Part 12

So drinking with her once, For she could drink me blind, I turned and said: “You say I am the first, I think you lie.” She wailed a flood of tears. A hundred eyes Turned on us in the café where we sat.

We left and walked the park. I goaded her, Pried out the secret. Why, at twenty-three She had become the mistress of a man. It ended just six months before she came To see me in my suite.

Now here I was: To hold on to myself I had to hold This woman, win her wholly, crush her soul, Destroy her so she would no longer be My heart’s desire. For I had given all. And I could see she valued it the less As time went on. My name, what was it now? My art, what was it now? She even hinted I could not act Othello. There was nothing I could do more to keep her, hold her love, Her admiration. O how good esteem Seems to a man who forfeits it to her Whose body he can have, who cannot have That sympathy whereby a man is nerved To daily work and living. What is Art? No picture would be painted, poem sung Save for the thought that woman close at hand, Or somewhere in the world yet to be found By reason of the picture or the poem, Will see and love you for it.

Let me say In passing, and dismiss it, I began With little sums until I gave her much. There’s matter of more moment.

I confess, In spite of my licentious life, the creed One sees among the artists, where I’ve lived, To strong belief in woman’s virtue, yes, In spite of lip avowal of the faith Of love called free, I have not quite believed it. But it was in her soul. She sucked that milk, A child upon her mother’s breast, she said-- It all came out at last from many talks, And then, just then, I thought I saw foreshadowed A social change upon the things of sex: We read together Ann Veronica, And Bernard Shaw, and laughed and said, at last We see each other clearly. We have found A footing for our life. I slept at last. The dragon vanished from my dreams. I waked A song upon my lips, left drink alone, Could face my image in the looking-glass, And find restored a noble quality, A strength and genius.

But if love be free And if you love though only for an hour Why not the cup of love? Her former friend Piqued to an interest by my love for her Came back to see if he had overlooked A beauty he would have. Well, she confessed Their night together. It was at the time My poor canzones which sang our stormy love Had just been finished. Every artist fool Writes sonnets or canzones once in his life. And so I had to add a verse to tell Her faithlessness--or was it faithlessness? Since she declared she loved me, did not love This older friend. But if she did not love him What was this act? She called it just a trial Of our love which had stood the test, O God Such mazes for my soul!

Flushed then with wrath And drink I beat her cruelly. She stood With scarce a cry of pain and let me strike, And said if I considered it was just To beat her so, she wished to bear the pain. Then with a cry I ceased. We fell asleep Stretched on the bed together. When we woke She kissed me her forgiveness. I returned The kiss, ah me!

So now the story turns. There was a woman critic who pursued My work with hateful words. Before I knew The cockatrice I found it best to fold This critic’s column under, never read. And in a day or two from that on which I beat my mistress, what should I behold?-- A letter from her--she had left the town Without my knowing, she was visiting This critic enemy at her summer home. And in this mail I found my poor canzones Returned to me, and in the letter this: “My friend says for some reason you would try To compromise me by this wretched verse, So I return it to you, go and burn. I shall not see you more--so she advises, And so I think. I wish you well no less. You are a little old to rise to fame, Or excellence in acting, yet go on. Perhaps there is not aught beside to do, And it will occupy your mind, good-bye.”

So shortly everywhere I seemed to sense The feeling that they deemed me foul and base. While we were friends I made her known to artists, And writers in the city. With this start She had gone on and multiplied her friends Among this folk. I saw it all at once As one sees dawn from darkness. Then The social standard melted, gave away To all that had been written for some years. Free love had won at last. And we who kept Our love in hiding, she who lied to keep Her name as one who lived a maiden’s life, And I who doubted, hated her because She was not freshly mine, we, she and I, Stepped to a world all new, she to enjoy And I to perish. I was weak from loss Of blood from wounds she gave me, spent for love Poured for her sorrow, for she grieved and wept That I was not her early love, her love At love’s beginning. I went here and there To build her life up, make it rich, repair The injuries of her youth, retrieve the days Which had brought loneliness. Forbear with me-- I thought I could tell all in just a word-- Yes, this is it--She learned what was my strength And took it for her own, found out my faults And struck me there. She gave me confidence And trust, I fancied. On analysis She had concealed herself, there had not been Clear understanding with us. So she took My friends, and friends are never wholly friends, And made them hers, through these made other friends, Explored my havens, my alliances, My secret powers of prestige in the world. And I awoke to find the world my foe! And every desk of every editor Silent for knowledge of me, breaking silence In just a word of hate. You see she loosed This story like a mist which creeps through cracks That I had compromised her. Then behold I who had helped to bring this era in Of sex equality, yes, in spite of all, My ingrained feelings I have spoken of, Found myself robbed of her by just the creed I had upheld, and saw her live with him Who was her friend, before I knew her, yes, And justified by those whom she had feared, Because they hated me, and pitied him Bound to a woman in a loveless life Who would not free him, let him marry her.

