Chapter 3

The crowd was growing and growing, and therewith the jeering grew; And now that the time was come for an ugly brawl I knew, When I saw how midst of the workmen some well-dressed men there came, Of the scum of the well-to-do, brutes void of pity or shame; The thief is a saint beside them. These raised a jeering noise, And our speaker quailed before it, and the hubbub drowned his voice. Then Richard put him aside and rose at once in his place, And over the rags and the squalor beamed out his beautiful face, And his sweet voice rang through the tumult, and I think the crowd would have hushed And hearkened his manly words; but a well-dressed reptile pushed Right into the ring about us and screeched out infamies That sickened the soul to hearken; till he caught my angry eyes And my voice that cried out at him, and straight on me he turned, A foul word smote my heart and his cane on my shoulders burned. But e’en as a kestrel stoops down Richard leapt from his stool And drave his strong right hand amidst the mouth of the fool. Then all was mingled together, and away from him was I torn, And, hustled hither and thither, on the surging crowd was borne; But at last I felt my feet, for the crowd began to thin, And I looked about for Richard that away from thence we might win; When lo, the police amidst us, and Richard hustled along Betwixt a pair of blue-coats as the doer of all the wrong!

Little longer, friend, is the story; I scarce have seen him again; I could not get him bail despite my trouble and pain; And this morning he stood in the dock: for all that that might avail, They might just as well have dragged him at once to the destined jail. The police had got their man and they meant to keep him there, And whatever tale was needful they had no trouble to swear.

Well, the white-haired fool on the bench was busy it seems that day, And so with the words “Two months,” he swept the case away; Yet he lectured my man ere he went, but not for the riot indeed For which he was sent to prison, but for holding a dangerous creed. “What have you got to do to preach such perilous stuff? To take some care of yourself should find you work enough. If you needs must preach or lecture, then hire a chapel or hall; Though indeed if you take my advice you’ll just preach nothing at all, But stick to your work: you seem clever; who knows but you might rise, And become a little builder should you condescend to be wise? For in spite of your silly sedition, the land that we live in is free, And opens a pathway to merit for you as well as for me.”

Ah, friend, am I grown light-headed with the lonely grief of the night, That I babble of this babble? Woe’s me, how little and light Is this beginning of trouble to all that yet shall be borne— At worst but as the shower that lays but a yard of the corn Before the hailstorm cometh and flattens the field to the earth.

O for a word from my love of the hope of the second birth! Could he clear my vision to see the sword creeping out of the sheath Inch by inch as we writhe in the toils of our living death! Could he but strengthen my heart to know that we cannot fail; For alas, I am lonely here—helpless and feeble and frail; I am e’en as the poor of the earth, e’en they that are now alive; And where is their might and their cunning with the mighty of men to strive? Though they that come after be strong to win the day and the crown, Ah, ever must we the deedless to the deedless dark go down, Still crying, “To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow yet shall be The new-born sun’s arising o’er happy earth and sea”— And we not there to greet it—for to-day and its life we yearn, And where is the end of toiling and whitherward now shall we turn But to patience, ever patience, and yet and yet to bear; And yet, forlorn, unanswered as oft before to hear, Through the tales of the ancient fathers and the dreams that mock our wrong, That cry to the naked heavens, “How long, O Lord! how long?”

VIII THE HALF OF LIFE GONE

THE days have slain the days, and the seasons have gone by And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with wrong. Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream, And grey o’er its hither lip the quivering rushes gleam. There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning the hay, While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day. The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled wain, Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the lane Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the beer, And thump, thump, goes the farmer’s nag o’er the narrow bridge of the weir. High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit So high o’er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of it, And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering herne; In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and burn; The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon, And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June.

They are busy winning the hay, and the life and the picture they make, If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake; For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest, While one’s thought wends over the world, north, south, and east and west. There are the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the change! Strange are they grown unto me; yea, I to myself am strange. Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the meads Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs, So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst them goes A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows, And deems it something strange when he is other than glad. Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad, And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing face— Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place? Whose should it be but my love’s, if my love were yet on the earth? Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had birth, When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her feet Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was sweet?

No, no, it is she no longer; never again can she come And behold the hay-wains creeping o’er the meadows of her home; No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking band. Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the earth, No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and mirth.

Nay, let me look and believe that all these will vanish away, At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there mid the hay, Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love. There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above, And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir was awake; There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to take, And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt ridge And the great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we stand, To watch the dawn come creeping o’er the fragrant lovely land, Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain, To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry summer’s gain.

Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night, When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight. She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the earth But e’en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth That I cannot name or measure. Yet for me and all these she died, E’en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide. Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day’s work shall fail. Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn, And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born: But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day. Of the great world’s hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think: Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I shrink. I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge, And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge, And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I gaze, And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze; And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see, What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?

O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a sorrow to nurse, And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse, No sting it has and no meaning—it is empty sound on the air. Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean. And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon; Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.

