Part 5

Of Earth there be this store of joys and woes. Yea, and they do make the days o’ me. I sit me here adream that did I hold From out the whole, but one, my dearest gift, What then would it to be? Doth days and nights Of bright and dark make this my store? Nay. Do happy hours and woes-tide, then, Beset this day of me and make the thing I’d keep? Nay. Doth metal store and jewelled string Then be aworth to me? Nay. I set me here, And dreaming, fall to reasoning for this, That I would keep, if but one gift wert mine Must hold the store o’ all. Yea, must hold The dark for light, yea, and hold the light for dark, Aye, and hold the sweet for sours, aye, and hold The love for Hate. Yea, then, where may I to turn?

And lo, as I adreaming sat A voice spaked out to me: What ho! What ho! And lo, the voice of one, a friend!

This, then, shall be my treasure, And the Earth part I shall hold From out all gifts of Him.

Love of God, and God’s love for us, and the certainty of life after death as a consequence of that love, are the themes of Patience’s finest poetry, consideration of which is reserved for succeeding chapters. Yet a taste of this devotional poetry will not be amiss at this point in the presentation of her works, as an indication of the character of that which is to come.

Lo, ’pon a day there bloomed a bud, And swayed it at adance ’pon sweeted airs. And gardens oped their greenéd breast To shew to Earth o’ such an one. And soft the morn did woo its bloom; And nights wept ’pon its cheek, And mosses crept them ’bout the stem, That sun not scoarch where it had sprung. And lo, the garden sprite, a maid, Who came aseek at every day, And kissed the bud, and cast o’ drops To cool the warm sun’s rays. And bud did hang it swaying there, And love lept from the maiden’s breast.

And days wore on; and nights did wrap The bud to wait the morn; And maid aseeked the spot. When, lo, there came a Stranger To the garden’s wall, Who knocked Him there And bid the maiden come.

And up unto her heart she pressed her hand, And reached it forth to stay the bud’s soft sway, And lo, the sun hung dark, And Stranger knocked Him there. And ’twere the maid did step most regal to the place. And harked, and lo, His voice aspoke. And she looked upon His face, And lo, ’twere sorry sore, and sad! And soft there came His word Of pleading unto her: “O’ thy garden’s store do offer unto me.” And lo, the maid did turn and seek her out the bud, And pluck it that she bear it unto Him. And at the garden’s ope He stood and waited her. And forth her hand she held, therein the bud, And lo, He took therefrom the bloom And left the garden bare, And maid did stand astripped Of heart’s sun ’mid her garden’s bloom. When lo, athin the wound there sunk A warmpth that filled it up with love. Yea, ’twere the smile o’ Him, the price.

But she has given another form of poem which should be presented before this brief review of her more material verse is concluded, and it is a form one would hardly expect from such a source. I refer to the “poem of occasion.” A few days before Christmas, Mrs. Curran remarked as she sat at the board: “I wonder if Patience wouldn’t give us a Christmas poem.” And without a moment’s hesitation she did. Here it is:

I hied me to the glen and dell, And o’er the heights, afar and near, To find the Yule sprite’s haunt. I dreamt me it did bide Where mistletoe doth bead; And found an oak whose boughs Hung clustered with its borrowed loveliness. Ah, could such a one as she Abide her in this chill? For bleakness wraps the oak about And crackles o’er her dancing branch. Nay, her very warmth Would surely thaw away the icy shroud, And mistletoe would die Adreaming it was spring. I hied me to the holly tree And made me sure to find her there. But nay, The thorny spines would prick her tenderness. Ah, where then doth she bide?

I asked the frost who stood Upon the fringéd grasses ’neath the oak. “I know her not, but I Am ever bidden to her feast. Ask thou the sparrow of the field. He searcheth everywhere; perchance He knoweth where she bides.”

“Nay, I know her not, But at her birthday’s tide I find full many a crumb Cast wide upon the snow.”

I found a chubby babe, Who toddled o’er the ice, and whispered, Did she know the Yule sprite’s haunt? And she but turneth solemn eyes to me And wags her golden head.

