Part 1

E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

A PUSHCART AT THE CURB

by

JOHN DOS PASSOS

* * * * *

_Books by John Dos Passos_

_NOVELS:_

_Three Soldiers_

_One Man's Initiation_

_Streets of Night_

_(In Preparation)_

_ESSAYS:_

_Rosinante to the Road Again_

_POEMS:_

_A Pushcart at the Curb_

* * * * *

A PUSHCART AT THE CURB

by

JOHN DOS PASSOS

[Decorative Illustration]

George H. Doran Company Publishers New York

Copyright, 1922, By George H. Doran Company

[Decorative Illustration]

_A Pushcart at the Curb. I_

Printed in the United States of America

TO THE MEMORY

OF

WRIGHT McCORMICK

WHO TUMBLED OFF A MOUNTAIN

IN MEXICO

My verse is no upholstered chariot Gliding oil-smooth on oiled wheels, No swift and shining modern limousine, But a pushcart, rather.

A crazy creaking pushcart, hard to push Round corners, slung on shaky patchwork wheels, That jolts and jumbles over the cobblestones Its very various lading:

A lading of Spanish oranges, Smyrna figs, Fly-specked apples, perhaps of the Hesperides, Curious fruits of the Indies, pepper-sweet ... Stranger, choose and taste.

_Dolo_

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

For permission to reprint certain of the poems in this volume, thanks are due _The Bookman_, _The Dial_, _Vanity Fair_, _The Measure_, and _The New York Evening Post_.

CONTENTS

PAGE

WINTER IN CASTILE 13

NIGHTS AT BASSANO 65

VAGONES DE TERCERA 109

QUAI DE LA TOURNELLE 139

ON FOREIGN TRAVEL 163

PHASES OF THE MOON 185

WINTER IN CASTILE

The promiscuous wind wafts idly from the quays A smell of ships and curious woods and casks And a sweetness from the gorse on the flowerstand And brushes with his cool careless cheek the cheeks Of those on the street; mine, an old gnarled man's, The powdered cheeks of the girl who with faded eyes Stands in the shadow; a sailor's scarred brown cheeks, And a little child's, who walks along whispering To her sufficient self. O promiscuous wind.

_Bordeaux_

I

A long grey street with balconies. Above the gingercolored grocer's shop trail pink geraniums and further up a striped mattress hangs from a window and the little wooden cage of a goldfinch.

Four blind men wabble down the street with careful steps on the rounded cobbles scraping with violin and flute the interment of a tune.

People gather: women with market-baskets stuffed with green vegetables, men with blankets on their shoulders and brown sunwrinkled faces.

Pipe the flutes, squeak the violins; four blind men in a row at the interment of a tune ... But on the plate coppers clink round brown pennies a merry music at the funeral, penny swigs of wine penny gulps of gin peanuts and hot roast potatoes red disks of sausage tripe steaming in the corner shop ...

And overhead the sympathetic finch chirps and trills approval.

_Calle de Toledo, Madrid_

II

A boy with rolled up shirtsleeves turns the handle. Grind, grind. The black sphere whirls above a charcoal fire. Grind, grind. The boy sweats and grits his teeth and turns while a man blows up the coals. Grind, grind. Thicker comes the blue curling smoke, the moka-scented smoke heavy with early morning and the awakening city with click-clack click-clack on the cobblestones and the young winter sunshine advancing inquisitively across the black and white tiles of my bedroom floor. Grind, grind. The coffee is done. The boy rubs his arms and yawns, and the sphere and the furnace are trundled away to be set up at another café.

A poor devil whose dirty ashen white body shows through his rags sniffs sensually with dilated nostrils the heavy coffee-fragrant smoke, and turns to sleep again in the feeble sunlight of the greystone steps.

_Calle Espoz y Mina_

III

Women are selling tuberoses in the square, and sombre-tinted wreaths stiffly twined and crinkly for this is the day of the dead.

