PART II
Mountebank Carves His Puppet of Wood
HE CONCEIVES HIS PUPPET TO BE STRUGGLING WITH A NET
1
As evening fell, and Punch crept out of the wood
And saw the valley before him (like my life,
Stretched out before me, waiting there? he thought)
And saw the sun go melting redly down
Behind bare oaks, and the long shadows, fanlike,
Whirling across the quiet fields, he pondered
On the simplicity, the tranquil beauty, even,
Of morning, twilight, afternoon, or noon,—
So clear by contrast to the nagging jangle
Of his own days! . . . Dry branches caught his feet,
The snapping of them teased his brain to folly,
He clawed at cobwebs that wiped across his cheek,
Inwardly snarled, was maddened, and once more thought,—
Letting his restless eyes rove, seeing nothing,—
His life was a buzzing fly, vainly struggling
To loose weak wings from the glutinous web of fate.
How was it other men could live so simply?
How was it they could love, yet go unscathed,
Walk freely, laugh, and make it all a story?
Or did they lie?—The red sun swelled and sank,
A huge red bubble poised upon the hilltop:
Vermilion clouds flew over it and faded:
The sky, from orange, turned pale green, faint blue;
And the bare boughs of trees, flung up against it,
Frozen and still and black, seemed like great claws.
2
Well, then, if others lied, he too would lie . . .
These faces of the smiling men he knew,
Baker and constable and mayor and hangman,
What did they mean? Were they, as they pretended,
Such gloating misers of illegal riches? . . .
As their imagined faces swam before him,
Ruddy or pale, they seemed to avert their eyes,—
Like those who close their windows to a burglar.
Ah! that was it—they lied. And they, like him,
Walked always warily, for fear of nets,
Ran hard in darkness when they thought none saw them,
And, in their secret chambers, wept for terror.
He laughed at this; because he saw so clearly
On a dark moonless night, along the street,
Half frantic, panting, with his mouth wide open,
The white-faced baker speeding from his shadow.
Yes, they were liars, all,—and he would lie . . .
Although, of course, some things might be accomplished—
Even by him . . . even by him, indeed!—
He picked a stick up, cracked it with his hands,
Smiled at his conscious strength, pressed hard his feet
Into the withered grass, and heard life singing;
Lights came out of the darkened earth like flowers
And swam on the lustrous air . . . they were the lights
Of windows in the village, candles behind them . . .
And as for women . . . but at the thought of women
He thought of Judy only, pale-haired Judy . . .
Judy with wide blue eyes, eternal Judy! . . .
There was a grave for Judy, and he would dig it;
Or had he dug it,—was he digging now,
With every thought?—He paused, with step suspended,
In a cool sort of horror; he seemed to feel
Himself a shovel, used by relentless fate,
To dig that grave . . . was lifted up and thrust,
Lifted again . . . He shivered and then stepped forward,
Seeing the face of Judy eddying down
On a black coiling current into darkness.
This was a kind of madness, and he forbade it.
3
Judy!—Lying beside her in the moonlight
He feigned a sleep, and turned, and through the window
Watched how the crooked moon went slowly up
Among black elm-boughs, driving out the stars.
And here was Judy sleeping so beside him
While fate in him, as in a cup, mixed poison.
Black thoughts, like webs, he softly put around her,
Quietly back and forth. On her white skin,—
The moonlight touched one shoulder, made it dazzle—
He seemed to see these thoughts, like black webs, falling,
Knitting her fast for death . . . And who, above her,
Hung like the bearded spider . . . he, or fate?
And why was she so marked for death at all?
Of course, if he had nerve, as heroes should have,
He'd kill her now,—smother her with a pillow,
Strangle her with his hands, or cut her throat . . .
But thinking this, his lips grew dry, his hands
Weakened, his breath was hurried, he closed his eyes
To shut the hideous room out, known too well,
And all that went with it . . . himself and Judy . . .
How would the baker do it, or the hangman?
Poison? He licked his lips and poured it slowly,
Saw the green bubbles sliding . . . No, not poison . . .
