Part 2

Nor could those other nine foresee the summer. Already, in mid June, high long days Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit, Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man, No god distinguished more in this green time Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter. In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting-- Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word-- Still did not spare the beautiful dream body She sent to him by dark, when Dora too Lived by his side and loved him: standing there In the shed radiance of one who smiled And smiled, and burned his reticence away. For he would go to Dora--come July, Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening As night died between him and the windows, He would go there, he would, and say it all; He would have Dora, small in his long arms, Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes, So that he never went. And had he gone, What Dora would have seen him come and shivered? One whom as strong a dream--if it was a dream-- Estranged. It was of having, yet not having, Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t-- He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away The vision--Bruce must never let it be. The nurse--he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did-- And then she wept. Darius in the morning, Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose. He should conceal it better. She was afraid, Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell. That boy--he was so hard to keep in anger. He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool. That boy, the center of confusion’s cross, For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day, All night the dream of lying in clear peace Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora; That boy was whom the strangers in this valley Watched while the moments went; while June decayed; While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell.

V

A hundred people coming to the barn dance, The barn dance at MacPherson’s, saw the full moon. It hung there like a lantern in the low east, Enormous and blood red, and stationary. Daniel came, and Berrien, with that woman-- So fair, she seemed unnatural--between them. She must have made them bring her, someone said; And laughed. But no one laughed when Dora came. She was so pitiful in her loose coat, Concealing, healing nothing. Would she dance? If only with Bruce Hanna, would she dance? Too late for it, some whispered; and some blamed The silly boy. To let her show like that! The nurse, the doctor’s nurse, and her tall friend The teacher--no one dreamed those two, those two-- They stood by their grand selves, and no one saw How Bruce, how Dora lived but in their glances.

Then all the strangers. When the music started, Who but a giant--handsome, with tow hair-- Bowed to the grand ones? And to more Beyond them? For a pair of unknown farmers, Lanky and cave-eyed, leaned bony shoulders Where a great upright shaded the rude floor. From the next valley, maybe, like this lame Pedlar; like the soldier; like that lightfoot Traveller, the one with pointed ears, The one with cropped hair and a twisted staff, Who wandered in the crowd, watching and watched. The shepherd of the strangers? Yet no word Between them, and no look, Darius said-- Darius, who had eyes for everything; And ears, when music started. “One more couple! One more couple!” Glendy the clear-caller Shouted while harmonicas, like locusts, Shrilled, and while Young Gus tuned his guitar. “One more couple!” Here they came. “Join hands And circle left!” Darius heard the words Above him, in the corner where by Glendy And the harmonicas he tapped the floor. His was the curious, the musicians’ corner, Whence he could see how Dora sat and trembled, Wondering what next--why she was here. “The dog!” he growled, catching on Daniel’s face, In a far corner, hunger and indifference Fighting. Hunger--damn him--for my child, My child, Darius said, whom he has changed; And smothering this, the smoke of a pretence That nothing here was wrong, nothing at all. The soldier had come back. Darius saw him. Red-eyed, drinking water by a droplight, And his own conscience hurt him. Daniel lived. If Bruce could only raise his eyes a little-- But they were hangdog, or were fixed in fear On those two stranger women. Why in fear?

The music, though. “Swing your corner lady!” Darius, rocking gently on his heels, Was lost again in that, and in the wild Mouth organs, going mournful overhead. “First two gents cross over!” In his thought He crossed; he took that partner by the hand; He swung her, swung her, swung her, you know where. He promenaded, proudly, and he clapped His palms, that sweated bravely. Then the swinging Ceased. The set was over. And he sang: “Good boy, Gus! That was calling, old man Glendy!” They winked at him, wiping their foreheads off; Then soon another set. And still he listened And watched, and still he saw how Dora sat, Trembling, and never danced. But once the soldier, Slouching to her side, made mockery signs Suggesting that she stand. Darius started In anger; then he stopped, for Bruce was up, Explaining--yet avoiding the brute stare; And Daniel, in his corner, clenched both fists. Even the strangers knew, for one came over-- The one with such a neat head on his body, And the curled stick--as if to beat away Wild boars escaped here. That was good, was good, Darius said; then listened as the music Whispered again. Whispered. For the tune Had altered. Where was Glendy? Who was this Where Glendy had been standing? And what ailed, What softened so the clamor of the mouth harps?