IX A NEW FRIEND

I HAVE promised to tell you the story of how I was left alone Sick and wounded and sore, and why the woman is gone That I deemed a part of my life. Tell me when all is told, If you deem it fit that the earth, that the world of men should hold My work and my weariness still; yet think of that other life, The child of me and of her, and the years and the coming strife.

After I came out of prison our living was hard to earn By the work of my hands, and of hers; to shifts we had to turn, Such as the poor know well, and the rich cannot understand, And just out of the gutter we stood, still loving and hand in hand.

Do you ask me if still amidst all I held the hunt in view, And the hope of the morning of life, all the things I should do and undo? Be easy, I am not a coward: nay little prudence I learned, I spoke and I suffered for speaking, and my meat by my manhood was burned. When the poor man thinks—and rebels, the whip lies ready anear; But he who is rebel and rich may live safe for many a year, While he warms his heart with pictures of all the glory to come. There’s the storm of the press and the critics maybe, but sweet is his home, There is meat in the morn and the even, and rest when the day is done, All is fair and orderly there as the rising and setting sun— And I know both the rich and the poor. Well, I grew bitter they said; ’Tis not unlike that I did, for bitter indeed was my bread, And surely the nursling plant shall smack of its nourishing soil. And here was our life in short, pinching and worry and toil, One petty fear thrust out by another come in its place, Each scrap of life but a fear, and the sum of it wretched and base. E’en so fare millions of men, where men for money are made, Where the poor are dumb and deedless, where the rich are not afraid. Ah, am I bitter again? Well, these are our breeding-stock, The very base of order, and the state’s foundation rock; Is it so good and so safe that their manhood should be outworn By the struggle for anxious life, the dull pain dismally borne, Till all that was man within them is dead and vanished away? Were it not even better that all these should think on a day As they look on each other’s sad faces, and see how many they are: “What are these tales of old time of men who were mighty in war? They fought for some city’s dominion, for the name of a forest or field; They fell that no alien’s token should be blazoned on their shield; And for this is their valour praised and dear is their renown, And their names are beloved for ever and they wear the patriot’s crown; And shall we then wait in the streets and this heap of misery, Till their stones rise up to help us or the far heavens set us free? For we, we shall fight for no name, no blazon on banner or shield; But that man to man may hearken and the earth her increase yield; That never again in the world may be sights like we have seen; That never again in the world may be men like we have been, That never again like ours may be manhood spoilt and blurred.”

Yea even so was I bitter, and this was my evilest word: “Spend and be spent for our hope, and you at least shall be free, Though you be rugged and coarse, as wasted and worn as you be.” Well, “bitter” I was, and denounced, and scarcely at last might we stand From out of the very gutter, as we wended hand in hand. I had written before for the papers, but so “bitter” was I grown, That none of them now would have me that could pay me half-a-crown, And the worst seemed closing around us; when as it needs must chance, I spoke at some Radical Club of the Great Revolution in France. Indeed I said nothing new to those who had learned it all, And yet as something strange on some of the folk did it fall. It was late in the terrible war, and France to the end drew nigh, And some of us stood agape to see how the war would die, And what would spring from its ashes. So when the talk was o’er And after the stir and excitement I felt the burden I bore Heavier yet for it all, there came to speak to me A serious well-dressed man, a “gentleman,” young I could see; And we fell to talk together, and he shyly gave me praise, And asked, though scarcely in words, of my past and my “better days.” Well, there,—I let it all out, and I flushed as I strode along, (For we were walking by now) and bitterly spoke of the wrong. Maybe I taught him something, but ready he was to learn, And had come to our workmen meetings some knowledge of men to learn. He kindled afresh at my words, although to try him I spake More roughly than I was wont; but every word did he take For what it was really worth, nor even laughter he spared, As though he would look on life of its rags of habit bared.

Well, why should I be ashamed that he helped me at my need? My wife and my child, must I kill them? And the man was a friend indeed, And the work that he got me I did (it was writing, you understand) As well as another might do it. To be short, he joined our band Before many days were over, and we saw him everywhere That we workmen met together, though I brought him not to my lair. Eager he grew for the Cause, and we twain grew friend and friend: He was dainty of mind and of body; most brave, as he showed in the end; Merry despite of his sadness, quick-witted and speedy to see: Like a perfect knight of old time as the poets would have them to be. That was the friend that I won by my bitter speech at last. He loved me; he grieved my soul: now the love and the grief are past; He is gone with his eager learning, his sadness and his mirth, His hope and his fond desire. There is no such thing on the earth. He died not unbefriended—nor unbeloved maybe. Betwixt my life and his longing there rolls a boundless sea. And what are those memories now to all that I have to do, The deeds to be done so many, the days of my life so few?

