Chapter 6

The iron clanging sank through the light air, Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare Of spotted green, and a snake had gone Into the bed where the snowdrops shone In green new-started, Their white bells parted.

Two by two, in a long brown line, The nuns were walking to breathe the fine Bright April air. They must go in soon And work at their tasks all the afternoon. But this time is theirs! They walk in pairs.

First comes the Abbess, preoccupied And slow, as a woman often tried, With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun. Then younger and younger, until the last one Has a laugh on her lips, And fairly skips.

They wind about the gravel walks And all the long line buzzes and talks. They step in time to the ringing bell, With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well In the core of a sky Domed silverly.

Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud." Sister Angelique said she must get her spud And free the earth round the jasmine roots. Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots! There's a crocus up, With a purple cup."

But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all, She looked up and down the old grey wall To see if a lizard were basking there. She looked across the garden to where A sycamore Flanked the garden door.

She was restless, although her little feet danced, And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced Her morning's work had hung in her mind And would not take form. She could not find The beautifulness For the Virgin's dress.

Should it be of pink, or damasked blue? Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through? Should it be banded with yellow and white Roses, or sparked like a frosty night? Or a crimson sheen Over some sort of green?

But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new In all the garden, no single hue So lovely or so marvellous That its use would not seem impious. So on she walked, And the others talked.

Sister Elisabeth edged away From what her companion had to say, For Sister Marthe saw the world in little, She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle. She did plain stitching And worked in the kitchen.

"Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last, I told her so this Friday past. I must speak to her before Compline." Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine. The other nun sighed, With her pleasure quite dried.

Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out: "The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about. The little white cups bent over the ground, And in among the light stems wound A crested snake, With his eyes awake.

His body was green with a metal brightness Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, And all down his curling length were disks, Evil vermilion asterisks, They paled and flooded As wounds fresh-blooded.

His crest was amber glittered with blue, And opaque so the sun came shining through. It seemed a crown with fiery points. When he quivered all down his scaly joints, From every slot The sparkles shot.

The nuns huddled tightly together, fear Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer More closely at the beautiful snake, She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make Colours so rare, The dress were there.

The Abbess shook off her lethargy. "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. Only Clotilde Was the last to yield.

When the recreation hour was done Each went in to her task. Alone In the library, with its great north light, Clotilde wrought at an exquisite Wreath of flowers For her Book of Hours.

She twined the little crocus blooms With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms Of laurel leaves were interwoven With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven Fritillaries, Whose colour varies.

They framed the picture she had made, Half-delighted and half-afraid. In a courtyard with a lozenged floor The Virgin watched, and through the arched door The angel came Like a springing flame.

His wings were dipped in violet fire, His limbs were strung to holy desire. He lowered his head and passed under the arch, And the air seemed beating a solemn march. The Virgin waited With eyes dilated.

Her face was quiet and innocent, And beautiful with her strange assent. A silver thread about her head Her halo was poised. But in the stead Of her gown, there remained The vellum, unstained.

Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, Lingering over each tint and dye. She could spend great pains, now she had seen That curious, unimagined green. A colour so strange It had seemed to change.

She thought it had altered while she gazed. At first it had been simple green; then glazed All over with twisting flames, each spot A molten colour, trembling and hot, And every eye Seemed to liquefy.

She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. After all, she had only glanced At that wonderful snake, and she must know Just what hues made the creature throw Those splashes and sprays Of prismed rays.

When evening prayers were sung and said, The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. And soon in the convent there was no light, For the moon did not rise until late that night, Only the shine Of the lamp at the shrine.

Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets. Her heart shook her body with its beats. She could not see till the moon should rise, So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes On the window-square Till light should be there.

The faintest shadow of a branch Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch With solemn purpose, softly rose And fluttered down between the rows Of sleeping nuns. She almost runs.

She must go out through the little side door Lest the nuns who were always praying before The Virgin's altar should hear her pass. She pushed the bolts, and over the grass The red moon's brim Mounted its rim.

Her shadow crept up the convent wall As she swiftly left it, over all The garden lay the level glow Of a moon coming up, very big and slow. The gravel glistened. She stopped and listened.

It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer. She laughed a little, but she felt queerer Than ever before. The snowdrop bed Was reached and she bent down her head. On the striped ground The snake was wound.

For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm, Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm. She thought she heard steps, she must be quick. She darted her hand out, and seized the thick Wriggling slime, Only just in time.

The old gardener came muttering down the path, And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath, And covered Clotilde and the angry snake. He bit her, but what difference did that make! The Virgin should dress In his loveliness.

The gardener was covering his new-set plants For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts Your lover of growing things. He spied Something to do and turned aside, And the moonlight streamed On Clotilde, and gleamed.

His business finished the gardener rose. He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she Grasping him, laughing, while quietly Her eyes are weeping. Is he sleeping?

He thinks it is some holy vision, Brushes that aside and with decision Jumps--and hits the snake with his stick, Crushes his spine, and then with quick, Urgent command Takes her hand.