Women are selling tuberoses in the square. Their velvet odor fills the street somehow stills the tramp of feet; for this is the day of the dead.

Their presence is heavy about us like the velvet black scent of the flowers: incense of pompous interments, patter of monastic feet, drone of masses drowsily said for the thronging dead.

Women are selling tuberoses in the square to cover the tombs of the envious dead and shroud them again in the lethean scent lest the dead should remember.

_Difuntos; Madrid_

IV

Above the scuffling footsteps of crowds the clang of trams the shouts of newsboys the stridence of wheels, very calm, floats the sudden trill of a pipe three silvery upward notes wistfully quavering, notes a Thessalian shepherd might have blown to call his sheep in the emerald shade of Tempe, notes that might have waked the mad women sleeping among pinecones in the hills and stung them to headlong joy of the presence of their mad Iacchos, notes like the glint of sun making jaunty the dark waves of Tempe.

In the street an old man is passing wrapped in a dun brown mantle blowing with bearded lips on a shining panpipe while he trundles before him a grindstone.

The scissors grinder.

_Calle Espoz y Mina_

V

Rain slants on an empty square.

Across the expanse of cobbles rides an old shawl-muffled woman black on a donkey with pert ears that places carefully his tiny sharp hoofs as if the cobbles were eggs. The paniers are full of bright green lettuces and purple cabbages, and shining red bellshaped peppers, dripping, shining, a band in marchtime, in the grey rain, in the grey city.

_Plaza Santa Ana_

VI BEGGARS

The fountain some dead king put up, conceived in pompous imageries, piled with mossgreened pans and centaurs topped by a prudish tight-waisted Cybele (Cybele the many-breasted mother of the grain) spurts with a solemn gurgle of waters.

Where the sun is warmest their backs against the greystone basin sit, hoarding every moment of the palefaced sun, (thy children Cybele) Pan a bearded beggar with blear eyes; his legs were withered by a papal bull, those shaggy legs so nimble to pursue through groves of Arcadian myrtle the nymphs of the fountains and valleys; a young Faunus with soft brown face and dirty breast bared to the sun; the black hair crisps about his ears with some grace yet; a little barefoot Eros crouching to scratch his skinny thighs who stares with wide gold eyes aghast at the yellow shiny trams that clatter past.

All day long they doze in the scant sun and watch the wan leaves rustle to the ground from the yellowed limetrees of the avenue. They are still thine Cybele nursed at thy breast; (like a woman's last foster-children that still would suck grey withered dugs). They have not scorned thy dubious bounty for stridence of grinding iron and pale caged lives made blind by the dust of toil to coin the very sun to gold.

_Plaza de Cibeles_

VII

Footsteps and the leisurely patter of rain.

Beside the lamppost in the alley stands a girl in a long sleek shawl that moulds vaguely to the curves of breast and arms. Her eyes are in shadow.

A smell of frying fish; footsteps of people going to dinner clatter eagerly through the lane. A boy with a trough of meat on his shoulder turns by the lamppost, his steps drag. The green light slants in the black of his eyes. Her eyes are in shadow.

Footsteps of people going to dinner clatter eagerly; the rain falls with infinite nonchalance ... a man turns with a twirl of moustaches and the green light slants on his glasses on the round buttons of his coat. Her eyes are in shadow.

A woman with an umbrella keeps her eyes straight ahead and lifts her dress to avoid the mud on the pavingstones.

An old man stares without fear into the eyes of the girl through the stripes of the rain. His steps beat faster and he sniffs hard suddenly the smell of dinner and frying fish. Was it a flame of old days expanding in his cold blood, or a shiver of rigid graves, chill clay choking congealing?

Beside the lamppost in the alley stands a girl in a long sleek shawl that moulds vaguely to the curves of breast and arms.

_Calle del Gato_

VIII

A brown net of branches quivers above silver trunks of planes. Here and there a late leaf flutters its faint death-rattle in the wind. Beyond, the sky burns fervid rose like red wine held against the sun.

