12
At last
After long weeks that kept him still astir
With memories of voices faintly heard,
At last
There came a written word
From her.
… “And all day long,
And all the after night,
You were with me like the cadence of a song
I had half-forgotten. And I tried to write,
But there were people around me, every hour;
And on the following day there were more and more.
And when at length I was alone, my power
Of speech had left me; I was tired, and bore
The weight of silence,—as I have done before.
“Tonight I sail—tonight upon the sea
I shall surely think of a thousand things unsaid
To tell you. Oh, send your love after me!
I do not know what lies ahead …
The ocean, yes, and Havre,—and then at last
My dear Paris, where all my youth was passed
In exile. Now, returning, it seems home.
I do not go to paint.—Do you know Vendôme,
And Blas, and Browne, and Wallace, and Hélène Coudray?—
I do not go to work,—only to play
With them and all the others. Yes, I go …
Good-bye, oh lover dearer than I could know!
“Our day and night was flawless—that was why
I said good-bye
So suddenly—
Fearing some act or word
Might rise to break its beautiful accord.
Yes, I was passionately afraid
That if you stayed
With me for nights and days we would tarnish even
That unique heaven
In which for one glad hour our feet had strayed.
And yet,—when you were gone
I wept, for I seemed very much alone.
“Now everything around me.
Is tangled, doubtful, beautiless, insecure.
My dear, you found me
In a strange hour, too exquisite to endure.
And now—my thoughts are dizzy for want of sleep,
And far too many people round me keep
Moving and moving restlessly—
And yet I would have it so, poor foolish I!
“Good-night! Tonight the moon's adrift
Upon the little winds that blow
Over a sea without a stain.
Here is my love for you:—poor gift!
Perhaps,—who knows?—I do not know,—
I will not see you again.”
Dull pain of loss throbbed in him; now she seemed
Herself a moon vanishing down the west—
Not the great flaming light he late had dreamed,
But a lonely slender wraith, stealing to rest.
Gone!—and no more of what had been so much …
Why must the splendor pass so swiftly by?
Her words, like lingering of a farewell touch,
Drew out his heart to follow miserably.
Days passed …
He turned at last
Into the ordered life he long had known.
Dreams came
And April flame
Awoke, as when a smouldering coal is blown,
With memories of her. Yet he somehow moved
With steady step along the common earth,
Unwilling that a chance wind he had loved
Should shake the oak-trees of more ancient worth.
And scarcely would he then unto himself confess
How perfumes, textures, curves of loveliness
Swept him sometimes,—till he cried out to her,
Belovèd comforter.
At length,—not weeks, but months,—one penciled note
Came to him from her. Thus she wrote—
“Oh I am happy today, my dear!
This is a miracle-day!
If you were here and I were here
We'd quickly run away—
Out to the Bois, to a charming inn
That you, too, surely know,
Deep in the wood, where the city's din
Never dares to go.
And there we would sit us down to dine
Like Babes in love in the Wood,
And be, with our goblets of yellow wine,
Too happy to be good!
“Ah well!
This is no age to ask a miracle! …
“I have not written a letter for so long?
My dear, it would have been a mournful song
I should have piped! You see, I have been trying
To become happy—and I started wrong;
At least it all ended in only crying …
Also I have been tired, horribly tired.—And yet
Have I? Today I am so glad, surely I can forget. . . .
“Oh such a day! Adorable! The sun and the cool air
Over the city spread a dream: at Armenonville, where
The Bois is charming, it must be quite maddeningly fair.
“I wish that you were here to play—with me: you play so well.
And if you were here would you play? Or will you never tell?
I do assure you that tonight I am most playable!
“Stupid of you!—I want to talk,—and you are far away!
Perhaps next Spring you will come to me, some other happy day?
But we shall be other people then … Life mocks us … Who can say?”
His pulse leaped at the laughter in her words;
Joy swept his memory back to the perfect hour
Of their sea-love; her charm in echoing chords
Of sweetness thrilled him with prophetic power.
How he had needed her! Now, when the sun
Revived the happy music in her blood,
She turned to him, by touch of joy made one,
Sure that his heart would answer to her mood!
And then
After a week she wrote again—
“At last!—the quiet hour I have desired!—
And yet I am disconsolate, being alone.
I am so tired!
But now that they are gone—
The noisy company—and dawn is near
I am a-quiver with the fear
Of loneliness; my heart is like a stone.
“I am alone, and lonely.
That seldom happens now.
If you were here, would you bid me take a vow
Of rigorous seclusion? Oh if only
I could regain, in some inspired mood,
Courage for solitude!
