Chapter 3

We rose at that, and all the ghosts rose then, And followed us unseen to his old room. No longer a good place for living men We found it, and we shivered in the gloom.

The goods he took away from there were few, And soon we found ourselves outside once more, Where now the lamps along the Avenue Bloomed white for miles above an iron floor.

"Now lead me to the newest of hotels," He said, "and let your spleen be undeceived: This ruin is not myself, but some one else; I haven't failed; I've merely not achieved."

Whether he knew or not, he laughed and dined With more of an immune regardlessness Of pits before him and of sands behind Than many a child at forty would confess;

And after, when the bells in 'Boris' rang Their tumult at the Metropolitan, He rocked himself, and I believe he sang. "God lives," he crooned aloud, "and I'm the man!"

He was. And even though the creature spoiled All prophecies, I cherish his acclaim. Three weeks he fattened; and five years he toiled In Yonkers,--and then sauntered into fame.

And he may go now to what streets he will-- Eleventh, or the last, and little care; But he would find the old room very still Of evenings, and the ghosts would all be there.

I doubt if he goes after them; I doubt If many of them ever come to him. His memories are like lamps, and they go out; Or if they burn, they flicker and are dim.

A light of other gleams he has to-day And adulations of applauding hosts; A famous danger, but a safer way Than growing old alone among the ghosts.

But we may still be glad that we were wrong: He fooled us, and we'd shrivel to deny it; Though sometimes when old echoes ring too long, I wish the bells in 'Boris' would be quiet.

The Unforgiven

When he, who is the unforgiven, Beheld her first, he found her fair: No promise ever dreamt in heaven Could then have lured him anywhere That would have been away from there; And all his wits had lightly striven, Foiled with her voice, and eyes, and hair.

There's nothing in the saints and sages To meet the shafts her glances had, Or such as hers have had for ages To blind a man till he be glad, And humble him till he be mad. The story would have many pages, And would be neither good nor bad.

And, having followed, you would find him Where properly the play begins; But look for no red light behind him-- No fumes of many-colored sins, Fanned high by screaming violins. God knows what good it was to blind him, Or whether man or woman wins.

And by the same eternal token, Who knows just how it will all end?-- This drama of hard words unspoken, This fireside farce, without a friend Or enemy to comprehend What augurs when two lives are broken, And fear finds nothing left to mend.

He stares in vain for what awaits him, And sees in Love a coin to toss; He smiles, and her cold hush berates him Beneath his hard half of the cross; They wonder why it ever was; And she, the unforgiving, hates him More for her lack than for her loss.

He feeds with pride his indecision, And shrinks from what will not occur, Bequeathing with infirm derision His ashes to the days that were, Before she made him prisoner; And labors to retrieve the vision That he must once have had of her.

He waits, and there awaits an ending, And he knows neither what nor when; But no magicians are attending To make him see as he saw then, And he will never find again The face that once had been the rending Of all his purpose among men.

He blames her not, nor does he chide her, And she has nothing new to say; If he were Bluebeard he could hide her, But that's not written in the play, And there will be no change to-day; Although, to the serene outsider, There still would seem to be a way.

Theophilus

By what serene malevolence of names Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus? Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games Would have you long,--and you are one of us.

Told of your deeds I shudder for your dreams, And they, no doubt, are few and innocent. Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, Heredity outshines environment.

What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, Survives and amplifies itself in you? What manner of devilry has ever been That your obliquity may never do?

Humility befits a father's eyes, But not a friend of us would have him weep. Admiring everything that lives and dies, Theophilus, we like you best asleep.

Sleep--sleep; and let us find another man To lend another name less hazardous: Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, Or Cain,--but surely not Theophilus.

Veteran Sirens

The ghost of Ninon would be sorry now To laugh at them, were she to see them here, So brave and so alert for learning how To fence with reason for another year.

Age offers a far comelier diadem Than theirs; but anguish has no eye for grace, When time's malicious mercy cautions them To think a while of number and of space.

The burning hope, the worn expectancy, The martyred humor, and the maimed allure, Cry out for time to end his levity, And age to soften its investiture;

But they, though others fade and are still fair, Defy their fairness and are unsubdued; Although they suffer, they may not forswear The patient ardor of the unpursued.

Poor flesh, to fight the calendar so long; Poor vanity, so quaint and yet so brave; Poor folly, so deceived and yet so strong, So far from Ninon and so near the grave.