I flitted me from house to shack, And ever missed the rogue; But surely she had left her sign To bid me on to search. And I did weary of my task And put my hopes to rest, And slept me on the eve afore her birth, Full sure to search anew at morn.

And then the morning broke; And e’er mine eyes did ope, I fancied me a scarlet sprite, With wings of green and scepter of a mistletoe, Did bid me wake, and whispered me To look me to my heart. Soft-nestled, warm, I found her resting there. Guard me lest I tell; But, heart o’erfull of loving, Thee’lt surely spill good cheer!

The following week, without request, she gave this New Year’s poem, remarkable for the novelty of its treatment of a much worn theme:

The year hath sickened; And dawning day doth show his withering; And Death hath crept him closer on each hour. The crying hemlock shaketh in its grief. The smiling spring hath hollowed it to age, And golden grain-stalks fallen O’er the naked breast of earth. The year’s own golden locks Have fallen, too, or whitened, Where they still do hold.

And do I sorrow me? Nay, I do speed him on, For precious pack he beareth To the land of passing dreams.

I’ve bundled pain and wishing ’Round with deeds undone, And packed the loving o’ my heart With softness of thine own; And plied his pack anew With loss and gain, to add The cup of bitter tears I shed O’er nothings as I passed.

Old year and older years— My friends, my comrades on the road below— I fain would greet ye now, And bid ye Godspeed on your ways.

I watch ye pass, and read The aged visages of each. I love ye well, and count ye o’er In fearing lest I lose e’en one of you. And here the brother of you, every one, Lies smitten!

But as dear I’ll love him When the winter’s moon doth sink; And like the watery eye of age Doth close at ending of his day. And I shall flit me through his dreams And cheer him with my loving; And last within the pack shall put A Hope and speed him thence.

And bow me to the New. A friend mayhap, but still untried. And true, ye say? But ne’er hath proven so!

Old year, I love thee well, And bid thee farewell with a sigh.

One who reads these poems with thoughtfulness must be impressed by a number of attributes which make them notable, and, in some respects, wholly unique. First of all is the absence of conventionality, coupled with skill in construction, in phrasing, in the compounding of words, in the application to old words of new or unusual but always logical meanings, in the maintenance of rhythm without monotony. Next is the absolute purity, with the sometimes archaic quality, of the English. It is the language of Shakespeare, of Marlowe, of Fletcher, of Jonson and Drayton, except that it presents Saxon words or Saxon prefixes which had already passed out of literary use in their time, while on the other hand it avoids nearly all the words derived directly from other languages that were habitually used by those great writers. There is rarely a word that is not of Anglo-Saxon or Norman birth. Nor are there any long words. All of these compositions are in words of one, two and three syllables, very seldom one of four—no “multitudinous seas incarnadine.” Among the hundreds of words of Patience Worth’s in this chapter there are only two of four syllables and less than fifty of three syllables. Fully 95 per cent of her works are in words of one and two syllables. In what other writing, ancient or modern, the Bible excepted, can this simplicity be found?

But the most impressive attribute of these poems is the weirdness of them, an intangible quality that defies definition or location, but which envelops and permeates all of them. One may look in vain through the works of the poets for anything with which to compare them. They are alike in the essential features of all poetry, and yet they are unalike. There is something in them that is not in other poetry. In the profusion of their metaphor there is an etherealness that more closely resembles Shelley, perhaps, than any other poet; but the beauty of Shelley’s poems is almost wholly in their diction: there is in him no profundity of thought. In these poems there is both beauty and depth—and something else.

THE PROSE

“Word meeteth word, and at touch o’ me, doth spell to thee.”—PATIENCE WORTH.