“Tonight as through the gardens
Of the Luxembourg we trod
I knew I did not like my hat
And that there is no God.
“Don't hate me, oh my wisest, best!
Tonight be kind to me!
By all the world's futility
Tonight I am oppressed,—
And I,—I am the Supreme Futility.
“Have you seen how ridiculous
Up in their queer vague sky
The stars look from the city streets?
I saw them tonight. . . . Good-bye!”
Her shadowy pain fell on him. Was it all,—
Life's multiplex adventure and longing quest,—
But the procession of vain carnival
With no calm hour wherein the soul might rest?
And when at last concluding night should fall,
Was not perhaps the holy silence best? …
He moved in a troubled dreaming
As the months thereafter passed.
Wild notes from the void came streaming
To wreck each pattern he cast.
Till at length into the grey
Dusk of a winter's day
A letter came to fill
The twilight, and lead him away.—
“Everything is so different with me now!
I am too happy and too drowsed to write.
I am alone,—in bed;—the candle-light
Flickers beside me. I cannot tell you how
Tranquilly, beautifully the world's a-shine
In spite of wind and beating gusts of rain
That sweep tormentedly against the pane
Of these dear rooms, these dear, dear rooms of mine!
“For these rooms are my liberty; they are wholly
Sacred and secret to my soul and me.
I have fled to them from the melancholy
Whirl of the sick world's phantom gaiety.
Too long I have been like a leaf of Fall
With mournful haste from revel to revel whirled.
But now I am the happiest heart of all!
I have regained my freedom from the world!
“How much I wish that you could see my rooms!
They are high in an old house, with lofty walls
And mullioned windows. There are gentle glooms
Across them when the evening sunlight falls
Golden out of the west most tenderly.
And the great city stretching far below
Grows but a distant doubtful dream to me
Into whose mazes I shall never go.
“Winter is passing by me; soon the Spring
Will make these skies a sapphire bubble clear. . . .
I wonder if its new-born life will bring
You by some miracle to see me here?
You must, you must! I will put on my best,
And be your guide through each minute, divine
Cranny and corner of this tower of rest,
These wonderful belovèd rooms of mine.
“Tonight I have so much to say
To you, you only; so much more
Than ever on any other day
To any mortal soul before.
But you are far from me. . . . I fear
My pen is impotent and dumb …
So much to say—and you not here!
Oh! will it last until you come?” …
After long weeks that kept him still astir
With memories of voices faintly heard,
At last
There came a written word
From her.
… “And all day long,
And all the after night,
You were with me like the cadence of a song
I had half-forgotten. And I tried to write,
But there were people around me, every hour;
And on the following day there were more and more.
And when at length I was alone, my power
Of speech had left me; I was tired, and bore
The weight of silence,—as I have done before.
“Tonight I sail—tonight upon the sea
I shall surely think of a thousand things unsaid
To tell you. Oh, send your love after me!
I do not know what lies ahead …
The ocean, yes, and Havre,—and then at last
My dear Paris, where all my youth was passed
In exile. Now, returning, it seems home.
I do not go to paint.—Do you know Vendôme,
And Blas, and Browne, and Wallace, and Hélène Coudray?—
I do not go to work,—only to play
With them and all the others. Yes, I go …
Good-bye, oh lover dearer than I could know!
“Our day and night was flawless—that was why
I said good-bye
So suddenly—
Fearing some act or word
Might rise to break its beautiful accord.
Yes, I was passionately afraid
That if you stayed
With me for nights and days we would tarnish even
That unique heaven
In which for one glad hour our feet had strayed.
And yet,—when you were gone
I wept, for I seemed very much alone.
“Now everything around me.
Is tangled, doubtful, beautiless, insecure.
My dear, you found me
In a strange hour, too exquisite to endure.
And now—my thoughts are dizzy for want of sleep,
And far too many people round me keep
Moving and moving restlessly—
And yet I would have it so, poor foolish I!
“Good-night! Tonight the moon's adrift
Upon the little winds that blow
Over a sea without a stain.
Here is my love for you:—poor gift!
Perhaps,—who knows?—I do not know,—
I will not see you again.”
Dull pain of loss throbbed in him; now she seemed
Herself a moon vanishing down the west—
Not the great flaming light he late had dreamed,
But a lonely slender wraith, stealing to rest.
Gone!—and no more of what had been so much …
Why must the splendor pass so swiftly by?
Her words, like lingering of a farewell touch,
Drew out his heart to follow miserably.
Days passed …
He turned at last
Into the ordered life he long had known.
Dreams came
And April flame
Awoke, as when a smouldering coal is blown,
With memories of her. Yet he somehow moved
With steady step along the common earth,
Unwilling that a chance wind he had loved
Should shake the oak-trees of more ancient worth.
