Part 1
TWO WOMEN.
TWO WOMEN:
1862.
_A POEM._
BY
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
(REPRINTED FROM APPLETONS’ JOURNAL.)
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
549 AND 551 BROADWAY.
1877.
COPYRIGHT BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1877.
TWO WOMEN.
1862.
_ONE._
Through miles of green cornfields that lusty And strong face the sun and rejoice In his heat, where the brown bees go dusty With pollen from flowers of their choice, ’Mong myriads down by the river Who offer their honey, the train Flies south with a whir and a shiver, Flies south through the lowlands that quiver With ripening grain--
Fair wheat, like a lady for fancies, Who bends to the breeze, while the corn Held stiff all his stubborn green lances The moment his curled leaf was born; And grapes, where the vineyards are sweeping The shores of the river whose tide-- Slow moving, brown tide--holds the keeping Of War and of Peace that lie sleeping, Couched lions, each side.
Hair curlless, and hid, and smooth-banded, Blue innocent maidenly eyes, That gaze at the lawless rough-handed Young soldiers with grieving surprise At oaths on their lips, the deriding And jestings that load every breath, While on with dread swiftness are gliding Their moments, and o’er them is biding The shadow of death!
Face clear-cut and pearly, a slender Small maiden with calm, home-bred air; No deep-tinted hues you might lend her Could touch the faint gold of her hair, The blue of her eyes, or the neatness Of quaint little gown, smoothly spun From threads of soft gray, whose completeness Doth fit her withdrawn gentle sweetness-- A lily turned nun.
Ohio shines on to her border, Ohio all golden with grain; The river comes up at her order, And curves toward the incoming train; “The river! The river! O borrow A speed that is swifter-- Afar Kentucky! Haste, haste, thou To-morrow!” Poor lads, dreaming not of the sorrow, The anguish of war.
_THE OTHER._
West from the Capital’s crowded throng The fiery engine rushed along, Over the road where danger lay On each bridge and curve of the midnight way, Shooting across the rivers’ laps, Up the mountains, into the gaps, Through West Virginia like the wind, Fire and sword coming on behind, Whistling defiance that echoed back To mountain guerrillas burning the track, “Do the worst, ye rebels, that ye can do To the train that follows, but _I_ go through!”
A motley crowd--the city thief; The man of God; the polished chief Of a band of gamblers; the traitor spy; The correspondent with quick, sharp eye; The speculator who boldly made His fifty per cent. in a driving trade At the edge of the war; the clean lank clerk Sent West for sanitary work; The bounty-jumper; the lordling born Viewing the country with wondering scorn-- A strange assemblage filled the car That dared the midnight border-band, Where life and death went hand-in-hand Those strange and breathless days of war.
The conductor’s lantern moves along, Slowly lighting the motley throng Face by face; what sudden gleam Flashes back in the lantern’s beam Through shadows down at the rearward door? The conductor pauses; all eyes explore The darkened corner: a woman’s face Thrown back asleep--the shimmer of lace, The sheen of silk, the yellow of gold, The flash of jewels, the careless fold Of an India shawl that half concealed The curves superb which the light revealed; A sweep of shoulder, a rounded arm, A perfect hand that lay soft and warm On the dingy seat; all the outlines rare Of a Milo Venus slumbered there ’Neath the costly silk whose heaviest fold Subordinate seemed--unnoticed mould For the form beneath.
The sumptuous grace Of the careless pose, the sleeping face, Transfixed all eyes, and together drew One and all for a nearer view: The lank clerk hasted, the gambler trod On the heels of the gazing man of God; The correspondent took out his book, Sharpened his pencil with eager look; The soldiers fought as to who should pass The first; the lord peered through his glass, But no sooner saw the sleeping face Than he too hasted and left his place To join the crowd. Then, ere any spoke, But all eager gazed, the lady woke.
Dark-brown, sleepy, velvet eyes, Lifted up in soft surprise, A wealth of hair of auburn red, Falling in braids from the regal head Whose little hat with waving plume Lay on the floor--while a faint perfume, The roses, crushed in sleep, betrayed, Tangled within the loosened braid; Bold features, Nubian lips, a skin Creamy pallid, the red within Mixed with brown where the shadow lies Dark beneath the lustrous eyes. She smiles; all hearts are at her feet. She turns; each hastens to his seat. The car is changed to a sacred place Lighted by one fair woman’s face; In sudden silence on they ride, The lord and the gambler, side by side, The traitor spy, the priest as well, Bound for the time by a common spell, And each might be in thought and mien A loyal knight escorting his queen, So instant and so measureless Is the power of a perfect loveliness.
