, once more taking up her old position, sword on knee._] Ah!
VERA—Why do you say that? [_She is evidently agitated._]
THE DOVE—I suppose I shall _always_ wait.
VERA—What is the matter?
THE DOVE—Always, always!
VERA—What _is_ the matter?
THE DOVE—I suppose I’m waiting for the person who will know that anything is a reason for using a pistol, unless one is waiting for the obvious, and the obvious has never been sufficient reason.
VERA—It’s all hopeless, I am hopeless and Amelia is hopeless, and as for you—— [_She makes a gesture._]
THE DOVE—I’ve never held anything against hopelessness.
VERA—Now what do you mean?
THE DOVE—It doesn’t matter.
VERA—[_After a long pause._] I wish you danced.
THE DOVE—Perhaps I do.
VERA—It might make me happier.
THE DOVE—[_Irrelevantly._] Why don’t people get angry at each other, quite suddenly and without reason?
VERA—Why should they?
THE DOVE—Isn’t there something fine and cold and detached about a causeless anger?
VERA—I suppose so, it depends——
THE DOVE—No, it does not depend, that’s exactly it; to have a reason is to cheapen rage. I wish every man were beyond the reach of his own biography.
VERA—You are either quite an idiot, or a saint.
THE DOVE—I thought we had discussed that.
VERA—[_Dashed but not showing it._] Yes, a saint.
THE DOVE—[_Continuing._] I’m impatient of necessary continuity, I’m too sensitive, perhaps. I want the beautiful thing to be, how can logic have anything to do with it, or probable sequence?
VERA—You make my hair stand on end!
THE DOVE—Of course, that’s logical!
VERA—Then how is it you like Amelia? And how do you stand me?
THE DOVE—Because you are two splendid dams erected about two little puddles.
VERA—You’re horrid!
THE DOVE—Only horrid!
VERA—Yes, I’m really afraid of you.
THE DOVE—Afraid?
VERA—For instance, when you’re out of this room all these weapons might be a lot of butter knives or pop guns, but let you come in——
THE DOVE—Well?
VERA—It becomes an arsenal.
THE DOVE—Yet you call me the Dove.
VERA—Amelia called you the Dove, I’d never have thought of it. It’s just like Amelia to call the only dangerous thing she ever knew the “Dove.”
THE DOVE—Yes, there’s something in that.
VERA—Shall I sing for you?
THE DOVE—If you like.