And scarcely would he then unto himself confess
How perfumes, textures, curves of loveliness
Swept him sometimes,—till he cried out to her,
Belovèd comforter.
At length,—not weeks, but months,—one penciled note
Came to him from her. Thus she wrote—
“Oh I am happy today, my dear!
This is a miracle-day!
If you were here and I were here
We'd quickly run away—
Out to the Bois, to a charming inn
That you, too, surely know,
Deep in the wood, where the city's din
Never dares to go.
And there we would sit us down to dine
Like Babes in love in the Wood,
And be, with our goblets of yellow wine,
Too happy to be good!
“Ah well!
This is no age to ask a miracle! …
“I have not written a letter for so long?
My dear, it would have been a mournful song
I should have piped! You see, I have been trying
To become happy—and I started wrong;
At least it all ended in only crying …
Also I have been tired, horribly tired.—And yet
Have I? Today I am so glad, surely I can forget. . . .
“Oh such a day! Adorable! The sun and the cool air
Over the city spread a dream: at Armenonville, where
The Bois is charming, it must be quite maddeningly fair.
“I wish that you were here to play—with me: you play so well.
And if you were here would you play? Or will you never tell?
I do assure you that tonight I am most playable!
“Stupid of you!—I want to talk,—and you are far away!
Perhaps next Spring you will come to me, some other happy day?
But we shall be other people then … Life mocks us … Who can say?”
His pulse leaped at the laughter in her words;
Joy swept his memory back to the perfect hour
Of their sea-love; her charm in echoing chords
Of sweetness thrilled him with prophetic power.
How he had needed her! Now, when the sun
Revived the happy music in her blood,
She turned to him, by touch of joy made one,
Sure that his heart would answer to her mood!
And then
After a week she wrote again—
“At last!—the quiet hour I have desired!—
And yet I am disconsolate, being alone.
I am so tired!
But now that they are gone—
The noisy company—and dawn is near
I am a-quiver with the fear
Of loneliness; my heart is like a stone.
“I am alone, and lonely.
That seldom happens now.
If you were here, would you bid me take a vow
Of rigorous seclusion? Oh if only
I could regain, in some inspired mood,
Courage for solitude!
“Tonight as through the gardens
Of the Luxembourg we trod
I knew I did not like my hat
And that there is no God.
“Don't hate me, oh my wisest, best!
Tonight be kind to me!
By all the world's futility
Tonight I am oppressed,—
And I,—I am the Supreme Futility.
“Have you seen how ridiculous
Up in their queer vague sky
The stars look from the city streets?
I saw them tonight. . . . Good-bye!”
Her shadowy pain fell on him. Was it all,—
Life's multiplex adventure and longing quest,—
But the procession of vain carnival
With no calm hour wherein the soul might rest?
And when at last concluding night should fall,
Was not perhaps the holy silence best? …
He moved in a troubled dreaming
As the months thereafter passed.
Wild notes from the void came streaming
To wreck each pattern he cast.
Till at length into the grey
Dusk of a winter's day
A letter came to fill
The twilight, and lead him away.—
“Everything is so different with me now!
I am too happy and too drowsed to write.
I am alone,—in bed;—the candle-light
Flickers beside me. I cannot tell you how
Tranquilly, beautifully the world's a-shine
In spite of wind and beating gusts of rain
That sweep tormentedly against the pane
Of these dear rooms, these dear, dear rooms of mine!
“For these rooms are my liberty; they are wholly
Sacred and secret to my soul and me.
I have fled to them from the melancholy
Whirl of the sick world's phantom gaiety.
Too long I have been like a leaf of Fall
With mournful haste from revel to revel whirled.
But now I am the happiest heart of all!
I have regained my freedom from the world!
“How much I wish that you could see my rooms!
They are high in an old house, with lofty walls
And mullioned windows. There are gentle glooms
Across them when the evening sunlight falls
Golden out of the west most tenderly.
And the great city stretching far below
Grows but a distant doubtful dream to me
Into whose mazes I shall never go.
“Winter is passing by me; soon the Spring
Will make these skies a sapphire bubble clear. . . .
I wonder if its new-born life will bring
You by some miracle to see me here?
You must, you must! I will put on my best,
And be your guide through each minute, divine
Cranny and corner of this tower of rest,
These wonderful belovèd rooms of mine.
“Tonight I have so much to say
To you, you only; so much more
Than ever on any other day
To any mortal soul before.
But you are far from me. . . . I fear
My pen is impotent and dumb …
So much to say—and you not here!
Oh! will it last until you come?” …
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