Judy would know, accuse him before she died,
Or what was worse, stare at him, in her writhings,
With new-found horror . . . Darkness closed him in,
No door of light there was, he seemed imprisoned:
Chained and encircled . . . He, himself, was helpless.
All that could help him now was what most bound him—
Fate . . . and fate, as always, seemed just grinning.
The village clock struck suddenly into his musings . . .
Twelve molten golden plummets of slow sound
Plunged heavily downward in a void of silence,
Leaving a surge of air . . . He saw the tombstones
Glistening in the moonlight, ghostly rows,
And felt, as it were, the earth creep up about him . . .
Was he a shovel in the hands of fate,
Digging a grave? Digging a grave for Judy?
Well, it was strange to think that he had loved her—
Perhaps still loved her—yet desired her buried!
When she caressed him next, or stood on tiptoe
To prim her lips for his, he'd think of this;
It would be hard, he thought, to meet her eyes . . .
The moon, by now, had climbed above the elm-tree,—
Swam freely; though black claws reached after it.
The stars hummed round it still, though at a distance.
Would he be ever as free as the moon was, even?
After a while he slept, and in his sleep
Dreamed of a grave that opened,—without shovels.
4
Judy in sunlight combed her hair out slowly,
Tossing her small head backwards. Now her elbows
Flashed in the sun; her blue eyes, in the mirror,
Sought for his eyes, and smiled; the streaming hair
Dazzled him. Yet, desiring so to kill her,
And being afraid, his hatred only hardened,
His hands, that dared not hurt her, could not touch.
Did she perceive this? Did some whisper reach her,
Chilling her blood? She smiled, and went on combing,
The smile died slowly, meeting no smile for answer,
The silence deepened, prolonged, seemed fraught with meanings.
If she could know the dream he had dreamed last night,
Of an earthy grave that dug itself beneath her,
And swallowed her without sound—what would she say?
Laugh for a moment, perplexed, and hide her trouble,—
Or think the thing a trifle?—pat his cheek,
Abuse him, mockingly, for sleeping treason?
He watched her elbows moving, watched the comb
Gliding the golden length of hair, and thought
(First with a start, but after with composure)
If she could only know one instant, clearly,
How much he hated her and wished her dead—
Would she not die, or—even—kill herself?
Just here, half laughing, Judy turned towards him
With something on her lips to say: but seeing
A cold glare in his eyes grew suddenly grave
And cried ‘Why, what's the matter?—’ He, surprised,
Guilty, caught with a red knife in his hands,
Lowered his eyes, and laughed and said ‘Oh, nothing!’;
And left her staring, large-eyed, after him.
Even as he left, his guilt had changed to anger.
Yes, there it was—that everlasting net
Falling upon his brain! He could not move
But it was there before him, softly tangling,
Meshing his hands and eyes. He hated Judy,—
The more because she now intruded on him,
Blundered among his poisons . . . His, or fate's?
He raged a while. The sunlight was detested.
Freedom! Who had the thing? This net came softly
On all he thought and did; desires and hatreds,
These were the fevers of too-mortal flesh,
Insuppressible flesh . . . Why love? Why hate? . . .
Or could one play, with skill, a music on them? . . .
No, not if one was (as he was) a coward . . .
He walked on grass, stared at the intricate blades,
Saw all was interwoven. ‘So my frailties!’
He thought, ‘are interwoven. I am helpless.’
Yet, with a teasing half-smile, he remembered
That though one might not conquer, one might lie.
5
Polly had waited for him by the brook—
Pretending not to. When she saw him coming
She turned her back and sang . . . Confound the girl!
Was she avoiding him, or only teasing?
He stood, half hesitating, looking downward;
Wondered if she had seen him. His flesh quickened,
The blood sang brawling melodies in his brain,
He thought, with lips apart, his chance had come
To do as other men did (if they did)—
Fling prudence to the wind and take his pleasure.
The blood sang ribald melodies in his brain.
His coward heart was hammering at his ribs.
The sky was blue and birds were singing in it,
Polly was singing, sunlight flashed on the water,
And he alone seemed sinister under the sky . . .