Then the last atom of my strength I summoned To play Othello. It was death or life! Soul triumph or soul ruin. But you see The cockatrice had sent the word around And sharpened every critic eye. I faced An audience of one mind, could sense it all Where hatred, mild amusement were well mixed To poison, paralyze creative power, And even break my memory. But I said Show now your genius, drink the hatred in Till all your spirit sparkles as a star When the north wind of winter blows at night. Nothing opposes but a woman’s hate. Rise on its wreckage. So I spurred myself. And even when I saw her critic friend Limned from the mass of faces, lost my clue And waited for the prompter, then my rage Upheld me--yes, but wait--the rest is brief.

I had not acted through the strangle scene When I heard calls and bells, the curtain fell, My understudy led me from the stage. Out in the night we went--I knew not where-- It was a night of drink, and I awoke To strange surroundings in a scented room, A woman with light hair lay by my side “How did I get here”--then the woman laughed-- She was a Fury, for the Furies had me. Out of the house I ran, from place to place, All day went wandering in the city, thus My wanderings of ten years began, they seem Ten centuries. What do you think of this? I’m fifty-seven, with a bad complex, Can you unravel it and make me well?

THE LAST CONFESSION

Dear, if you knew how my poor heart Aches for your heart by day and night-- Forever lost to life’s delight, As seasons pass and years depart, You would not let the invisible flame Of hatred sear and scar your soul, Where once in living light my name Was lettered like an aureole!

You, who lost faith in me, will not Believe this last confession, made To lift your spirit from the shade Wherein it walks and views the spot Of my offense. But when I saw That our love’s life must have an end, I looked back o’er our path with awe And traced it toward us to the sign Where our ways severed, yours and mine. There stood Remorse’s dreaded shape! Your Disbelief! Your Self-Contempt! I saw our love was not exempt From ruin and could not escape. We could not separate and smile, And keep a faithful thought the while Of understanding (like a spring Hidden, refreshing, murmuring) As friend sometimes takes leave of friend. Then what was left? It was this thought That at the last came forth to slay Your love, without a warning brought Ere my lips tightened to betray!

For as our love found depths too deep; As absence almost deadened sense; As often I awoke from sleep And looked for hours at you, all tense, Lest you awake and see my eyes, Where the one thought of purest love Shone like a fixed star’s paradise, I learned to know that Self above-- Making the heart’s hierarchy pure-- Stands the archangel Truth, preferred-- Throned over Love which can endure Only where Truth has stood, unstirred. Watchful and with his torch of stars Held o’er Love’s face, although it shows The forehead’s pain, the bosom’s scars, The cheeks bleached out from secret tears In memory of impalpable blows, Shed in the night’s long solitude. You see I could not give you truth! There was the Shadow in my life Cast by the fierce Sun of my youth. And as our day fell to the west The Shadow lengthened and the strife ’Twixt Love and Truth within my breast Waxed fiercer. Heaven’s deathless blue Leaned on my hungering soul and pained Its wings, as if a joy were lost, Or never had been quite attained, Or captured at too great a cost. I could not give you truth all true. My love for you and then the thirst For all your love, made me accursed Of fear that if you knew me first, Just as I am, your heart would cease To cherish mine. And then much more Was this fear venom to my peace When all the world spread out before Our astonished eyes, as our own world, And we its children, each for each.

This was the sleepless worm which curled In my heart’s petals, at the root Where my heart’s sweetness had its source. You never saw the worm! My speech Poised like a bee who knows the loot Of honey’s gone, and turns his course. I kept the petals closed, and you Breathed at their tips, but would have known All of their fragrance, or of blight. That’s love--to have no place where light And understanding have not shone. Your face reproached me--I who knew No sweet or bitter essences Can be withheld from Love that keeps An onward flight, which ever sees, Or would see, all in the heart’s deeps.