Strictly speaking, there is no prose in the compositions of Patience Worth. That which I have here classified as prose, lacks none of the essential elements of poetry, except a continuity of rhythm. The rhythm is there, the iambic measure which she favors being fairly constant, but it is broken by sentences and groups of sentences that are not metrical, and while it would not be difficult to arrange most of this matter in verse form, I am inclined to think that to the majority it will read smoother and with greater ease as prose. Nevertheless, as will be seen, it is poetry. The diction is wholly of that order, and it is filled with strikingly vivid and agreeable imagery. There is, however, this distinction: most of the matter here classed as prose is dramatic in form and treatment, and each composition tells a story—a story with a definite and well-constructed plot, dealing with real and strongly individualized people, and mingling humor and pathos with much effectiveness. They bring at once a smile to the face and a tear to the eye. They differ, too, from the poetry, in that they have little or no apparent spiritual significance. They are stories, beautiful stories, unlike anything to be found in the literature of any country or any time, but, except in the shadowy figure of “The Stranger,” they do not rise above the things of earth. That is not to say, however, that they are not spiritual in the intellectual or emotional sense of the word, as distinguished from the soul relation.

At the end of an evening a year and a half after Patience began her work, she said: “Thy hearth is bright. I fain would knit beside its glow and spinn a wordy tale betimes.”

At the next sitting she began the “wordy tale.” Up to that time she had offered nothing in prose form but short didactic pieces, such as will appear in subsequent chapters of this book, and the circle was lost in astonishment at the unfolding of this story, so different in form and spirit from anything she had previously given.

Her stories are, as already stated, dramatic in form. Indeed they are condensed dramas. After a brief descriptive introduction or prologue, all the rest is dialogue, and the scenes are shifted without explanatory connection, as in a play. In the story of “The Fool and the Lady” which follows, the fool bids adieu to the porter of the inn, and in the next line begins a conversation with Lisa, whom he meets, as the context shows, at some point on the road to the tourney. It is the change from the first to the second act or scene, but no stage directions came from the board, no marks of division or change of scene, nor names of persons speaking, except as indicated in the context. In reproducing these stories, no attempt has been made to put them completely in the dramatic form for which they were evidently designed, the desire being to present them as nearly as possible as they were received; but to make them clearer to the reader the characters are identified, and shift of scene or time has been indicated.

THE FOOL AND THE LADY

And there it lay, asleep. A mantle, gray as monk’s cloth, its covering. Dim-glowing tapers shine like glowflies down the narrow winding streets. The sounds of early morning creep through the thickened veil of heavy mist, like echoes of the day afore. The wind is toying with the threading smoke, and still it clingeth to the chimney pot.

There stands, beyond the darkest shadow, the Inn of Falcon Feather, her sides becracked with sounding of the laughter of the king and gentlefolk, who barter song and story for the price of ale. Her windows sleep like heavy-lidded eyes, and her breath doth reek with wine, last drunk by a merry party there.

The lamp, now blacked and dead, could boast to ye of part to many an undoing of the unwary. The roof, o’er-hanging and bepeaked, doth ’mind ye of a sleeper in his cap.

The mist now rises like a curtain, and over yonder steeple peeps the sun, his face washed fresh in the basin of the night. His beams now light the dark beneath the palsied stair, and rag and straw doth heave to belch forth its baggage for the night.

* * * * *

(_Fool_) “Eh, gad! ’Tis morn, Beppo. Come, up, ye vermin; laugh and prove thou art the fool’s. An ape and jackass are wearers of the cap and bells. Thou wert fashioned with a tail to wear behind, and I to spin a tale to leave but not to wear. For the sayings of the fool are purchased by the wise. My crooked back and pegs are purses—the price to buy my gown; but better far, Beppo, to hunch and yet to peer into the clouds, than be as strong as knights are wont to be, and belly, like a snake, amongst the day’s bright hours.

“Here, eat thy crust. ’Tis funny-bread, the earnings of a fool.

“I looked at Lisa as she rode her mount at yesternoon, and saw her skirt the road with anxious eyes. Dost know for whom she sought, Beppo? Not me, who, breathless, watched behind a flowering bush to hide my ugliness. Now laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s!

“But ’neath these stripes of color I did feel new strength, and saw me strided on a black beside her there. And, Beppo, knave, thou didst but rattle at thy chain, and lo, the shrinking of my dream!