Would she resent his hump, make fun of him? . . .
Desire was strong in him, and he stepped downward.
Polly (the witch) played devil's music on him;
Teased at the darker currents of his blood
While seeming not to tease. She chattered, simpered,
Narrowed her black eyes on him in dark questions,
Plucked at her dress with lazy fingers, sighed,
And when she saw the half-cowed tiger rising
Behind his eyes, leered sidelong at his hump
(She knew he watchd) and froze him to the marrow.
Basking in sunlight, somehow she contrived
To strip her body bare,—to lie before him
In naked loveliness: her clothes were vapour,
Her beauty burned them off, her flesh sang through them,
The white skin flashed before him . . . When, half frantic,
With hearing, seeing, feeling such clear music,
And blind with a sudden violence not his own
He flushed, and caught her hand, and tried to kiss her,
She suddenly laughed. ‘Now, hunchback, don't be silly!’
She smoothed her hair, looked at him coldly, frowned,—
Then rose and walked away . . . He felt like crawling.
6
The throbbing music she so played upon him
Grew, in his dream, to a beauty past all bearing!
A bright and baleful light in shafts from heaven
Slanted upon a green hill; trees were shaken,
The leaves flew down upon it and whirled upon it
As if it were a wind; it swept and thrilled him.
There, as he built a wall to keep the sea out,
A mist-white sea that flashed without wave or sound,
She came before him and lifted her hands and laughed,
Naked and fair . . . But just as he leaned to take her
Black webs like rain came ravelling out of the sky,
Fastened upon her, meshed her, bound her helpless,
And whirled her away on air. He woke in horror:
Half doubting if it were Polly after all—;
Half hoping, half believing, it might be Judy.
7
Waking from this his life seemed somehow changed! . . .
His body was light; the air seemed singing about him,
Moonlight roared through the elm-trees like a river,
The trees seemed ready to walk; even the houses
Seemed only to pause on earth for a moment, ready
To tilt on the stellar air and soar away.
Bewitched again! this time by Polly Prim.
He desired to dance, and sat up straight in bed
With gnomes and elves cavorting in his brain;
And then he remembered how absurd he was,
And felt his hump, and the stiffness of his legs.
Well,—whatever the outcome,—this was music,—
Spring with a million green leaves glistened in him:
His hate of Judy rose in a smoke of laughter . . .
Whether she lived or died he could avoid her—
Why waste his thoughts upon her? Love was better.
And was it sure the girl was laughing at him?
Had he, in fact, seemed so ridiculous?
One instant, he was hot with a throbbed confusion,
His hands were tight. He heard her laughing coldly,
Saw the clear devilish eyes, and felt like crawling . . .
With a slight turn and shrug, though, these reflections
Vanished . . . He felt instead her cool skin touch him,
And saw himself, the next time at the inn,
Winking, slapping his knee, and confiding slyly
To the baker or the hangman how he, Punch,
(Despite his ugliness—so all too obvious!)
Had half seduced that Polly Prim already,—
Boldly touched her knee with his hand, and kissed her,—
In fact, could have the rest of her for the asking! . . .
Warm preludes started murmurings in his brain.
8
‘No doubt’ (he thought) ‘this web is still around me;
But Polly weaves it now, and so it glistens,
It sings about me, I can dance within it . . .’
He put his hands out, thinking he might feel it
Shimmering on the air. If net this was
It was a pleasant net, and well worth having.
Wherever it touched it burned . . . He walked within it,
Remembering, with a bland astonishment,
How he had railed so, railed at hell and heaven,
For spreading snares for him. . . And here was Polly!
Polly, with sombre hair,—and pale hands lifted
To play such music on him!—Feeling this,
(As, swimming, one might feel the cool of water
In streaks and whorls translucent flowing round him,
With a slight seethe of bubbles,) he walked gaily,
Forgetting much. Blue days like flowers gigantic
Opened above his head, flashed far above him,
Were slowly closed. Birds hung suspended in them,
Burned in the blue, revolved, or lazily sailed,
Glided away, were lost. Faint voices thrilled him
Seeming to echo voices once familiar
Now half-forgotten, vague, and strange in meaning . . .