Then Life came, and with lifted sword Laid on our souls his dread command; “Say your farewells, part hand from hand, You the adorer, and adored. Duty is seeking you! And Grief Would have her child return and see The changeless halls of Misery, And the bare board and darkened hearth.” I reeled with anguish as the earth Sank from my feet. For oh the end Seemed far as death! And when it came It was my hope, my soul’s desire To part as friend may part from friend, And that you’d keep alive my name Bright as an altar’s quenchless fire. It could not be! How could it be? I was not truth! I was not true-- I kept my soul’s real self from you. Then I bethought me: “Since his earth Is Autumn-stricken with a doubt That I am worth not his love’s worth, Were it no better he should know Disloyalty made definite By a suspected past re-knit, And see our love a play played out, Than to live through the soft decline Of our bright day to solemn eve-- A sunset of remembrance--where He walks devoured by love and hate-- Love for the love I strove to give, Hate for a thought intuitive: Some newer love her heart hath won Or some first love hath won her back. No, to my faith, he says, “I’ll cleave, Believing that I can’t believe.” “Slow death to love! Exquisite rack!” Ah me! I had not made this fate-- The warp was stretched, the woof was spun, The roof-tree laid long years before You entered at the unbolted door. “Then what is best? What can be done? To give him back his pride and strength, And even his peace of mind at length? Better a quick blow! Better blood! To brace the soul and poise the brain And make him what he was again.” Just then the Shadow near me stood Who stepped aside for you. He took With unabated comradeship My hand in his. That closed our book. I woke to hear the water drip Blown out of heavens low and dim. He brushed my tears off with his hand-- Nor clouds nor memory trouble him. And my one thought of you was this: I’ve cured you with this sacrifice-- The hate has come to you I planned. The hate that may take form in words, For scorn like this: “I found a seam “Right at the contact of our love. “No recreative fire can warm “And fuse fine gold with lifeless dross, “Or worthy metal make thereof.” This killed your love and wrecked your dream! This is my soul’s confession. Wait, A trickster in a hooded form Stands by as we begin to pull The weaving beam, and throws between The warp and woof a ball of wool. It catches and is woven in The colors, spoils the conscious blend, Changes the pattern to the end. Whatever it be I call it fate. In misery or in happiness We must live on awhile no less. Shall we be master weavers, climb, Or leave the loom, or waste the time? Or guide the shuttle till the threads Weave clear or turn to worthless shreds?

IN THE LOGGIA

There were seven nights of the moon This August, beloved. There were nights before the seven When we scarcely saw the moon, Or perhaps as we canoed, ere the sun sank, We saw her as a transparent tissue of white Against a sky as white. But when we first saw the moon She had risen before the sun had sunk. Then the next night she was brighter With the evening planet above her, Despite the tongues of fire in the west Where the sun had set on fire Great coils of cloud! And then there were those nights between Her growth and her o’erflowing fullness When hand in hand we walked in your garden Amid the Chinese balloons and coreopsis, Hibiscus, marigold, hydrangeas, Under the rose arches, And by the hedge of California privet, And looked at the lake, And the moon in the sky And the moon on the lake.

And do you remember what we saw As we stared at the wake of the moon On the lake? The ripples made blacknesses, And the moon made silver splendors, And as we stared we saw In the shadows of waves Running into the light of the moon on the water Youths and maids and children Coming from darkness into the light in a dance, Joining hands, falling into embraces, Hurrying to evanishment at the path of light Where the moon had paved the water. I shall never see the moon on the water Without seeing these youths and maids and children, And without thinking of that night Of the full moon!

This was the night We saw the moon rise, from the very first, Across the lake o’ertopping the forest. A spire of pine stood up Against a sky made pale as of the northern lights. But in a moment a bit of fire lit the spire of the pine As it were a candle lighted. And she rose so fast that I took my watch To time the rising of the moon Free and clear of the spire. And she rose so fast that as we gazed She cleared the spire, And soared with such silent glory above the forest, And sailed to the southwest of the spire. And at that moment the whippoorwills Began to sing in the woodlands near-- We had not heard them before in all this summer. And we stood in the loggia In the silence of our own thoughts, In the silence of the full moon!

And it was then that the pressure of your hand Gave me a meaning of sorrow. It was then that the pressure of your hand Spoke, as flame which turns in the wind, Of a change in your heart. But if not a change, of another’s heart Toward whom you turned.

And I sit in the loggia to-night Waiting for the moon to rise, She will not rise till midnight, And then she will rise, a poor half wreck of herself. No whippoorwill has sung to-night, And none will sing. And if there are youths and maids and children Hurrying into the dance on the water, Embracing and fading in light, I shall not see. No, in this darkness where I breathe The scent of the sweet alyssum Which you planted and tended I shall wait for midnight, And the rise of our ruined moon.

In the darkness of the loggia Under a sky that hopes for no moon to-night, Save the wasted moon of midnight, I am filled with a deep happiness And a thankfulness to the Power Behind the sky: I am filled with a joy as wide and deep as nature That my love for you Can live without your love for me, And asks nothing of you, And nothing for you Save that you find what you seek!