“But we do limp quite merrily, and could we sing our song in truer measure—thou the mimic, and I the fool? Thine eyes hold more for me than all the world, since hers do see me not.

“We two together shall flatten ’neath the tree in yonder field and ride the clouds, Beppo, I promise ye, at after hour of noon.

“See! Tonio has slid the shutter’s bolt! I’ll spin a song and bart him for a sup.”

* * * * *

(_Tonio_) “So, baggage, thou hast slept aneath the smell thou lovest best!”

(_Fool_) “Oh, morrow, Tonio. The smell is weak as yester’s unsealed wine. My tank doth tickle with the dust of rust, and yet methinks thou would’st see my slattern stays to rattle like dry bones, to please thee. See, Beppo cryeth! Fetch me then a cup that I may catch the drops—or, here, I’ll milk the dragon o’er thy door!”

(_Tonio_) “Thou scrapple! Come within. ’Tis he who loveth not the fool who doth hate his God.”

(_Fool_) “I’m loth to leave my chosen company. Come, Beppo, his words are hard, but we do know his heart.

“A health to thee, Antonio. Put in thy wine one taste of thy heart’s brew and I need not wish ye well.

“To her, Beppo. Come, dip and take a lick.

“Tonio, hast heard that at a time not set as yet the tournament will be? Who think ye rides the King’s lance and weareth Lisa’s colors? Blue, Tonio, and gold, the heavens’ garb—stop, Beppo, thou meddling pest! Antonio, I swear those bits of cloth are but patches I have pilfered from the ragheap adown the alleyway. I knew not they were blue. And this is but a tassel dropt from off a lance at yester’s ride. I knew not of its tinselled glint, I swear!

“So, thou dost laugh? Ah, Beppo, see, he laughs! And we too, eh? But do we laugh the same? Come, jump! Thy pulpit is my hump. Aday, Antonio!”

(_Antonio_) “Aday, thou fool, and would I had the wisdom of thy ape.”

* * * * *

(_On the Road to the Tournament._)

(_Lisa_) “Aday, fool!”

(_Fool_) “Ah, lady fair, hath lost the silver of thy laugh, and dost thee wish me then to fetch it thee?”

(_Lisa_) “Yea, jester. Thou speaketh wisely; for may I ripple laughter from a sorry heart? Now tease me, then.”

(_Fool_) “A crooked laugh would be thy gift should I tease it with a crooked tale; and, lady, didst thee e’er behold a crooked laugh—one which holds within its crook a tear?”

(_Lisa_) “Oh, thou art in truth a fool. I’d bend the crook and strike the tear away.”

(_Fool_) “Aye, lady, so thou wouldst. But thou hast ne’er yet found thy lot to bear a crook held staunch within His hand! Spring rain would be thy tears—a balm to buy fresh beauties. And the fool? Ah, his do dry in dust, e’en before they fall!”

(_Lisa_) “Pish, jester, thy tears would paint thy face to crooked lines, and thee wouldst laugh to see the muck. My heart doth truly sorry. Hast heard the King hath promised me as wages for the joust? And thee dost know who rideth ’gainst my chosen?”

(_Fool_) “Aye, lady, the crones do wag, and I do promise ye they wear their necks becricked to see his palfrey pass. They do tell me that his sumpter-cloth doth trail like a ladies’ robe.”

(_Lisa_) “Yea, fool, and pledge me thy heart to tell it not, I did broider at its hem a thrush with mine own tress—a song to cheer his way, a wing to speed him on.”

(_Fool_) “Hear, Beppo, how she prates! Would I were a posey wreath and Beppo here a fashioner of song. We then would lend us to thy hand to offer as a token. But thou dost know a fool and ape are ever but a fool and ape. I’m off to chase thy truant laugh. Who cometh there? The dust doth rise like storm-cloud along the road ahead, and ’tis shot with glinting. Oh, I see the mantling flush of morning put to shame by the flushing of thy cheek! See, he doth ride with helmet ope. Its golden bars do clatter at the jolt, and—but stop, Beppo, she heareth not! We, poor beggars, thee and me—an ape with a tail and a fool with a heart!