The moon itself,—(blown like a silver bubble
In the blue air)—seemed but an idle symbol
Of time and fate, as idle. It passed slowly,
Merged in a foam of cloud, was softly lost . . .
Bound as a victim in such web of music,
Spun to his end in skeins of sound like fire—
This fate was sweet! It hardly seemed like fate . . .
Thinking these things, and always seeing Polly
Dancing before him in a clear depth of sunlight
(Uncaptured yet—he shivered—) he kissed Judy
And touched her arm, and smiled, and never winced . . .
He had forgotten, now, his dream of shovels.
9
One morning, meeting Judy on the stairway,
He noticed,—for the first time,—something strange:
She eyed him palely, raised one hand, seemed shrinking
Faintly upon herself to let him pass . . .
Some threat there was in this—he went more slowly,
Probing that look . . . What was the woman thinking? . . .
It was as if, in some way, death were in her
And looked out through her eyes. It was as if
He had glanced in through the open door of a tomb
And seen cold shadow there . . . Was Judy planning
The death which he himself, in thought, had hoped for?
Terror came down upon him, his feet were heavy,
The sunlight darkened, he suddenly saw his fate
(That fate which he himself had set in motion!)
Moving with sinister speed, looming above him,
Roaring among his trees!—His hands fell weak,
His cowardly eyes found nothing they could look at,
He sat among withered leaves . . . Judy was dying!
Judy was killing herself! Judy was dead!
The leaves flew round his feet, dust whirled among them,
The sun went over the sky, and swelled and sank,
The hours were struck, all things went on, resistless,
And he was whirled along with them . . . Well, truly,
Had he desired her dead, or hinted at it? . . .
Had he been murderous, even in words? . . .
Had he looked at her with a look of hatred? . . .
When he found heart at length, and slowly limped
Across grey fields, and saw the house, it seemed
Quietly changed. It seemed to keep a secret.
Its secret lay on the kitchen floor, in darkness.
He held a light above her, stared, was speechless.
Judy had taken poison and was dead.
10
Polly, upon his anguished summons, came
To dress his Judy, lay her out in satin,
And spend the night. He sat, and heard her moving,
Moving to and fro in the room above him,
Pulling the curtains down, opening drawers:
Moving, when she remembered to, on tiptoe . . .
What was she doing, all this time, up there? . . .
He wished the floor were glass, that he might see her . . .
And Judy lying there! He thought of Polly,
Living—and Judy, dead. This living body,
Turning there in the presence of the dead,
Bending above it, touching it with warm hands,
Rising to move away, with clear dark eyes—
Its beauty dazzled him; his flesh was quickened,
The blood sang teasing melodies in his brain,
Provoked a silent cry. Where was he drifting?
Where was he—rather—being swept, and helpless?
A gesture of struggle passed like a ghost before him,
He sank back weakly, knowing his efforts useless;
And hearing the soft steps ring once more above him
Surrendered to their music. Flares of pain
Rose in his heart, but through the pain that music
Steadily sang . . . He knew himself most ugly,
And closed his eyes for a moment not to see it.
Red-faced, lascivious, hump-backed, and a coward!
Where the strings pulled, he moved. He was a puppet.
When all was still—(still pond and no more moving!—
The phrase flew into his mind and laughed at him)
He went upstairs to bed; and the dread thing happened.
Faint fragrance stirred on the quiet air. At first
He heard no sound. He found his door and opened,
And stood there, silent. And as he stood there, trembling,
(Or was he shivering? for the air was cool)
Thinking how gross he was, how red and ugly,
And wondering if he dared to do this thing,—
With Judy lying dead, there, in her room;
Or if he had the courage; well, just then,
Polly came into the hall, and smiled at him,
Combing her hair . . . She combed her hair and smiled,
Lazily smiled, tilting her dark head backward,
Bending her smooth white arms. He stood transfixed . . .
Slow savage chords throbbed in his brain: his mouth
Too dry for speech, his feet too weak for moving . . .