Siege Perilous

Long warned of many terrors more severe To scorch him than hell's engines could awaken, He scanned again, too far to be so near, The fearful seat no man had ever taken.

So many other men with older eyes Than his to see with older sight behind them Had known so long their one way to be wise,-- Was any other thing to do than mind them?

So many a blasting parallel had seared Confusion on his faith,--could he but wonder If he were mad and right, or if he feared God's fury told in shafted flame and thunder?

There fell one day upon his eyes a light Ethereal, and he heard no more men speaking; He saw their shaken heads, but no long sight Was his but for the end that he went seeking.

The end he sought was not the end; the crown He won shall unto many still be given. Moreover, there was reason here to frown: No fury thundered, no flame fell from heaven.

Another Dark Lady

Think not, because I wonder where you fled, That I would lift a pin to see you there; You may, for me, be prowling anywhere, So long as you show not your little head: No dark and evil story of the dead Would leave you less pernicious or less fair-- Not even Lilith, with her famous hair; And Lilith was the devil, I have read. I cannot hate you, for I loved you then. The woods were golden then. There was a road Through beeches; and I said their smooth feet showed Like yours. Truth must have heard me from afar, For I shall never have to learn again That yours are cloven as no beech's are.

The Voice of Age

She'd look upon us, if she could, As hard as Rhadamanthus would; Yet one may see,--who sees her face, Her crown of silver and of lace, Her mystical serene address Of age alloyed with loveliness,-- That she would not annihilate The frailest of things animate.

She has opinions of our ways, And if we're not all mad, she says,-- If our ways are not wholly worse Than others, for not being hers,-- There might somehow be found a few Less insane things for us to do, And we might have a little heed Of what Belshazzar couldn't read.

She feels, with all our furniture, Room yet for something more secure Than our self-kindled aureoles To guide our poor forgotten souls; But when we have explained that grace Dwells now in doing for the race, She nods--as if she were relieved; Almost as if she were deceived.

She frowns at much of what she hears, And shakes her head, and has her fears; Though none may know, by any chance, What rose-leaf ashes of romance Are faintly stirred by later days That would be well enough, she says, If only people were more wise, And grown-up children used their eyes.

The Dark House

Where a faint light shines alone, Dwells a Demon I have known. Most of you had better say "The Dark House", and go your way. Do not wonder if I stay.

For I know the Demon's eyes, And their lure that never dies. Banish all your fond alarms, For I know the foiling charms Of her eyes and of her arms,

And I know that in one room Burns a lamp as in a tomb; And I see the shadow glide, Back and forth, of one denied Power to find himself outside.

There he is who is my friend, Damned, he fancies, to the end-- Vanquished, ever since a door Closed, he thought, for evermore On the life that was before.

And the friend who knows him best Sees him as he sees the rest Who are striving to be wise While a Demon's arms and eyes Hold them as a web would flies.

All the words of all the world, Aimed together and then hurled, Would be stiller in his ears Than a closing of still shears On a thread made out of years.

But there lives another sound, More compelling, more profound; There's a music, so it seems, That assuages and redeems, More than reason, more than dreams.

There's a music yet unheard By the creature of the word, Though it matters little more Than a wave-wash on a shore-- Till a Demon shuts a door.

So, if he be very still With his Demon, and one will, Murmurs of it may be blown To my friend who is alone In a room that I have known.

After that from everywhere Singing life will find him there; Then the door will open wide, And my friend, again outside, Will be living, having died.

The Poor Relation

No longer torn by what she knows And sees within the eyes of others, Her doubts are when the daylight goes, Her fears are for the few she bothers. She tells them it is wholly wrong Of her to stay alive so long; And when she smiles her forehead shows A crinkle that had been her mother's.

Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain, And wistful yet for being cheated, A child would seem to ask again A question many times repeated; But no rebellion has betrayed Her wonder at what she has paid For memories that have no stain, For triumph born to be defeated.

To those who come for what she was-- The few left who know where to find her-- She clings, for they are all she has; And she may smile when they remind her, As heretofore, of what they know Of roses that are still to blow By ways where not so much as grass Remains of what she sees behind her.

They stay a while, and having done What penance or the past requires, They go, and leave her there alone To count her chimneys and her spires. Her lip shakes when they go away, And yet she would not have them stay; She knows as well as anyone That Pity, having played, soon tires.