BE WITH ME THROUGH THE SPRING

The snow has passed, the crocus blooms, A swelling tide of life returns; Green lights invade the forest glooms, All nature wakes and yearns. The breeze lifts and the ships take wing To havens which we long have known; And yet--and yet I dread the spring, For fear you may be gone.

Life gives us sweet delights and then Gathers them back and buries them deep. Oh, wanton hearts, that kill them when They do not tire or sleep. The breeze lifts and the ships take wing-- Be with me through the spring.

DESOLATE SCYTHIA

Χθονὀς μεν ἐς τηλουρὀν ἥκομεν πεδον--AES.

When there are no distances in music, No far off things suggested of faery forests or celestial heights; When nothing undiscovered stands back of the written page, And the landscape contains nothing hidden, And no alluring spirits of further places; When no more in eyes shines the light of mystery, And the thrill of discovered kinships Has fallen into the familiar recognition That takes all men and women As daily associates of an accustomed world, Then you have come to the uttermost plain of earth Where lie the rocks of desolate Scythia.

THE SEARCH

When the hill grows green at midway time, And bronze buds toss in the lane It is sweet to follow the river swallow Where the tiles are red from rain.

When the slanting wind shakes apple blossoms, And the willow trees are bowed The balcony banners flutter up Where sails the hilltop cloud.

The balcony banners are ever the same Wherever the heart may stray; One sports the tiger and one the dragon Whether you weep or play.

Where Little Boy Blue and the Knave of Hearts And the Goose Girl dance on the green; Where Knights in red and gold ride forth Guarding the King and Queen;

Where the glint of swords is the only light On a passing storm of men; Or where the Furies rocking wait For the world to die again; Where horsemen ride by the winding river Galloping in the quest: One wears black and one wears yellow, And one in red is dressed.

One fares in the flaunt of a scholar’s cloak, And a velvet hat and plume; Two ride with eyes fixed on the ground, And one with a face of gloom.

One laughs at the others and laughs at himself, Two think of themselves alone; One sees a goal for his thirsting soul, And life as a stepping stone.

They pass through a village where Some boys are flying kites. The people come with food and wine To entertain the Knights.

And one takes bread and one takes cake, Three drink a little wine. And two drink for their heart’s delight, And one for an anodyne.

And the Knight in red slips off to a tavern And drinks him deep and strong, And then he hurries to catch his fellows And hails them with a song.

They come to a village that lay Within a King’s domains: The Knight in yellow takes his sword And strikes away the chains.

They come to a place of festival Through which there passed a hearse: The Knight in black reins in his steed To look thereon and curse.

They come to a hall of curious books Under a mountain peak: The Knight in the scholar’s cloak goes in And talks with them in Greek.

And all the way by the winding river By heaven’s breeze unfurled The tiger banner and dragon banner Flutter around the world.

As night drew down they come to a palace Of laughter, lights and din. Says the Knight in red, “I tarry here, For I hear the violin.”

“Nay,” says the Knight in yellow dressed; “Nay,” says the Knight in black; “Nay,” says the scholar, “I sleep in the open To study the Zodiac.”

Out comes to them an equerry And sees their piteous dole: “Come in,” says the ruddy equerry, “And dine with Old King Cole.”

He seized their horses ere they could turn And led them where candles shone, And there with a crown tipped on his head Sat the monarch on his throne.

“What is your name, all yellow dight, And where does your sovereign reign?” The sorrowful Knight then answered the King: “I’m traveling back to Spain.”

“What is your name, all dressed in black, And whither do you roam?” “I was a mad prince they sent to England And now I’m going home.”

“What is your name, in a scholar’s cloak, And what is your heart’s joy?” “I search through Europe night and day For a spouse for Helen of Troy.”

“They’re as mad as hatters,” said King Cole As he straightened his crown on his head. “Go call in the fiddlers, bring my bowl, Fetch me my pipe,” he said.

“But hold,” said Cole, “who are you, fellow, “Now answer me fair and well?” “I was born in France,” said the Knight in red, “And my name’s Pantagruel.”

“That’s a good name,” laughed old King Cole. “But whither are you bound?” “I search for the Holy Bottle, King, “And I pray it may be found.”

“That’s a true answer,” said Old King Cole, “And here you shall abide; “Come up to my throne and reign forever, “And sit you by my side.”

“Away with the rest,” said Old King Cole, “And fetch my bowl,” said he. “Here is Pantagruel found at last, “To keep me company.”

From under the throne he drew the bottle And poured wine into the bowl; Pantagruel stepped to the dais And drank with Old King Cole.

“Give yellow and black and scholar’s cloak A bed in the royal room.” But Old King Cole and Pantagruel Drank till the morning’s bloom.