Chapter 4

My little one came running to my side And called me Mother. It was like a blow Between the eyes; and made me sick with pain. And then it seemed as if each bird and breeze Took up the word, and changed its syllables From Mother into Magdalene; and cried My shame to all the world.

It was your eyes Which did all this. But listen now to me (Not you alone, but all the barren wives Who, like you, flaunt their virtue in the face Of fallen women): I do chance to know The crimes you think are hidden from all men (Save one who took your gold and sold his skill And jeopardized his name for your base ends).

I know how you have sunk your soul in sense Like any wanton; and refused to bear The harvest of your pleasure-planted seed; I know how you have crushed the tender bud Which held a soul; how you have blighted it; And made the holy miracle of birth A wicked travesty of God’s design; Yea, many buds, which might be blossoms now And beautify your selfish, arid life, Have been destroyed, because you chose to keep The aimless freedom, and the purposeless, Self-seeking liberty of childless wives.

I was an untaught girl. By nature led, By love and passion blinded, I became An unwed mother. You, an honoured wife, Refuse the crown of motherhood, defy The laws of nature, and fling baby souls Back in the face of God. And yet you dare Call me a sinner, and yourself a saint; And all the world smiles on you, and its doors Swing wide at your approach. I stand outside.

Surely there must be higher courts than earth, Where you and I will some day meet and be Weighed by a larger justice.

FATHER AND SON

MY grand-dame, vigorous at eighty-one, Delights in talking of her only son, My gallant father, long since dead and gone. ‘Ah, but he was the lad!’ She says, and sighs, and looks at me askance. How well I read the meaning of that glance— ‘Poor son of such a dad; Poor weakling, dull and sad.’ I could, but would not tell her bitter truth About my father’s youth.

She says: ‘Your father laughed his way through earth: He laughed right in the doctor’s face at birth, Such joy of life he had, such founts of mirth. Ah, what a lad was he!’ And then she sighs. I feel her silent blame, Because I brought her nothing but his name. Because she does not see Her worshipped son in me. I could, but would not, speak in my defence, Anent the difference.

She says: ‘He won all prizes in his time: He overworked, and died before his prime. At high ambition’s door I lay the crime. Ah, what a lad he was!’ Well, let her rest in that deceiving thought, Of what avail to say, ‘His death was brought By broken sexual laws, The ancient sinful cause.’ I could, but would not, tell the good old dame The story of his shame.

I could say: ‘I am crippled, weak, and pale, Because my father was an unleashed male. Because he ran so fast, I halt and fail (Ah, yes, he was the lad), Because he drained each cup of sense-delight I must go thirsting, thirsting, day and night. Because he was joy-mad, I must be always sad.

Because he learned no law of self-control, I am a blighted soul.’ Of what avail to speak and spoil her joy. Better to see her disapproving eyes, And silent, hear her say, between her sighs, ‘Ah, but he was the boy!’

HUSKS

SHE looked at her neighbour’s house in the light of the waning day— A shower of rice on the steps, and the shreds of a bride’s bouquet. And then she drew the shade, to shut out the growing gloom, But she shut it into her heart instead. (Was that a voice in the room?)

‘My neighbour is sad,’ she sighed, ‘like the mother bird who sees The last of her brood fly out of the nest to make its home in the trees’— And then in a passion of tears—‘But, oh, to be sad like her: Sad for a joy that has come and gone!’ (Did some one speak, or stir?)

She looked at her faded hands, all burdened with costly rings; She looked on her widowed home, all burdened with priceless things. She thought of the dead years gone, of the empty years ahead— (Yes, something stirred and something spake, and this was what it said:)

‘_The voice of the Might Have Been speaks here through the lonely dusk_; _Life offered the fruits of love_; _you gathered only the husk_. _There are jewels ablaze on your breast where never a child has slept_.’ She covered her face with her ringed old hands, and wept and wept and wept.

MEDITATIONS

HIS

I WAS so proud of you last night, dear girl, While man with man was striving for your smile. You never lost your head, nor once dropped down From your high place As queen in that gay whirl.

(It takes more poise to wear a little crown With modesty and grace Than to adorn the lordlier thrones of earth.)

You seem so free from artifice and wile: And in your eyes I read Encouragement to my unspoken thought. My heart is eloquent with words to plead Its cause of passion; but my questioning mind, Knowing how love is blind, Dwells on the pros and cons, and God knows what.