But one friend always reappears, A good ghost, not to be forsaken; Whereat she laughs and has no fears Of what a ghost may reawaken, But welcomes, while she wears and mends The poor relation's odds and ends, Her truant from a tomb of years-- Her power of youth so early taken.

Poor laugh, more slender than her song It seems; and there are none to hear it With even the stopped ears of the strong For breaking heart or broken spirit. The friends who clamored for her place, And would have scratched her for her face, Have lost her laughter for so long That none would care enough to fear it.

None live who need fear anything From her, whose losses are their pleasure; The plover with a wounded wing Stays not the flight that others measure; So there she waits, and while she lives, And death forgets, and faith forgives, Her memories go foraging For bits of childhood song they treasure.

And like a giant harp that hums On always, and is always blending The coming of what never comes With what has past and had an ending, The City trembles, throbs, and pounds Outside, and through a thousand sounds The small intolerable drums Of Time are like slow drops descending.

Bereft enough to shame a sage And given little to long sighing, With no illusion to assuage The lonely changelessness of dying,-- Unsought, unthought-of, and unheard, She sings and watches like a bird, Safe in a comfortable cage From which there will be no more flying.

The Burning Book

Or the Contented Metaphysician

To the lore of no manner of men Would his vision have yielded When he found what will never again From his vision be shielded,-- Though he paid with as much of his life As a nun could have given, And to-night would have been as a knife, Devil-drawn, devil-driven.

For to-night, with his flame-weary eyes On the work he is doing, He considers the tinder that flies And the quick flame pursuing. In the leaves that are crinkled and curled Are his ashes of glory, And what once were an end of the world Is an end of a story.

But he smiles, for no more shall his days Be a toil and a calling For a way to make others to gaze On God's face without falling. He has come to the end of his words, And alone he rejoices In the choiring that silence affords Of ineffable voices.

To a realm that his words may not reach He may lead none to find him; An adept, and with nothing to teach, He leaves nothing behind him. For the rest, he will have his release, And his embers, attended By the large and unclamoring peace Of a dream that is ended.

Fragment

Faint white pillars that seem to fade As you look from here are the first one sees Of his house where it hides and dies in a shade Of beeches and oaks and hickory trees. Now many a man, given woods like these, And a house like that, and the Briony gold, Would have said, "There are still some gods to please, And houses are built without hands, we're told."

There are the pillars, and all gone gray. Briony's hair went white. You may see Where the garden was if you come this way. That sun-dial scared him, he said to me; "Sooner or later they strike," said he, And he never got that from the books he read. Others are flourishing, worse than he, But he knew too much for the life he led.

And who knows all knows everything That a patient ghost at last retrieves; There's more to be known of his harvesting When Time the thresher unbinds the sheaves; And there's more to be heard than a wind that grieves For Briony now in this ageless oak, Driving the first of its withered leaves Over the stones where the fountain broke.

Lisette and Eileen

"When he was here alive, Eileen, There was a word you might have said; So never mind what I have been, Or anything,--for you are dead.

"And after this when I am there Where he is, you'll be dying still. Your eyes are dead, and your black hair,-- The rest of you be what it will.

"'Twas all to save him? Never mind, Eileen. You saved him. You are strong. I'd hardly wonder if your kind Paid everything, for you live long.

"You last, I mean. That's what I mean. I mean you last as long as lies. You might have said that word, Eileen,-- And you might have your hair and eyes.

"And what you see might be Lisette, Instead of this that has no name. Your silence--I can feel it yet, Alive and in me, like a flame.

"Where might I be with him to-day, Could he have known before he heard? But no--your silence had its way, Without a weapon or a word.

"Because a word was never told, I'm going as a worn toy goes. And you are dead; and you'll be old; And I forgive you, I suppose.

"I'll soon be changing as all do, To something we have always been; And you'll be old... He liked you, too. I might have killed you then, Eileen.

"I think he liked as much of you As had a reason to be seen,-- As much as God made black and blue. He liked your hair and eyes, Eileen."

Llewellyn and the Tree

Could he have made Priscilla share The paradise that he had planned, Llewellyn would have loved his wife As well as any in the land.

Could he have made Priscilla cease To goad him for what God left out, Llewellyn would have been as mild As any we have read about.

Could all have been as all was not, Llewellyn would have had no story; He would have stayed a quiet man And gone his quiet way to glory.