X READY TO DEPART

I SAID of my friend new-found that at first he saw not my lair; Yet he and I and my wife were together here and there; And at last as my work increased and my den to a dwelling grew, He came there often enough, and yet more together we drew. Then came a change in the man; for a month he kept away, Then came again and was with us for a fortnight every day, But often he sat there silent, which was little his wont with us. And at first I had no inkling of what constrained him thus; I might have thought that he faltered, but now and again there came, When we spoke of the Cause and its doings, a flash of his eager flame, And he seemed himself for a while; then the brightness would fade away, And he gloomed and shrank from my eyes. Thus passed day after day, And grieved I grew, and I pondered: till at last one eve we sat In the fire-lit room together, and talked of this and that, But chiefly indeed of the war and what would come of it; For Paris drew near to its fall, and wild hopes ’gan to flit Amidst us Communist folk; and we talked of what might be done When the Germans had gone their ways and the two were left alone, Betrayers and betrayed in war-worn wasted France.

As I spoke the word “betrayed,” my eyes met his in a glance, And swiftly he turned away; then back with a steady gaze He turned on me; and it seemed as when a sword-point plays Round the sword in a battle’s beginning and the coming on of strife. For I knew though he looked on me, he saw not me, but my wife: And he reddened up to the brow, and the tumult of the blood Nigh blinded my eyes for a while, that I scarce saw bad or good, Till I knew that he was arisen and had gone without a word. Then I turned about unto her, and a quivering voice I heard Like music without a meaning, and twice I heard my name. “O Richard, Richard!” she said, and her arms about me came, And her tears and the lips that I loved were on my face once more. A while I clung to her body, and longing sweet and sore Beguiled my heart of its sorrow; then we sundered and sore she wept, While fair pictures of days departed about my sad heart crept, And mazed I felt and weary. But we sat apart again, Not speaking, while between us was the sharp and bitter pain As the sword ’twixt the lovers bewildered in the fruitless marriage bed. Yet a while, and we spoke together, and I scarce knew what I said, But it was not wrath or reproaching, or the chill of love-born hate; For belike around and about us, we felt the brooding fate. We were gentle and kind together, and if any had seen us so, They had said, “These two are one in the face of all trouble and woe.” But indeed as a wedded couple we shrank from the eyes of men, As we dwelt together and pondered on the days that come not again.

Days passed and we dwelt together; nor Arthur came for awhile; Gravely it was and sadly, and with no greeting smile, That we twain met at our meetings: but no growth of hate was yet, Though my heart at first would be sinking as our thoughts and our eyes they met: And when he spake amidst us and as one we two agreed, And I knew of his faith and his wisdom, then sore was my heart indeed. We shrank from meeting alone: for the words we had to say Our thoughts would nowise fashion—not yet for many a day.

Unhappy days of all days! Yet O might they come again! So sore as my longing returneth to their trouble and sorrow and pain!

But time passed, and once we were sitting, my wife and I in our room, And it was in the London twilight and the February gloom, When there came a knock, and he entered all pale, though bright were his eyes, And I knew that something had happened, and my heart to my mouth did arise. “It is over,” he said “—and beginning; for Paris has fallen at last, And who knows what next shall happen after all that has happened and passed? There now may we all be wanted.” I took up the word: “Well then Let us go, we three together, and there to die like men.”

“Nay,” he said, “to live and be happy like men.” Then he flushed up red, And she no less as she hearkened, as one thought through their bodies had sped. Then I reached out my hand unto him, and I kissed her once on the brow, But no word craving forgiveness, and no word of pardon e’en now, Our minds for our mouths might fashion. In the February gloom And into the dark we sat planning, and there was I in the room, And in speech I gave and I took; but yet alone and apart In the fields where I once was a youngling whiles wandered the thoughts of my heart, And whiles in the unseen Paris, and the streets made ready for war. Night grew and we lit the candles, and we drew together more, And whiles we differed a little as we settled what to do, And my soul was cleared of confusion as nigher the deed-time drew.

Well, I took my child into the country, as we had settled there, And gave him o’er to be cherished by a kindly woman’s care, A friend of my mother’s, but younger: and for Arthur, I let him give His money, as mine was but little, that the boy might flourish and live, Lest we three, or I and Arthur, should perish in tumult and war, And at least the face of his father he should look on never more. You cry out shame on my honour? But yet remember again That a man in my boy was growing; must my passing pride and pain Undo the manhood within him and his days and their doings blight? So I thrust my pride away, and I did what I deemed was right, And left him down in our country. And well may you think indeed How my sad heart swelled at departing from the peace of river and mead, But I held all sternly aback and again to the town did I pass. And as alone I journeyed, this was ever in my heart: “They may die; they may live and be happy; but for me I know my part, In Paris to do my utmost, and there in Paris to die!” And I said, “The day of the deeds and the day of deliverance is nigh.”

XI A GLIMPSE OF THE COMING DAY