“One more couple!” Who was the intruder, Calling in so sweet, so low a voice, Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd, Heedless of any difference, swirled on, Loving its evolutions, and no head Turned hither. “Take your Dora by the hand--” Darius, looking up, saw how the silver Light of the full moon, mature at zenith, Fell on the singer. Through one gable window It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery Singer. He was slender, he was strange; And the high moon--it burned for none but him.

“Where’s Glendy, Gus?” “Took sick.” The loud guitar, Hesitating, rallied and persevered; But modified its note to a new sweetness, A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked, Listened, and looked again at the mysterious Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled.

Take your Dora by the hand, Your little Dora, grown so large. By another she was manned, But she is now your loving charge.

Mercy marries you, my boy, And mercy--oh, it is unjust. But it was born of truth and joy, And lives with misery if it must.

Darius, and then Daniel, comprehending, Stared at a hundred dancers who did not. Heedless of any change, they stamped and swung, Those hundred, as if Glendy still were here-- Old Glendy, whose thin throat still mastered them. Yet Daniel saw how Dora, dropping her eyes, Sat silent, deathly silent; and how Bruce, Guardian to her, looked only down-- Looked everywhere save at the singer, singing:

Take your Dora by the hand. There is life within her waist. And there is woe, unless you stand And love with bravery is graced.

So all the world will know her wed, And all the people call it yours-- The life within her, small and red; And wrathful, were it none but hers.

With you beside her all is well. She will be tended in her time. There is more that I could tell, But Glendy now resumes the rhyme.

“Circle four!” Darius, and then Daniel, Dazed, regarded Glendy once again. The moonlit one was gone, and only these Had seen him--these and Dora, and dumb Bruce. And all of the nine strangers. For they too Had listened; bending their bodies, they had weighed, Had witnessed every word as it arrived; Had watched the boy’s confusion; then the girl’s; Then both together, as if woe had wed Already the poor lovers. “Nelly Gray!” The hundred dancers, heedless, went right on; And only Berrien’s boarder, the gold woman Who stood so close by Daniel--only that one Kindled. Then she blazed, and Daniel, blushing, Knew she had found his thought. So I have lost her-- This was his thought--have lost her. Then my love Must die, and no man know it. He was true, That singer. It is not my life she carries-- Dora, who was mine for that cold minute; Dora, whom I never can forget.

The eyes of the theater woman burned so fiercely, Punishing his own, that Daniel shook. How could she guess his trouble? Only in dreams She knew it, only in dreams, when Dora came. Only in darkness. “Now she disapproves, She probes me.” But the woman looked away, Suddenly, and signalled to the soldier; Who, nodding, went to stand before Darius. Daniel saw him there, gesticulating, With his feet spread, as if he meant to spring, To throttle someone. And Darius blinked. But music and the distance drowned their words.

And now the tall nurse, bending over Dora, Whispered to her and Bruce; and the boy, rising, Reached for a small hand. The singer had said To take it, and he took it, and pulled up The girl who still was trying to be free, To save him. And the music never stopped. “Kiss her if you dare!” cried old man Glendy. And many a dancer did. But neither Bruce Nor Dora, arm in arm, had present ears. They listened still to what the other singer, Gone now as the moon was from the window, Sang and sang again, as if his silvery Face never had faded. Arm in arm They walked among the dancers to the big door; Arm in arm, sleepwalking, they went forth, Under the slant moon, and disappeared.