Schoolboys are playing in the square dodging among the silver tree-trunks collars gleam and white knees as they romp shrilly.

Lamps bloom out one by one like jessamine, yellow and small. At the far end a church's dome flat deep purple cuts the sky.

Schoolboys are romping in the square in and out among the silver tree-trunks out of the smoked rose shadows through the timid yellow lamplight ... Socks slip down fingermarks smudge white collars; they run and tussle in the shadows kicking the gravel with muddied boots with cheeks flushed hotter than the sky eyes brighter than the street-lamps with fingers tingling and breath fast: banqueters early drunken on the fierce cold wine of the dead year.

_Paseo de la Castellana_

IX

Green against the livid sky in their square dun-colored towers hang the bronze bells of Castile. In their unshakeable square towers jutting from the slopes of hills clang the bells of all the churches the dustbrown churches of Castile.

How they swing the green bronze bells athwart olive twilights of Castile till their fierce insistant clangour rings down the long plowed slopes breaks against the leaden hills whines among the trembling poplars beside sibilant swift green rivers.

O you strong bells of Castile that commanding clang your creed over treeless fields and villages that huddle in arroyos, gleaming orange with lights in the greenish dusk; can it be bells of Castile, can it be that you remember?

Groans there in your bronze green curves in your imperious evocation stench of burnings, rattling screams quenched among the crackling flames? The crowd, the pile of faggots in the square, the yellow robes.... Is it that bells of Castile that you remember?

_Toledo--Madrid_

X

The Tagus flows with a noise of wiers through Aranjuez. The speeding dark-green water mirrors the old red walls and the balustrades and close-barred windows of the palace; and on the other bank three stooping washerwomen whose bright red shawls and piles of linen gleam in the green, the swirling green where shimmer the walls of Aranjuez.

There's smoke in the gardens of Aranjuez smoke of the burning of the years' dead leaves; the damp paths rustle underfoot thick with the crisp broad leaves of the planes.

The tang of the smoke and the reek of the box and the savor of the year's decay are soft in the gardens of Aranjuez where the fountains fill silently with leaves and the moss grows over the statues and busts clothing the simpering cupids and fauns whose stone eyes search the empty paths for the rustling rich brocaded gowns and the neat silk calves of the halcyon past.

The Tagus flows with a noise of wiers through Aranjuez. And slipping by mirrors the brown-silver trunks of the planes and the hedges of box and spires of cypress and alleys of yellowing elms; and on the other bank three grey mules pulling a cart loaded with turnips, driven by a man in a blue woolen sash who strides along whistling and does not look towards Aranjuez.

XI

Beyond ruffled velvet hills the sky burns yellow like a candle-flame.

Sudden a village roofs against the sky leaping buttresses a church and a tower utter dark like the heart of a candleflame.

Swing the bronze-bells uncoiling harsh slow sound through the dusk that growls out in the conversational clatter Of the trainwheels and the rails.

A hill humps unexpectedly to hide the tower erect like a pistil in the depths of the tremendous flaming flower of the west.

_Getafe_

XII

Genteel noise of Paris hats and beards that tilt this way and that. Mirrors create on either side infinities of chandeliers.

The orchestra is tuning up: Twanging of the strings of violins groans from cellos toodling of flutes.

Legs apart, with white fronts the musicians stand amiably as pelicans.

Tap. Tap. Tap. With a silken rustle beards, hats sink back in appropriate ecstasy. A little girl giggles. Crystals of infinities of chandeliers tremble in the first long honey-savored chord.

From under a wide black hat curving just to hide her ears peers the little face of Juliet of all child lovers who loved in impossible gardens among roses huge as moons and twinkling constellations of jessamine, Juliet, Isabel, Cressida, and that unknown one who went forth at night wandering the snarling streets of Jerusalem.

