Part 2

We never talked religion till that day. I took for granted Rachel used her sense, Thought for herself without the aid of priests On spiritual matters: I? I never trouble About such talk one year’s end to the next, But one day argument began; she started On Christian meekness, the low slavish virtue “Tapeinophrosune”, obsequiousness, Which I called nonsense. “Nonsense?” (with wide eyes) “Or call it poetry. Christ was never meek. Let meekness crawl below in catacombs, Pride drives the money-changers with a scourge, Keeps silence to accusers, chooses death When an escape is more acceptable To justice than embarrassment of killing. I’m talking paradox? I never meant it.” (Here I grew nettled at her wooden look) “And as for ‘feeling Jesus in my heart’ What _does_ that mean? explain! I might acknowledge that historically All generous action flows from the prime source Of Jesus’ teaching (though give Plato credit And Aristotle). But Jesus as a power Alive, praying, pleading like a ouija spirit, Or _Laughing Eyes_ the séance influence, That’s stupid and unnecessary, in my mind. I am a man, I am proud, Jesus was man and proud; He died fulfilling, and his soul found peace. I greet him friendly down the gulf of years.” “But no!” she said “There _is_ a Spirit of Jesus Say what you like, there _is_ a Spirit of Jesus.” So I allowed her that, changing my front Saying, “If Jesus died on Cross, He’s dead, In so far as Mary’s son, the prophet died But hardly was He dead, Than up this elemental demon sprang Assuming mastership of Jesus’ school Using his body, even, so it’s told Calling himself by name of _Jesus Risen_. Who was he? Some poor godling, fallen through pride And greed of human flesh, on evil days. He changed his heart and once more stood for power, A roaring lion in the white lamb’s fleece, So by a long campaign of self-abasement And self-effacement grown mob-strong at length He overturned high Heaven, now rules the world. Yes, he’s a powerful devil; we are his sons Got on she-furies of our Northern gales. We hate the inheritance entailed on us And the outlandish family coat we blazon, The tell-tale features also; would deny His fatherhood, but for that eye, that nose, Betraying Galilee our Father’s land. There’s no escape from him. Midwife Tradition Has knotted Jesus in our navel strings Never to be undone this side the grave.” But that was one stage worse than blasphemy. And when we parted, she smiled grudgingly. I had said too much and cut her to the quick. She thought, poor child, she had her choice to make Between God’s way and my way. And so she chose ... This letter ... But she writes of Christian love. What _is_ that? It’s a most annoying habit, A warm blood-teasing smile, an open look, A recognition—thinks I to myself, Boy, this is fine! Love at first sight! True love! But then the disillusionment—by God She turns the same look of those clear kind eyes On a bootblack, on some fool behind a counter. She calls that, Love? But what _is_ Love to me? Love; it’s a two-part game, I’d say, not merely The searching radiations from one eye, That fly about with indiscriminate force— Sometimes unthinking in a public place I stare at girls sitting sideface to me And wonder at their beauty, summing it up, Then being innocent girls (I’d never look At others so) they grow aware of the heat That pours out from my eyes; but do not see me. (I may be fifty feet away or more) They fidget in their seats, uncross their knees, Pull down their skirts to hide even their ankles, Blush furiously and gaze about, in trouble; Then I start guiltily, rise and walk away; But that’s not Love, the searching and the heat; Love is an act of God, akin to Faith, Call it the union of two prayers by Faith (Here we come back to prayer by a long circuit And back to “God is Love”) But to explain again what’s Faith, what’s prayer, That’s the teaser! much too hard for me.