VI

Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves When a swift body passes west, pursued them. But Daniel never stirred. Nor old Darius-- Neither did he listen as the sergeant Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes Till most of him was fire. “Follow him home, The fool. He is forgetting it--the purpose. Tear him free. He softens in her arms To the sick sound of ‘Father.’” But Darius, Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly: “I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended, She will not go alone. He is a good boy, Bruce. I never coupled her with him. It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldier Left him, spitting disgust. And Daniel saw How all of the fair strangers followed soon-- All of them, as if they were a company. They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiled In the same grave degree, as if some secret Bound them. And he thought the dapper one, Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick, His curlicue of a cane--whatever it was-- Communicated thus to the gold woman That she too must away. But she was Daniel’s, Berrien’s; she was not of any company, Wandering, like this one. She had come Alone to them, in May, and she would go-- Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body, Her beautiful dream body, that was his, Was his alone. And suddenly his sadness Doubled. For the singer had left living None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone, A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man, A noble dead man, numbering his loss. Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too-- In fall--he would be losing this one too, In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking, Here, with that lithe one calling from the door. For there he was, the last one to go through, And Daniel thought the signal came again: An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff, His vine that had the strength to stand alone.

But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel, Worshiping her now. She seemed as near, He whispered to himself, as lamplight must, At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on. Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms, Her eyes, took hold of everything in him And hurt it. “So you let her go,” she said. “You shadow of a man, you let her go. Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light, In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised, Crushing it with yours--and yet you would not, For it is white, is small, and precious to you-- Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow Falls on you for lover--disobedient Lover of that girl whom still you crave!”

Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken? Berrien still watched the weary dancers Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words? And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night When her own body slept in her own bed. How could she understand? And what untruth Was working in her, making these sweet sounds? Their honey was more false for being heard By him, by only him. That other singer-- He had been true. And troubling. But his song Was never to be lost now. Dora was, Forever. And he said it must be so.

The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes, Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious, Not to be contradicted. And her lips. Lest the unparted lips again deliver What was so loud, so terrible--though heard By him, by only him--he spoke of home. Berrien--wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was. So with no words they went. Some dancers saw them, Picking their way, and winked at one another; Daniel, with that artificial woman; Berrien, with her boarder. What a household! None of them looked happy. Three old-fashioned People going home. The actress, too-- An old, old timer, powdered up to kill, And painted. You could see it--Indian summer Everywhere. Yet once a pretty world.

They could not see how beautiful she was. Only for Daniel was she beautiful, And for those others, strangers here with her, Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove, In their own forms, were watching. Hermes leaned Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass, On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said: “She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares, She is not schooled in victory and defeat, She is not skilful at surrender--save The lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that. She will not let him go, the farmer there, While any of her poison works in him. Ares, what if some of your new wisdom-- You could persuade her, Ares.” But the sullen Soldier still was sullen, though a god; He would not lift his face as Aphrodite, Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way With Daniel down the road. “Apollo’s song,” Said Hermes, “--it was all we needed then.” He nodded, and the bright musician bowed. “It was a potent song. The tough old man, The tender young, the farmer in his heart-- All four of them were changed. But now you see--” He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite, Dimming with her companions down the highway, Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere, Mingling as the moon did with the tops Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice. Artemis, more angry than the rest, More like the moon, declining now so clear, So cold, beyond the body of this grove, Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,” She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses, Nothing but grief will grow where you and I--” She took Athene’s hand--“have wisely tilled And planted. Never then will the boy serve, With loving care, my cause--the cause of the world, Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world. The farmer would have let the maiden go-- Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure. Or so we said who listened. Yet that one, That laughing one, pursues him now and sings, And sings--oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh, What burden that may topple his intention? Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would; Even tonight you could.” Hephaestus, pacing Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg, The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled. “The farmer--he works well, and loves the fire I gave him. Let him be.” But none of them saw His meaning, if he had one. He was lame And foolish, and he muttered as he walked, And turned and walked again, counting the steps Between two oaks that limited his way. The great angels watched him with their wings Folded. Standing deeper in the shade, They waited with the others while the moon Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.

VII

“Dora, do you take Bruce for your husband, To cherish him, for better or for worse?” The justice of the peace, Tobias Hapgood, Peered over his dim glasses at the pair Who said “I do, I do” among the dusty Law books. And there were three witnesses. Darius in a white shirt stood between Two others, old and little like himself: The father of the groom--roundheaded, fumbling Miserably at his tie--and full of tears The mother, full of shame and happy tears.