She presses her handkerchief to her mouth to smother her profane giggling. Her skin is browner than the tone of cellos, flushes like with pomegranate juice.

... The moist laden air of a garden in Granada, spice of leaves bruised by the sun; she sits in a dress of crimson brocade dark as blood under the white moon and watches the ripples spread in the gurgling fountain; her lashes curve to her cheeks as she stares wide-eyed lips drawn against the teeth and trembling; gravel crunches down the path; brown in a crimson swirl she stands with full lips head tilted back ... O her small breasts against my panting breast.

Clapping. Genteel noise of Paris hats and beards that tilt this way and that.

Her face lost in infinities of glittering chandeliers.

_Ritz_

XIII

There's a sound of drums and trumpets above the rumble of the street. (Run run run to see the soldiers.) All alike all abreast keeping time to the regimented swirl of the glittering brass band.

The café waiters are craning at the door the girl in the gloveshop is nose against the glass. O the glitter of the brass and the flutter of the plumes and the tramp of the uniform feet! Run run run to see the soldiers.

The boy with a tray of pastries on his head is walking fast, keeping time; his white and yellow cakes are trembling in the sun his cheeks are redder and his bluestriped tunic streams as he marches to the rum tum of the drums. Run run run to see the soldiers.

The milkman with his pony slung with silvery metal jars schoolboys with their packs of books clerks in stiff white collars old men in cloaks try to regiment their feet to the glittering brass beat. Run run run to see the soldiers.

_Puerta del Sol_

XIV

Night of clouds terror of their flight across the moon. Over the long still plains blows a wind out of the north; a laden wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks menacingly and loud.

* * * * *

Black as old blood on the cold plain close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons swaying shrouded crowds and their rustle in the knife-keen wind is like the dry death-rattle of the winter grass.

(Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.)

Huge, of grinning brass steaming with fresh stains their God gapes with smudged expectant gums above the plain.

Flicker through the flames of the wide maw rigid square bodies of men opulence of childbearing women slimness of young men, and girls with small curved breasts.

(Loud as musketry rattles the sudden laughter of the dead.)

Thicker hotter the blood drips from the cold brass lips.

Swift over grainless fields swift over shellplowed lands ever leaner swifter darker bay the hounds of the dead, before them drive the pale ones white limbs scarred and blackened laurel crushed in their cold fingers, the spark quenched in their glazed eyes.

Thicker hotter the blood drips from the avenging lips of the brass God; (and rattling loud as musketry the laughter of the unsated dead).

* * * * *

The clouds have blotted the haggard moon. A harsh wind shrills from the cities of the north Ypres, Lille, Liège, Verdun, and from the tainted valleys the cross-scarred hills. Over the long still plains the wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks.

_Cuatro Caminos_

XV

The weazened old woman without teeth who shivers on the windy street corner displays her roasted chestnuts invitingly like marriageable daughters.

_Calle Atocha_

XVI NOCHEBUENA

The clattering streets are bright with booths lighted by balancing candleflames ranged with figures in painted clay, Virgins adoring and haloed bambinos, St. Joseph at his joiner's bench Judean shepherds and their sheep camels of the Eastern kings.

_Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

The streets resound with dancing and chortle of tambourines, strong rhythm of dancing drumming of tambourines.

Flicker through the greenish lamplight of the clattering cobbled streets flushed faces of men women in mantillas children with dark wide eyes, teeth flashing as they sing:

_La santa Virgen es en parto a las dos va desparir. Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

Beetred faces of women whose black mantillas have slipped from their sleek and gleaming hair, streaming faces of men.

With click of heels on the pavingstones boys in tunics are dancing eyes under long black lashes flash as they dance to the drum of tambourines beaten with elbow and palm. A flock of girls comes running squealing down the street.

Boys and girls are dancing flushed and dripping dancing to the beat on drums and piping on flutes and jiggle of the long notes of accordions and the wild tune swirls and sweeps along the frosty streets, leaps above the dark stone houses out among the crackling stars.

_Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

In the street a ragged boy too poor to own a tambourine slips off his shoes and beats them together to the drunken reeling time, dances on his naked feet.

_Esta noche es noche buena nadie piensa a dormir._

_Madrid_

XVII

The old strong towers the Moors built on the ruins of a Roman camp have sprung into spreading boistrous foam of daisies and alyssum flowers, and sprout of clover and veiling grass from out of the cracks in the tawny stones makes velvet soft the worn stairs and grooved walks where clanked the heels of the grave mailed knights who had driven and killed the darkskinned Moors, and where on silken knees their sons knelt on the nights of the full moon to vow strange deeds for their lady's grace.

The old strong towers are crumbled and doddering now and sit like old men smiling in the sun.

About them clamber the giggling flowers and below the sceptic sea gently laughing in daisywhite foam on the beach rocks the ships with flapping sails that flash white to the white village on the shore.

On a wall where the path is soft with flowers the brown goatboy lies, his cap askew and whistles out over the beckoning sea the tune the village band jerks out, a shine of brass in the square below: a swaggering young buck of a tune that slouches cap on one side, cigarette at an impudent tilt, out past the old toothless and smilingly powerless towers, out over the ever-youthful sea that claps bright cobalt hands in time and laughs along the tawny beaches.

_Denia_

XVIII

How fine to die in Denia young in the ardent strength of sun calm in the burning blue of the sea in the stabile clasp of the iron hills; Denia where the earth is red as rust and hills grey like ash. O to rot into the ruddy soil to melt into the omnipotent fire of the young white god, the flamegod the sun, to find swift resurrection in the warm grapes born of earth and sun that are crushed to must under the feet of girls and lads, to flow for new generations of men a wine full of earth of sun.

XIX

The road winds white among ashen hills grey clouds overhead grey sea below. The road clings to the strong capes hangs above the white foam-line of unheard breakers that edge with lace the scarf of the sea sweeping marbled with sunlight to the dark horizon towards which steering intently like ducks with red bellies swim the black laden steamers.

The wind blows the dust of the road and whines in the dead grass and is silent.

I can hear my steps and the clink of coins in one pocket and the distant hush of the sea.

_On the highroad to Villajoyosa_

XX SIERRA GUADARRAMA TO J. G. P.

The greyish snow of the pass is starred with the sad lilac of autumn crocuses.

Hissing among the brown leaves of the scruboaks bruising the tender crocus petals a sleetgust sweeps the pass.

The air is calm again. Under a bulging sky motionless overhead the mountains heave velvet black into the cloudshut distance.

South the road winds down a wide valley towards stripes of rain through which shine straw yellow faint as a dream the rolling lands of New Castile.

A fresh gust whines through the snowbent grass pelting with sleet the withering crocuses, and rustles the dry leaves of the scruboaks with a sound as of gallop of hoofs far away on the grey stony road a sound as of faintly heard cavalcades of old stern kings climbing the cold iron passes stopping to stare with cold hawkeyes at the pale plain.

_Puerto de Navecerrada_

XXI

Soft as smoke are the blue green pines in the misty lavender twilight yellow as flame the flame-shaped poplars whose dead leaves fall vaguely spinning through the tinted air till they reach the brownish mirror of the stream where they are borne a tremulous pale fleet over gleaming ripples to the sudden dark beneath the Roman bridge.

Forever it stands the Roman bridge a firm strong arch in the purple mist and ever the yellow leaves are swirled into the darkness beneath where echoes forever the tramp of feet of the weary feet that bore the Eagles and the Law.

And through the misty lavender twilight the leaves of the poplars fall and float with the silent stream to the deep night beneath the Roman bridge.

_Cercedilla_

XXII

In the velvet calm of long grey slopes of snow the silky crunch of my steps. About me vague dark circles of mountains secret, listening in the intimate silence.