‘What is it?’ Polly asked. His smile was foolish.
He did not know what answer was intended,—
Whether she knew what music clashed within him,
Pretending not to hear it (hearing perhaps
The same great cymbals in her own dark veins)
Or whether, if she knew, she only teased him,—
And hearing him confess, would feign a horror! . . .
He was afraid . . . ‘Judy is dead’ (he thought)
‘I am alone . . .’ he raised his hands to his eyes,
Pretending a wave of grief. Polly, at this,
Came to him quickly, stood before him, touched him . . .
‘Now don't be foolish!’—He looked up, saw her smile,
(That slow soft smile again! What did it mean?)
And as he looked she took a slight step backward . . .
Silence came down upon them. He felt a net
Falling between them. He desired to move, to break it,
To touch her warm white body that sang before him,
But could not stir. If he could lift his hand—
What could prevent his touching her arms, her hair,
Her round white throat? . . . Then, as the silence deepened,
Smiling a little again, she walked back slowly,
Paused at her doorway—or seemed to pause—one instant,
To gleam through narrowed eyelids darkly at him,—
And softly closed her door . . . What did she mean? . . .
Should he go after her—knock at the door? . . .
The loud blood hammered and swelled against his temples,
Desire and fear confused him. He stood helpless.
He entered his room, sank wearily on his bed,
Stared through the window at a night of starlight
And cursed his fate; and all about was silence . . .
Judy herself was not more dead than he.
11
‘Is this the house where Judy lived?’
‘Yes,—long ago.’
‘The house where Judy lived and died?’
‘Ah! . . . long ago.’ . . .
He lay in the dark. Why did this idiot jingle
Keep running in his head? What did it mean?
Had he grown old already?—He clutched the pillow
And looked out through the pale blue square of window
Between black twisted branches at the stars.
Yes. There they were, just as they were before,
Silver and blue and green and twinkling crimson,
Yellow and white . . . they danced and laughed and trembled
Pirouetted and sang, yet never moved.
And there was Judy, dead, in a darkened room,
Never to comb her hair again, or, laughing
Run down the stairs, or snap the stems of violets. . .
And here was he, hump-backed and red and bestial,
Driving her through his thoughts; and there was Polly
Sleeping,—or lying awake, perhaps, to smile!
He watched a thin bough, thrust against his window,
Dipping upon the air against the stars
As if it caught them and let them go again . . .
It was a claw. Fate itself was a claw.
His life was full of claws. He was a shovel
Held in such claws . . . and made to dig a grave,
A grave for Judy. And there was Judy waiting . . .
Or was it himself had died and would be buried? . . .
The earth piled up above him, he could not breathe.
‘Is this the house where Judy lived?’
‘Yes—long ago.’
‘The house where Judy lived and died?’
‘Ah!—long ago.’
12
Polly, he thought,was lying in her room
Stretched out upon the white bed, straight and slender;
Her long dark hair spread out upon the pillow.
Perhaps she lay awake still, gazing vaguely
Down that white length, and through the tall blue window
At these same stars . . . perhaps she turned her head
And lazily closed her eyes, to shut them out . . .
These thoughts played through his mind like a melody,—
Glissandos, shimmering downward from the treble
Sharply to crash among deep chords of passion . . .
And through these tones the thought of Judy came
Like freezing silence . . . Judy! . . . Judy! . . . Judy! . . .
What did the word mean? What had it ever stood for? . . .
Judy lying alone in a darkened room,
Her eyelids closed, her hands upon her breast!
If she could rise, and live again,—he'd hate her . . .
But dead? . . . He closed his eyes, and in the darkness
That roiled his mind ran fast through a wind of voices . . .
If he had killed her it had been unwitting.
13
Unravelling in his dream from vague beginnings,
Like a melody evolved from muttered tunings,
These things grew strange in size. Against a wall
Quivering in a light's unsteady yellow,
A shadow fell; and Polly stood before him
Naked and fair. He moved and caught and kissed her,
She half averted her face, she strained away,
Delirium fused his veins. Then down the stairs,
Bringing a sort of darkness as they came,
He heard the steps of Judy ring,—each step
Spreading a darkness and reverberating.