But howsoever mild he was Priscilla was implacable; And whatsoever timid hopes He built--she found them, and they fell.

And this went on, with intervals Of labored harmony between Resounding discords, till at last Llewellyn turned--as will be seen.

Priscilla, warmer than her name, And shriller than the sound of saws, Pursued Llewellyn once too far, Not knowing quite the man he was.

The more she said, the fiercer clung The stinging garment of his wrath; And this was all before the day When Time tossed roses in his path.

Before the roses ever came Llewellyn had already risen. The roses may have ruined him, They may have kept him out of prison.

And she who brought them, being Fate, Made roses do the work of spears,-- Though many made no more of her Than civet, coral, rouge, and years.

You ask us what Llewellyn saw, But why ask what may not be given? To some will come a time when change Itself is beauty, if not heaven.

One afternoon Priscilla spoke, And her shrill history was done; At any rate, she never spoke Like that again to anyone.

One gold October afternoon Great fury smote the silent air; And then Llewellyn leapt and fled Like one with hornets in his hair.

Llewellyn left us, and he said Forever, leaving few to doubt him; And so, through frost and clicking leaves, The Tilbury way went on without him.

And slowly, through the Tilbury mist, The stillness of October gold Went out like beauty from a face. Priscilla watched it, and grew old.

He fled, still clutching in his flight The roses that had been his fall; The Scarlet One, as you surmise, Fled with him, coral, rouge, and all.

Priscilla, waiting, saw the change Of twenty slow October moons; And then she vanished, in her turn To be forgotten, like old tunes.

So they were gone--all three of them, I should have said, and said no more, Had not a face once on Broadway Been one that I had seen before.

The face and hands and hair were old, But neither time nor penury Could quench within Llewellyn's eyes The shine of his one victory.

The roses, faded and gone by, Left ruin where they once had reigned; But on the wreck, as on old shells, The color of the rose remained.

His fictive merchandise I bought For him to keep and show again, Then led him slowly from the crush Of his cold-shouldered fellow men.

"And so, Llewellyn," I began-- "Not so," he said; "not so, at all: I've tried the world, and found it good, For more than twenty years this fall.

"And what the world has left of me Will go now in a little while." And what the world had left of him Was partly an unholy guile.

"That I have paid for being calm Is what you see, if you have eyes; For let a man be calm too long, He pays for much before he dies.

"Be calm when you are growing old And you have nothing else to do; Pour not the wine of life too thin If water means the death of you.

"You say I might have learned at home The truth in season to be strong? Not so; I took the wine of life Too thin, and I was calm too long.

"Like others who are strong too late, For me there was no going back; For I had found another speed, And I was on the other track.

"God knows how far I might have gone Or what there might have been to see; But my speed had a sudden end, And here you have the end of me."

The end or not, it may be now But little farther from the truth To say those worn satiric eyes Had something of immortal youth.

He may among the millions here Be one; or he may, quite as well, Be gone to find again the Tree Of Knowledge, out of which he fell.

He may be near us, dreaming yet Of unrepented rouge and coral; Or in a grave without a name May be as far off as a moral.

Bewick Finzer

Time was when his half million drew The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain When his half million went.

Time passed, and filled along with his The place of many more; Time came, and hardly one of us Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man Whom we had known before.

The broken voice, the withered neck, The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence, The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams Of affluence,--all were there.

Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes, Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task When he looks in the face Of one who might so easily Have been in Finzer's place.

He comes unfailing for the loan We give and then forget; He comes, and probably for years Will he be coming yet,-- Familiar as an old mistake, And futile as regret.

Bokardo

Well, Bokardo, here we are; Make yourself at home. Look around--you haven't far To look--and why be dumb? Not the place that used to be, Not so many things to see; But there's room for you and me. And you--you've come.

Talk a little; or, if not, Show me with a sign Why it was that you forgot What was yours and mine. Friends, I gather, are small things In an age when coins are kings; Even at that, one hardly flings Friends before swine.

Rather strong? I knew as much, For it made you speak. No offense to swine, as such, But why this hide-and-seek? You have something on your side, And you wish you might have died, So you tell me. And you tried One night last week?

You tried hard? And even then Found a time to pause? When you try as hard again, You'll have another cause. When you find yourself at odds With all dreamers of all gods, You may smite yourself with rods-- But not the laws.