“See, Beppo, I did tear a rose to tatters but to fling its petals ’neath her feet. They tell me that his lance doth bear a ribband blue and a curling lock of gold—and yet he treads the earth! Let’s then away!

The world may sorrow But the fool must laugh. ’Tis blessed grain That hath no chaff. To love an ape Is but to ape at love. I sought a hand, And found—a glove!

“Beppo, laugh, and prove thyself the fool’s! I fain would feel the yoke, lest I step too high.

“Come, we’ll seek the shelt’ring tree. I’ve in my kit a bit of curd. Thy conscience need not prick. I swear that Tonio, the rogue, did see me stow it there!

“Ah, me, ’tis such a home for fools, the earth. And they that are not fools are apes.

“I see the crowd bestringing ’long the road, and yonder clarion doth bid the riders come. Well, Beppo, do we ride? Come, chere, we may tramp our crooked path and ride astraddle of a cloud.

“She doth love him, then; and even now the horn doth sound anew—and she the prize!

“I call the God above to see the joke that fate hath played; for I do swear, Beppo, that when he rides he carries on his lance-point this heart.

“I fret me here, but dare I see the play? Yea, ’tis a poor fool that loveth not his jest.

“I go, Beppo; I know not why, save I do love her so.

“I’ll bear my hunch like a badge of His colors and I shall laugh, Beppo, shall laugh at losing. He loves me well, else why didst send me thee?

“The way seems over long.

“They parry at the ring! I see her veil to float like cloud upon the breeze.

“She sees me not. I wonder that she heareth not the thumping of my heart. My eyes do mist. Beppo, look thou! Ah, God, to see within her eyes the look of thine!

“They rank! And hell would cool my brow, I swear. Beppo, as thou lovest me, press sorely on my hump! Her face, Beppo, it swayeth everywhere, as a garden thick with bloom—a lily, white and glistening with a rain of tears. My heart hath torn asunder, that I know.

“The red knight now doth cast! O Heaven turn his lance!

“’Tis put!

“And now the blue and gold! Wait, brother ape! Hold, in the name of God! Straight! ’Tis tie! Can I but stand?

“I—ah, lady, he doth ride full well. May I but steady thee? My legs are wobbled but—my hand, dear lady, lest ye sink.

(”Beppo, ’tis true she seeth me!)

“Thy hand is cold. I wager you he wins. He puts a right too high. Thy thrush is singing; hear ye not his song? His wing doth flutter even now. Ah, he is fitting thee——

“I do but laugh to feel the tickle of a feathering jest. An age before he puts! A miss! A tie! Ah, lady, should’st thee win I’ll laugh anew and even then will laugh at what thee knowest not.

“The red knight! God weight his charger’s hoof! (My God, Beppo, she did kiss my hand!)

“He’s off! Beppo, cling!”

(_Lisa_) “The fool! Look ye, the fool and ape! Oh heaven stop their flight! He’s well upon them! Blind me, lest I die! He’s charged anew, but missed! What, did his mantle fall? That shape that lieth! Come!”

(_Lisa, to her knight_) “So, thou, beloved, didst win me right! Where go they with the litter?”

(_Knight_) “The fool, my lady, and a chattering ape, did tempt to jest a charger in the field. We found them so. He lives but barely.”

(_Enter Fool upon litter._)

(_Fool_) “Aday, my lady fair! And hast thee lost the silver of thy laugh and bid me fetch it thee? The world doth hold but fools and lovers, folly sick.”

(_Lisa_) “His eye grows misty. Fool, I know thee as a knave and love thee as a man.”

(_Fool_) “’Tis but a patch, Beppo, a patch and tassel from a lance ... but we did ride, eh? Laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s! I laugh anew, lest my friends should know me not. Beppo, I dream of new roads, but thou art there! And I do faint, but she ... did kiss my hand.... Aday ... L—a—d—y.”

* * * * *