Polly was gone. He trembled, he desired to hide,
He stood by the wall. . . When Judy came at last,
Standing before him suddenly,—warm and young,—
He saw that she was pregnant; and remorse
Stifled his heart. Ashamed and shy and awkward
He hesitated towards her, touched her, kissed her,
Said (what he had not said so long) ‘I love you!’—;
Then leaned against the wall and cried like a child.
She looked at him surprised,—and tenderly,—
And slowly walked away.
Later, his dream
(But after he had waked and stared in anguish
At the dark ceiling above him, vaguely white)
Brought him a hidden sound of Polly's laughter,
The clear notes blown from nowhere. There he seemed
To run from some one, some one with a knife—
The constable?—he did not turn to see,
But ran; till suddenly, thinking he was safe,
He saw the man before him in a chair
With his back turned; and stabbed him, then, and killed him
As the man moved his head to look, he woke.
14
He walked in a rain to see his Judy buried.
The sky was filled with the slanting spears of rain,
Grey spears of rain. Over the tops of trees
Whistled the wind-torn clouds. The ruts were gleaming,
Puddles were ringed and rippled. At the churchyard
They found the grave already dug, raw earth
Heaped up beside it, pitted and dark with rain.
This was the last injustice! This was monstrous.
They lowered the coffin awkwardly into the grave,
On the bare resonant boards that hid his Judy
The rain drummed monotones, wet earth was shovelled;
And suddenly, able to bear the thing no longer,
He turned his back, stared at the rain-lashed grass,
And saw how cruel was life. The church-bell tolled,
The tones were whirled away as soon as struck,
Tumbled upon the wind, and lost in rain,
Or beaten down to the ground. Among worn grass-blades
Rain-bubbles winked and ran with delicate seething,
Bare trees whipped in the wind . . . the day was madness.
Dusk fell. He crossed the fields alone. His house
Looked old and cold and small and time-forgotten.
‘Is this the house where Judy lived?’
‘Yes,—long ago. . .’
‘The house where Judy lived and died?’
‘Ah!—long ago.’
He thrust the door, stood in the silent hallway,
And heard no sound save whir and splash of rain
And tick of clocks; alone and loud and foolish
In the slow mouldering and decay of time.
15
Through the tall window, on the brown curve of the hill,
He watched pale silvery arrows of rain descending;
Slow long arpeggios thrilled and chimed in his heart.
The soft drops brushed on the window and were muted.
The grey-white sky above him whirled with rain.
‘Well, then . . . if Polly refused me . . . Judy tricked me . . .
But did they now,—or did I misinterpret? . . .
No! I should wrong myself if I should think so . . .
Have I not half seduced the girl already?
Did I not . . . kill the other?’—Thinking this
He seemed to feel that horrible net once more,
But thrust it harshly aside. ‘No, I am free:
No man or law or fate can change my purpose,
No god defeat my will! If, on that hillside,
Old Nick himself, and Doctor Faustus with him,
Should spread the world before me, for my soul—
Setting before me Venus with bright hair,
Towers of silver, walls inlaid with sapphires,—
I should refuse. No fate shall take my soul! . . .
And where is she so proud, who, to my cunning,
Shall not surrender her crown, her heart, and all? . . .’
He was tired, he bowed his head; and in a dream
The Queen of Sheba smiled on a throne before him,
A far faint clashing of music reached his ears,
A ghostly pageant of crimson shimmered and smouldered
And swayingly died away. . . And death itself
Went dwindling into the grey rain, only pausing
At the sky's edge to lift one menacing arm . . .
Or was it only a gaunt tree, silhouetted,
Flinging a long black branch out, one great claw? . . .
…
The dark dream spread before him, like a valley
Made strange with music. Birds flew upward from it;
Far down flashed moving lights. He closed his eyes
And smiled, and took one step, and then another;
And groping raised his hands. . . The air was warm.