_THE MEETING._
The Western city with the Roman name, The vine-decked river winding round the hills, Are left behind; the pearly maid who came Down from the northern lake whose cool breath fills The whole horizon, like the green, salt sea, Is riding southward on the cautious train, That feels its way along, and nervously Hurries around the curve and o’er the bridge, Fearing a rebel ball from every ridge-- The wild adventurous cavalry campaign That Morgan and his men, bold riders all, Kept up in fair Kentucky all those years, So hot with daring deeds, with glowing tears, That even Peace doth sometime seem a pall, When men in city offices feel yet The old wild thrill of “Boots and saddles all!” The dashing raid they cannot quite forget Despite the hasty graves that silent lie Along its route; at home the women sigh, Gazing across the still untrodden ways, Across the fields, across the lonely moor, “O for the breathless ardor of those days When we were all so happy, though so poor!”
The maiden sits alone; The raw recruits are scattered through the car, Talking of all the splendors of the war, With faces grimed and roistering braggart tone. In the gray dawning, sweet and fair to view, Like opening wood-flower pearled with morning dew, She shines among them in her radiance pure, Notes all their lawless roughness, sadly sure They’re very wicked--hoping that the day Of long-drawn hours may safely wear away, And bring her, ere the summer sunset dies, To the far farm-house where her lover lies, Wounded--alone. The rattling speed turns slow, Slow, slower all the rusty car-wheels go, The axles groan, the brakes grind harshly down; The young conductor comes--(there was a face He noted in the night)--“Madam, your place Will soon be noisy, for at yonder town We take on other soldiers. If you change Your seat and join that little lady, then It will not seem so lonely or so strange For you, as here among so many men.” Lifting her fair face from the battered seat, Where she had slumbered like a weary child, The lady, with obedience full sweet To his young manhood’s eager craving, smiled And rose. Happy, the flushed youth led the way; She followed in her lovely disarray. The clinging silk disclosed the archèd foot, Hidden within the dainty satin boot, Dead-black against the dead-white even hue Of silken stocking, gleaming into view One moment; then the lady sleepily Adjusted with a touch her drapery, And tried to loop in place a falling braid, And smooth the rippling waves the night had made; While the first sunbeams flashing through the pane Set her bright gems to flashing back again; And all men’s eyes in that Kentucky car Grew on her face, as all men’s eyes had done On the night-train that brought her from afar, Over the mountains west from Washington.
THE LADY (_thinking_).
Haply met, This country maiden, sweet as mignonette, No doubt the pride of some small Western town:-- Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown, So prim--so dull--a fashion five years old!
THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).
How odd, how bold, That silken robe--those waves of costly lace, That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes, Surely those diamonds are out of place-- Strange, that a lady should in such a guise Be here alone!
THE LADY.
Allow me, mademoiselle, Our good conductor thinks it would be well That we should keep together, since the car Will soon be overcrowded, and we are The only women.--May I have a seat In this safe little corner by your side? Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!-- That is, if yours be long?
THE MAIDEN.
To Benton’s Mill.
THE LADY.
I go beyond, not far--I think we pass Your station just before Waunona Hill; But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass. Do you not love that land?
THE MAIDEN.
I do not know Aught of it.
THE LADY.
Yes; but surely you have heard Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow, Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred For victory--the rare Kentucky speed That wins the races?
THE MAIDEN.
Yes; I’ve heard it said They were good worthy horses.--But indeed I know not much of horses.
THE LADY.
Then the land-- The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass, The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand That scarce an English dukedom may surpass In velvet beauty--while its royal sweep Over the country miles and miles away, Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep Their distance from each other, proud array Of single elms that stand apart to show How gracefully their swaying branches grow, While little swells of turf roll up and fall Like waves of summer sea, and over all You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.-- But you will see it.
THE MAIDEN.
No; I cannot stay But a few hours--at most, a single day.
THE LADY (_unheeding_).
I think I like the best, Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed, The Arab courser of our own new West, The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins, And those slow, cautious judges on the stand, Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?
THE MAIDEN.
I ne’er have seen race-horses, or a race.
THE LADY.
I crave your pardon; in your gentle face I read reproof.
THE MAIDEN.
I judge not any man.
THE LADY.
Nor woman?
THE MAIDEN.
If you force reply, I can Speak but the truth. The cruel, panting race, For gamblers’ prizes, seems not worthy place For women--nor for men, indeed, if they Were purer grown. Of kindred ill the play, The dinner loud with wine, the midnight dance, The deadly poison of all games of chance-- All these are sinful.
THE LADY.
Ah! poor sins, how stern The judge! I knew ye not for sins--I learn For the first time that ye are evil. Go, Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe-- Alas! And David Garrick!--Where’s the harm In David?
THE MAIDEN.
I know not the gentleman.
THE LADY.
Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm, So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can, _I_ weep. And must I yield my crystal glass, Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine, That makes a dreary dinner-party pass In rosy light, where after-fancies shine-- Things that one might have said?--And then the dance, The _valse à deux temps_, if your partner chance To be a lover--
THE MAIDEN.
Madam, pray excuse My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse To dwell on themes like these.
THE LADY.
Did I begin The themes, or you?
THE MAIDEN.
But _I_ dwelt on the sin, And you--
THE LADY.
Upon the good. Did I not well? I gave you good for evil, mademoiselle.
THE MAIDEN.
Forgive me, lady, but I cannot jest, I bear too anxious heart within my breast; One dear to me lies wounded, and I go To find him, help him home with tender care-- To home and health, God willing.
THE LADY.
Is it so? Strange--but ah! no. The wounded are not rare, Nor yet the grief, in this heart-rending war.-- But he will yet recover; I feel sure That one beloved by heart so good, so pure As yours, will not be taken. Sweet, your star Is fortunate.
THE MAIDEN.
Not in the stars, I trust. We are but wretched creatures of the dust, Sinful, and desperately wicked; still, It is in mercy our Creator’s will To hear our prayers.
THE LADY.
And do you then believe He grants all heart-felt prayers? One might conceive A case: Suppose a loving mother prays For her son’s life; he, worn with life’s hard ways, Entreats his God for death with equal power And fervor.
THE MAIDEN.
It is wrong to pray for death.
THE LADY.
I grant it not. But, say in self-same hour A farmer prays for rain; with ’bated breath A mother, hastening to a dying child, Prays for fair weather?--But you do not deign To listen. Ah! I saw you when you smiled That little, silver smile! I might explain My meaning further; but why should I shake Your happy faith?
THE MAIDEN.
You could not.
THE LADY.
Nay, that’s true; You are the kind that walks up to the stake Unflinching and unquestioning. I sue For pardon, and I pray you tell me all This tale of yours. When did your lover fall-- What battle-field?
THE MAIDEN.
Not any well-known name; It was not Heaven’s pleasure that the fame Of well-known battle should be his. A band Of wild guerrillas raiding through the land, Shot him, and left him bleeding by the way.
THE LADY.
Guerrillas?
THE MAIDEN.
Yes; John Morgan’s.
THE LADY.
Maybe so, And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow, Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may-- Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks Where they have been; now near, now miles away, From river lowland to the mountain-gap, Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks When _they_ ride by, no well-versed tongues betray Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own, Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass Across her borders north from Tennessee, Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass, The land of home, the land they long to see, The lovely rolling land. We might have known That come they would!
THE MAIDEN.
You are Kentucky-bred?
THE LADY.
I come from Washington. Nay--but I read The doubt you try to hide. Be frank--confess-- I am that mythical adventuress That thrives in Washington these troublous days-- The country correspondent’s tale?
THE MAIDEN.
Your dress-- And--something in your air--
THE LADY.
I give you praise For rare sincerity. Go on.
THE MAIDEN.
Your tone, Your words, seem strange.--But then, I’ve never known A woman like you.
THE LADY (_aside_).
Yet we are not few, Thank Heaven, for the world’s sake! It would starve If gray was all its color, and the dew Its only nectar. With a pulsing haste It seeks the royal purples, and draws down The luscious bunches to its thirsty taste, And feels its blood hot-thrilled, a regal crown Upon its brow; and then, its hands do carve The vine-leaves into marble. But the hue Of thoughts like these she knows not--and in vain To tell her. Yet, sweet snow-drop, I would fain Hear her small story. (_Speaks._) Did he fall alone, Your gallant soldier-boy? And how to you Came the sad news?
THE MAIDEN.
A farmer heard him moan While passing--bore him to the camp, and there A captain from our lake-shore wrote me word Ere the brigade moved on; which, when I heard, I left my mother, ill, for in despair He cried, they wrote, for me. He could not know That they had written, for hot fever drove His thoughts with whips of flame.--O cruel woe,--O my poor love-- My Willie!
THE LADY.
Do not grieve, fair child. This day Will see you by his side--nay, if you will, Then lay your head here--weep your grief away. Tears are a luxury--yes, take your fill; For stranger as I am, my heart is warm To woman’s sorrow, and this woman’s arm That holds you is a loyal one and kind. (_Thinking._) O gentle maiden-mind, How lovely art thou--like the limpid brook In whose small depths my child-eyes loved to look In the spring days! Thy little simple fears Are wept away. Ah! could _I_ call the tears At will to soothe the parched heat of my heart! --O beautiful lost Faith, I knew you once--but now, like shadowy wraith, You meet me in this little maiden’s eyes, And gaze from out their blue in sad surprise At the great gulf between us. Far apart, In truth, we’ve drifted--drifted. Gentle ghost Of past outgrown, thy land the hazy coast Of dreamless ignorance; I must put out My eyes to live with you again. The doubt, The honest, earnest doubt, is upward growth Of the strong mind--the struggle of the seed Up to the broad, free air. Contented sloth Of the blind clods around it sees no need For change--nay, deems, indeed, all change a crime; “All things remain as in our fathers’ time-- What gain ye then by growing?” “Air--free air! E’en though I die of hunger and despair, I go,” the mind replies.
THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).
How kind, how warm Her sympathy! I could no more resist Her questions, than the large clasp of her arm That drew me down. How tenderly she kissed My forehead! strange that so much good should dwell With so much ill. This shining, costly dress, A garb that shows a sinful worldliness, Troubles my heart. Ah, I remember well How hard I worked after that letter came Telling of Willie--and my sisters all, How swift we sewed! For I had suffered shame At traveling in house-garb. --I feel a call To bring this wanderer back into the fold, This poor lost sinner straying in the cold Outside the church’s pale. Should I not try To show her all the sad deficiency, The desperate poverty of life like hers, The utter falseness of its every breath, The pity that within my bosom stirs For thinking of the horrors after death Awaiting her?
THE LADY.
Quite calm, again? That’s well. Wilt taste a peach? My basket holds a store Of luscious peaches. Ah! she weaves a spell, This lovely sorceress of fruit; what more Can man ask from the earth? There is no cost Too great for peaches. I have felt surprise Through all my life that fair Eve should have lost That mythic Asian land of Paradise For a poor plebeian apple! Now a peach, Pulpy, pink-veined, hanging within her reach, Might well have tempted her.
Oh, these long hours!-- Whence comes this faint perfume of hot-house flowers-- Tea-roses?
THE MAIDEN.
Tangled in your loosened hair Are roses.
THE LADY (_thinking_).
Nita must have twined them there-- The opera--I know now; I have sped So swift across the country, my poor head Is turned.--The opera? Yes; then--O heart, How hast thou bled! [_Dashes away tears._] (_Speaks._) Sweet child, I pray you tell Again your budding romance, all the part Where he first spoke. You’d known him long and well, Your Willie?
THE MAIDEN.
Yes; in childhood we had been Two little lovers o’er the alphabet; Then one day--I had grown to just sixteen-- Down in the apple-orchard--there--we met, By chance--and--
THE LADY (_thinking_).
Blush, thou fine-grained little cheek, It comforts me to see that e’en thy meek Child-beauty knows enough of love to blush. (_Speaks._) Nay, you flush So prettily! Well, must _I_ tell the rest? You knew, then, all at once, you loved him best, This gallant Willie?
THE MAIDEN (_thinking_).
What has come to me That I do answer, from reserve so free, This stranger’s questions? Yet may it not chance My confidence shall win hers in return? I must press on, nor give one backward glance-- Must follow up my gain by words that burn With charity and Christian zeal. (_Speaks._) Yes; then We were betrothed. I wore his mother’s ring,-- And Willie joined the church; before all men He made the promises and vows which bring A blessing down from God. Dear lady, strength From Heaven came to us. Could I endure This absence, silence, all the weary length Of hours and days and months, were I not sure That God was with my Willie? If on you Sorrow has fallen, lady (and those tears Showed me its presence), seek the good, the true, In this sad life; a prayer can calm all fears; Yield all your troubles to your God’s control, And He will bless you. Ah! where should _I_ be Did I not know that in my Willie’s soul Came first the love of God, then love for me?
THE LADY.
His love for you comes _second_?
THE MAIDEN.
Would you have A mortal love come first?
THE LADY.
Sweet heart, I crave Your pardon. For your gentle Christian zeal I thank you. Wear this gem--’twill make me feel That I am something to you when we part. But what the “silence?”
THE MAIDEN.
Ten months (they seem years!) Since Willie joined the army; and my heart Bore it until his letters ceased; then tears Would come--would come!
THE LADY.
Why should the letters cease?
THE MAIDEN.
I know not; I could only pray for peace, And his return. No doubt he could not write, Perplexed with many duties; his the care Of a thronged camp, where, ever in his sight, The new recruits are drilled.
THE LADY (_thinking_).
Oh, faith most rare! (_Speaks._) Had you no doubts?
THE MAIDEN.
Why should I doubt? We are Betrothed--the same forever, near or far! --He knew my trust Was boundless as his own.
THE LADY.
But still you must In reason have known something--must have heard Or else imagined--
THE MAIDEN.
For three months no word Until this letter; from its page I learned That my poor Willie had but just returned To the brigade, when struck down unaware. It seems he had been three months absent.
THE LADY.
--Where?
THE MAIDEN.