Her boy was being married. But to think-- To think--and then the rest of it was weeping; Was waiting till the four of them were home; Was wondering how soon she could forget. Dora would have his baby in her house. And then she could forget. She wiped her eyes. Darius here--now he would be alone, And that perhaps was harder. So “I do” Came distantly across the room as she compared Their griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss, Held on to one another, and held on And on, as if the world would die this way, She was content again. But no one saw Nine more in the brown room, or heard the voice Of Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned, What further end she strained for. All but Ares Stood there, in no space the mortals knew, The little mortals, mingling their low words With these unheard, these high ones. Sullen Ares Sulked on a far hill. But Aphrodite, Resting her fair side against the law books, Laughed; and the green goddess answered Hermes:

“See? There still is mischief in one mind Among us, there is insolence. The end? She has not worked it yet. Beware of her Who hates this thing we witness; it defeats Her farmer, and she never will forgive.”

The laughing goddess listened with her eyes Turned elsewhere--on Hephaestus, whom she taunted, Teasing him with glances at his broken Foot, and at the thickness of his wrists. “Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker! You are not one of us. Then why do you creep Each morning, crooked fool, and haunt the man? You do, in the poor likeness of a mender-- What is it that you mend? What is the word?”

“Stoves.” “I’ll not pronounce it. Such a word! I scorn it. And scorn you. And yet I say-- Remember my own strength, that can undo The cunningest contriver. No more haunt The man. By night, by morning, no more crawl-- You hear?--and charm his sadness till it sleeps. You think to cure his longing with some lessons, Monger, in your art. But my own art Is ultimate. Remember, and refrain.”

Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles, Refusing every glance until the rite Was finished, and the people in the room Departed. Then he ducked and disappeared, Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-grey Eyes of sage Athene. He was bound For Daniel, whom he haunted every day In the same likeness he had first assumed When Daniel, missing the comfort of his pipe bowl, Got it again, and wondered. Bruce and Dora, Heeled by their elders, one of whom still wept, Went home another way; and the inaudible Deities went home--to the green hilltop, The high glade where Ares, though he heard, Sent down no shout of welcome. Aphrodite, Following to where the mountains forked, Deserted there; dipping away and flying, Like one of her own doves, to Daniel’s house.

But Daniel stood with someone in the barn By the new anvil he had bought, considering Hot and cold; and how a hammer’s blow Can bend the iron, not break it. “When you came, That day, and brought my pipe--I still am puzzled-- How did you do it, man?” “Look here! I take This strip of ten-gauge, and I heat it thus-- Pretend the forge is going--then I twist it, So, until I have a perfect handle For the fire tongs you need.” No other answer. “See? Now when you have the bellows going-- Watch me--this is what the draft can do.” No other answer. So the pupil bent, Considering. And neither of them saw-- Or Daniel did not--bright eyes at the door, Brimming with alien purpose. “Your good wife,” The woman said--and Daniel, starting round, Saw how the gold one narrowed her long lids Toward him who held the hammer--“sends for you. She tells you this is wasting time, is wearing The day out; is pure nothing. And she says-- Dismiss the tinker. Let him go his way. He is not wanted here.” The hammer dropped. But Daniel shook his head at her. “She wouldn’t Know. It isn’t woman’s work. Besides, It keeps me safe from thinking certain thoughts. She wouldn’t know that either. Or would you.”

He flushed, remembering how much she knew If dreams had body, and if at the dance It was her own live lips that so rebuked him. But no, that couldn’t be. He said it again, And turned to the lame tinker. “We’ll not stop, For her or anybody. Tell me now--” Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite, Stamping her white foot, that all but showed Immortal through the slipper, let them be.

Yet not for long. The lame one in his room, That night and every night, was pinched awake By fingers he well knew; and knew as well How in the darkness, sweating, to endure. For he was steadfast--like his tossing pupil, Daniel, in the bed where Berrien lay.

Hour after hour, that night and every night, Berrien strove to riddle his strange words, His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept on Refusing what was whispered. What was that? Or was it anything? Was someone by them, Whispering to him? She lay and wondered, Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble, Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.