Still, these are not Christian monopolies. What’s Faith but power stripped of its ornaments, Grants, title-deeds and such like accidentals; Force won by disentangling from the mind All hampering ties of luxury and tradition, Possessions, loyalties and hobby-horses? Cast all these overboard, and Faith is left, Faith potent through its prayer to miracles, Whether in name of Jesus or Jim Crow. Prayer: Rachel seems to think the collects prayer, And Mother Superior, I make no doubt, Will teach her scores of neatly turned devotions Couched in diminutives and pastoral terms, (Lord, how I hate the _literary_ prayer), Little white lambs indeed—O baa baa black sheep Have you any wool?—And Rachel in return Flushing with shame impetuously confesses, And holds half back, but crafty eyes are watching To drag all out, so Rachel has to tell How on the river bank one morning early The water was so clear, the sun so warm, She kissed me suddenly and was kissed by me— Lip kisses, that was all, and fingers clasped. Mother Superior then demanding further Will cross-examine her on how and why. “To tell it now will mortify the passion, Then when you make your general confession To Father James, your mind will have found peace.” (A good excuse) “What then were your sensations, The physical joy, tell me, my erring lamb! Tell me, I beg, but as the sin was pleasant So must confession of the sin be pain....”

“Tis pity she’s a whore”. Rachel told all. _Whore_, traitress to the secret rites of love, Publisher of the not-communicable. If she refused the vows? If her heart changed? Rachel and I? This meek ex-novice rifled Of her love-secrets? medals and images Sewn in her skirts, Birmingham images From the totem-factory, niched in her heart? No, Love is fusion of Prayer, and prayer must be The flash of faith, unformulated words Demanding an accomplishment of Love With noise of thunder, against circumstance, And Rachel forfeits there all power to love.

Who’s this? For now the rabble have passed through, Going unnoticed out; Mother Superior Secretly with one finger at her lips, Re-enters, carefully locks my bedroom door, Now she disrobes with fingers trembling so They tear the fastenings—naked she steps out To practise with her long-past-bearing body The wiles of the Earthbound (Ah, the fine young man, The hot young man whose kisses tasted sweet To our new postulant!) Madam, I beg you! You have mistaken the room; no, next door sleeps A lusty bagman, he’s the man to embrace you And welcome you with every brisk refinement Of passion. But while _you_ rumple his sheets, The innocent and unhappy eyes of Rachel Bewilder me—Oh then in spite of Faith I am cast down—You nuns, but if I needed, As I no longer need, I’d challenge you To contest of hard praying, one against all. I could wrest Rachel back even to this bed To-night. But Faith, and Prayer that’s born of Faith Find her slow mind impediment to their power, So I resign her—Agatha, do your worst.

The wisest course of Love? Yes, maidenhead. For me? Love’s Sacrifice? It was not love. The Broken Heart? Not mine. I’ll say no more Than mere _goodbye_. Go, get you to your nunnery, And out the candle! Darkness absolute Surrounds me, sleepy mother of good children Who drowse and drowse and cry not for the sun, Content and wisest of their generation.

EPILOGUE.

The morning star, over the mountains peering, Spoke to him not too distant for his hearing:—

_I am the star of morning poised between_ _The dead night and the coming of the sun,_ _Yet neither relic of the dark nor pointing_ _The angry day to come. My virtue is_ _My own, a mild light, a relief a pity_ _And the remembering ancient tribe of birds_ _Sing blithest at my showing; only Man_ _Sleeps on and stirs rebellious in his sleep._ _Lucifer, Lucifer am I, millstone-crushed_ _Between conflicting powers of doubleness,_ _By envious Night lost in her myriad more_ _Counterfeit glints, in day-time quite overwhelmed_ _By tyrant blazing of the warrior sun._ _Yet some, my prophets who at midnight held me_ _Fixedly framed in their observant glass,_ _By daylight also, sinking well shafts deep_ _For water and for coolness of pure thought_ _Gaze up and far above them see me shining_ _Me, single natured, without gender, one_ _The only spark of Godhead unresolved._

But the lover gave no heed, so through his dreams Marched back the rabble rout, they glowered upon him But grown more awful and more reverend, Poor things before, now garbed in ancient dress, Bearded patriarchs and angry sybils Levites with censers, chariot riding kings, With comminations of hell fire and plague. Then even Nehushtan, the snake finger-post, Nehushtan which the credulous Hezekiah Spurned for superstitious, would have eased him, Or the bellowing voice of Aaron’s molten calf.