The gardener sucks the poison and spits, Cursing and praying as befits A poor old man half out of his wits. "Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's Hatched of a devil And very evil.

It's one of them horrid basilisks You read about. They say a man risks His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it Out by now. Lucky I chucked it Away from you. I guess you'll do."

"Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast Was sent to me, to me the least Worthy in all our convent, so I Could finish my picture of the Most High And Holy Queen, In her dress of green.

He is dead now, but his colours won't fade At once, and by noon I shall have made The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see How kindly the moon shines down on me! I can't die yet, For the task was set."

"You won't die now, for I've sucked it away," Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play. If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,--" "Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong." So Clotilde vented Her creed. He repented.

"He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he. "Paint as much as you like." And gingerly He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde Thanked him, and begged that he would shield Her secret, though itching To talk in the kitchen.

The gardener promised, not very pleased, And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased, Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon In her bed she lay And waited for day.

At dawn's first saffron-spired warning Clotilde was up. And all that morning, Except when she went to the chapel to pray, She painted, and when the April day Was hot with sun, Clotilde had done.

Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made. A lady, in excellence arrayed, And wonder-souled. Christ's Blessed Mould!

From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint, But her eyes were starred like those of a saint Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude. A sudden clamour hurled its rude Force to break Her vision awake.

The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed By the multitude of nuns. They hushed When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet, Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot. And all the hive Buzzed "She's alive!"

Old Francois had told. He had found the strain Of silence too great, and preferred the pain Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread, And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead. For Francois, to spite them, Had not seen fit to right them.

The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild, Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child, Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace, To spare you while you imaged her face? How could we have guessed Our convent so blessed!

A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb! To have you die! And I, who am A hollow, living shell, the grave Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave To be taken, Dear Mother, Instead of this other."

She dropped on her knees and silently prayed, With anguished hands and tears delayed To a painful slowness. The minutes drew To fractions. Then the west wind blew The sound of a bell, On a gusty swell.

It came skipping over the slates of the roof, And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof To grief, in the eye of so fair a day. The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray. And the sun lit the flowers In Clotilde's Book of Hours.

It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress And made the red spots, in a flushed excess, Pulse and start; and the violet wings Of the angel were colour which shines and sings. The book seemed a choir Of rainbow fire.

The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun Did the same, then one by one, They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs. Clotilde, the Inspired!

She only felt tired.

* * * * *

The old chronicles say she did not die Until heavy with years. And that is why There hangs in the convent church a basket Of osiered silver, a holy casket, And treasured therein A dried snake-skin.

The Exeter Road

Panels of claret and blue which shine Under the moon like lees of wine. A coronet done in a golden scroll, And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track. They daren't look back!

They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord! What brutes men are when they think they're scored. Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me, In a steaming sweat, it is fine to see That coach, all claret, and gold, and blue, Hop about and slue.

They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls. For my lord has a casket full of rolls Of minted sovereigns, and silver bars. I laugh to think how he'll show his scars In London to-morrow. He whines with rage In his varnished cage.

My lady has shoved her rings over her toes. 'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows. But I shall relieve her of them yet, When I see she limps in the minuet I must beg to celebrate this night, And the green moonlight.

There's nothing to hurry about, the plain Is hours long, and the mud's a strain. My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, In half an hour I'll bag the coins. 'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring. The chase is the thing!

How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune Is beating out of the curses and screams, And the cracking all through the painted seams. Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight. 'Tis a rare fine night!

There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town. It seems a shame to break the air In two with this pistol, but I've my share Of drudgery like other men. His hat? Amen!

Hold up, you beast, now what the devil! Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped. 'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped. A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse! They'll get me, of course.

The cursed coach will reach the town And they'll all come out, every loafer grown A lion to handcuff a man that's down. What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat! I'll give it a head to fit it pat. Thank you! No cravat.

_They handcuffed the body just for style, And they hung him in chains for the volatile Wind to scour him flesh from bones. Way out on the moor you can hear the groans His gibbet makes when it blows a gale. 'Tis a common tale._

The Shadow

Paul Jannes was working very late, For this watch must be done by eight To-morrow or the Cardinal Would certainly be vexed. Of all His customers the old prelate Was the most important, for his state Descended to his watches and rings, And he gave his mistresses many things To make them forget his age and smile When he paid visits, and they could while The time away with a diamond locket Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses. This watch was made to buy him blisses From an Austrian countess on her way Home, and she meant to start next day.

Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame Of a tallow candle, and became So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince Striking the hour a moment since. Its echo, only half apprehended, Lingered about the room. He ended Screwing the little rubies in, Setting the wheels to lock and spin, Curling the infinitesimal springs, Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings Of precious stones lay strewn about. The table before him was a rout Of splashes and sparks of coloured light. There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite A heap of emeralds, and steel. Here was a gem, there was a wheel. And glasses lay like limpid lakes Shining and still, and there were flakes Of silver, and shavings of pearl, And little wires all awhirl With the light of the candle. He took the watch And wound its hands about to match The time, then glanced up to take the hour From the hanging clock. Good, Merciful Power! How came that shadow on the wall, No woman was in the room! His tall Chiffonier stood gaunt behind His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, Hung from a peg. The door was closed. Just for a moment he must have dozed. He looked again, and saw it plain. The silhouette made a blue-black stain On the opposite wall, and it never wavered Even when the candle quavered Under his panting breath. What made That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade Of something so lovely, so exquisite, Cast from a substance which the sight Had not been tutored to perceive? Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.

Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall Gleamed black, and never moved at all.

Paul's watches were like amulets, Wrought into patterns and rosettes; The cases were all set with stones, And wreathing lines, and shining zones. He knew the beauty in a curve, And the Shadow tortured every nerve With its perfect rhythm of outline Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine Was the neck he knew he could have spanned It about with the fingers of one hand. The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, But could not see, the lips were pressed Loosely together, the edges close, And the proud and delicate line of the nose Melted into a brow, and there Broke into undulant waves of hair. The lady was edged with the stamp of race. A singular vision in such a place.

He moved the candle to the tall Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall. He threw his cloak upon a chair, And still the lady's face was there. From every corner of the room He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom That was the lady. Her violet bloom Was almost brighter than that which came From his candle's tulip-flame. He set the filigree hands; he laid The watch in the case which he had made; He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed His candle out. The room seemed stuffed With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, And let himself out through the door.

The sun was flashing from every pin And wheel, when Paul let himself in. The whitewashed walls were hot with light. The room was the core of a chrysolite, Burning and shimmering with fiery might. The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall From the furniture upon the wall. Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space Where a glare usurped the lady's place. He settled himself to his work, but his mind Wandered, and he would wake to find His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, And nothing advanced beyond the rim Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day. But Paul could hardly touch the gold, It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold. With the first twilight he struck a match And watched the little blue stars hatch Into an egg of perfect flame. He lit his candle, and almost in shame At his eagerness, lifted his eyes. The Shadow was there, and its precise Outline etched the cold, white wall. The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul, There's something the matter with your brain. Go home now and sleep off the strain."

The next day was a storm, the rain Whispered and scratched at the window-pane. A grey and shadowless morning filled The little shop. The watches, chilled, Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals. The gems lay on the table like shoals Of stranded shells, their colours faded, Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded. Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed No orders, for his fancy strayed. His work became a simple round Of watches repaired and watches wound. The slanting ribbons of the rain Broke themselves on the window-pane, But Paul saw the silver lines in vain. Only when the candle was lit And on the wall just opposite He watched again the coming of _it_, Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul And over his hands regain control.

Paul lingered late in his shop that night And the designs which his delight Sketched on paper seemed to be A tribute offered wistfully To the beautiful shadow of her who came And hovered over his candle flame. In the morning he selected all His perfect jacinths. One large opal Hung like a milky, rainbow moon In the centre, and blown in loose festoon The red stones quivered on silver threads To the outer edge, where a single, fine Band of mother-of-pearl the line Completed. On the other side, The creamy porcelain of the face Bore diamond hours, and no lace Of cotton or silk could ever be Tossed into being more airily Than the filmy golden hands; the time Seemed to tick away in rhyme. When, at dusk, the Shadow grew Upon the wall, Paul's work was through. Holding the watch, he spoke to her: "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir Into one brief sign of being. Turn your eyes this way, and seeing This watch, made from those sweet curves Where your hair from your forehead swerves, Accept the gift which I have wrought With your fairness in my thought. Grant me this, and I shall be Honoured overwhelmingly."

The Shadow rested black and still, And the wind sighed over the window-sill.

Paul put the despised watch away And laid out before him his array Of stones and metals, and when the morning Struck the stones to their best adorning, He chose the brightest, and this new watch Was so light and thin it seemed to catch The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. Topazes ran in a foamy stream Over the cover, the hands were studded With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. The face was of crystal, and engraved Upon it the figures flashed and waved With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. It took a week to make, and his trysts At night with the Shadow were his alone. Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. The night that the jewel was worthy to give. Paul watched the long hours of daylight live To the faintest streak; then lit his light, And sharp against the wall's pure white The outline of the Shadow started Into form. His burning-hearted Words so long imprisoned swelled To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, He told the lady all his love, And holding out the watch above His head, he knelt, imploring some Littlest sign. The Shadow was dumb.

Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste, And everything he made he placed Before his lady. The Shadow kept Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept. He wooed her with the work of his hands, He waited for those dear commands She never gave. No word, no motion, Eased the ache of his devotion. His days passed in a strain of toil, His nights burnt up in a seething coil. Seasons shot by, uncognisant He worked. The Shadow came to haunt Even his days. Sometimes quite plain He saw on the wall the blackberry stain Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright Enough to dazzle that from his sight.