My heart cries with each beat, ‘She is so beautiful, so pure, so sweet, So more than dear.’ And then I hear The voice of Reason, asking: ‘Would she meet Life’s common duties with good common sense? Could she bear quiet evenings at your hearth, And not be sighing for gay scenes of mirth? If, some great day, love’s mighty recompense For chastity surrendered came to her, If she felt stir Beneath her heart a little pulse of life, Would she rejoice with holy pride and wonder, And find new glory in the name of wife? Or would she plot with sin, and seek to plunder Love’s sanctuary, and cast away its treasure, That she might keep her freedom and her pleasure? Could she be loyal mate and mother dutiful? Or is she only some bright hothouse bloom, Seedless and beautiful, Meant just for decoration, and for show?’ Alone here in my room, I hear this voice of Reason. My poor heart Has ever but one answer to impart, ‘I love her so.’

HERS

After the ball last night, when I came home I stood before my mirror, and took note Of all that men call beautiful. Delight, Keen sweet delight, possessed me, when I saw My own reflection smiling on me there, Because your eyes, through all the swirling hours, And in your slow good-night, had made a fact Of what before I fancied might be so; Yet knowing how men lie, by look and act, I still had doubted. But I doubt no more, I know you love me, love me. And I feel Your satisfaction in my comeliness.

Beauty and youth, good health and willing mind, A spotless reputation, and a heart Longing for mating and for motherhood, And lips unsullied by another’s kiss— These are the riches I can bring to you.

But as I sit here, thinking of it all In the clear light of morning, sudden fear Has seized upon me. What has been your past? From out the jungle of old reckless years, May serpents crawl across our path some day And pierce us with their fangs? Oh, I am not A prude or bigot; and I have not lived A score and three full years in ignorance Of human nature. Much I can condone; For well I know our kinship to the earth And all created things. Why, even I Have felt the burden of virginity, When flowers and birds and golden butterflies In early spring were mating; and I know How loud that call of sex must sound to man Above the feeble protest of the world. But I can hear from depths within my soul The voices of my unborn children cry For rightful heritage. (May God attune The souls of men, that they may hear and heed That plaintive voice above the call of sex; And may the world’s weak protest swell into A thunderous diapason—a demand For cleaner fatherhood.) Oh, love, come near; Look in my eyes, and say I need not fear.

THE TRAVELLER

BRISTLING with steeples, high against the hill, Like some great thistle in the rosy dawn It stood; the Town-of-Christian-Churches, stood. The Traveller surveyed it with a smile. ‘Surely,’ He said, ‘here is the home of peace; Here neighbour lives with neighbour in accord; God in the heart of all. Else why these spires?’ (Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)

The sudden shriek of whistles changed the sound From mellow music into jarring noise. Then down the street pale hurrying children came, And vanished in the yawning Factory door. He called to them: ‘Come back, come unto Me.’ The Foreman cursed, and caned Him from the place. (Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)

Forth from two churches came two men, and met, Disputing loudly over boundary lines, Hate in their eyes, and murder in their hearts. A haughty woman drew her skirts aside Because her fallen sister passed that way. The Traveller rebuked them all. Amazed, They asked in indignation, ‘Who are you, Daring to interfere in private lives?’ The Traveller replied, ‘My name is CHRIST.’ (Christmas season, and every bell ringing.)

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

I

WHAT have you done, and what are you doing with life, O Man! O Average Man of the world— Average Man of the Christian world we call civilised? What have you done to pay for the labour pains of the mother who bore you? On earth you occupy space; you consume oxygen from the air: And what do you give in return for these things? Who is better that you live, and strive, and toil? Or that you live through the toiling and striving of others? As you pass down the street does any one look on you and say, ‘There goes a good son, a true husband, a wise father, a fine citizen? A man whose strong hand is ready to help a neighbour, A man to trust’? And what do women say of you? Unto their own souls what do women say? Do they say: ‘He helped to make the road easier for tired feet? To broaden the narrow horizon for aching eyes? He helped us to higher ideals of womanhood’? Look into your own heart and answer, O Average Man of the world, Of the Christian world we call civilised.

II

What do men think of you, what do they think and say of you, O Average Woman of the world? Do they say: ‘There is a woman with a great heart, Loyal to her sex, and above envy and evil speaking? There is a daughter, wife, mother, with a purpose in life: She can be trusted to mould the minds of little children. She knows how to be good without being dull; How to be glad and to make others glad without descending to folly; She is one who illuminates the path wherein she walks; One who awakens the best in every human being she meets’? Look into your heart, O Woman! and answer this: What are you doing with the beautiful years? Is your to-day a better thing than was your yesterday? Have you grown in knowledge, grace, and usefulness? Or are you ravelling out the wonderful fabric knit by Time, And throwing away the threads? Make answer, O Woman! Average Woman of the Christian world.

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