This was the valley of forgetfulness
Where painful thoughts and frustrate deeds would fade . . .
He saw an orange moon rise, strangely large,
Above soft trees. Among the unbroken vineyards
Maenads came out to dance, he heard them singing,
The leaves swished back behind them, laughter descended
This was the valley of love and lawlessness;
Where thirst was quenched, with no satiety,
And flesh and stream and tree were all immortal.
Cymbals softly clashed in the moonlit forest
Far down before him, the undulant air was fragrant
With flight of ghostly roses; out of the silence, voices
Rose faint and clear. . . He slowly descended the hill.
HE IMAGINES THAT HIS PUPPET HAS A DARK DREAM AND HEARS VOICES
First Voice
Pave the sky with stars for Punch!
And snare in flowers a moon for him
With white rose-trees and apple trees
And cherubim and seraphim!
Second Voice
Look! he comes! how tall he is!
A crown of fire is on his head;
The sky unrolls before his feet,
Green mountains fear his tread.
The meteors now like dolphins dive
Into the white wave of the sky,
Blue moons and stars around him sing
And suns triumphant cry!
Third Voice
Build a house of gold for Punch,
Of gold without and silk within,
With floors of glass, and let there be
For ever there a silver din
Of music's many instruments
In slow and low amazement heard:
In every window-niche a cage,
In every cage a singing-bird.
Build it in a kingdom far;
In a forest green and deep;
Where no tears nor sorrows are,
But only song and sleep.
There to the noise of wind in trees
And many rivers winding down,
Let him forget the cares of earth
And nod a kingly crown!
Fourth Voice
Like a tower of brass is Punch,
And great and stately is his pace;
There is no other as tall as he,—
None with so fair a face.
Fall down, fall down, you kings of men,
Fall down before him! This is he
For whom the moon pursues her ghost
And demons bend the knee.
Woe unto you, you miscreants
Who dare the lightnings of his eyes!
His hand, how strong! His wrath, how just!
His brow, how white and wise!
Fifth Voice
Solomon, clown, put by your crown,
And Judas, break your tree:
Seal up your tomb and burn your cross,
Jesus of Galilee!
For here walks one who makes you seem
But atoms that creep in grass;
You are the pageant of his dream,
And he will bid you pass.
Let Rome go over the earth in gold
With trumpets harshly blown!
For here comes one whose splendour burns
More gloriously, alone.
Heliogabalus, laugh your last!
Queen Sappho, lie you down!
Punch the immortal shakes the seas
And takes the sun for crown.
Sixth Voice
Sheba, now let down your hair,
And play upon it with your hands,
While girls from Tal and Mozambique
Parade before in sarabands,—
Play him songs inaudible
With white hands braceleted and slim,
Or shake your hair and let it fall
And softly darken him.
Cling to him, while cymbals far
Are sweetly smitten in the dusk,
And maenads, under a haughty star,
Break the white rose for its musk:
Cling to him, and with your lips
Feed his heart on crumbs of fire
That shall, perpetually, delight,
But never slay desire!
Seventh Voice
Open a window on the world
With all its sorrow, and then
When he has heard that sound a space,
Close it fast again. . .
Sweet will it be, lapped round with ease
And music-troubled air,
To hear for a moment on the wind
A sound of far despair:
And then, to turn to lights again,
And fingers soft on strings,
While Sheba slips her bracelets off
And spreads her arms and sings. . .
Sweet will it be, to hear far off
That gusty sound of pain,
And to remember, far away,
A world of death and rain:
And then, to close the window fast,
And laugh, and clap soft hands,
While girls from Tal and Mozambique
Parade in sarabands. . .
Close now the window! Close it well! . . .
That slow lament of pain
Was but the dissonance that makes
Dull music sweet again.
Eighth Voice
Death, you will wear a chain of gold,
And wreaths of roses white and red,
And nightlong will you dance for him
With garlands on your head.
Bring a cup and pour him wine,
And dance for him; for this is he
Who plays a jocund tune for you
But will not set you free.
Or go with thongs to scourge the world
And lay it waste; and then come back
To sorrow before him in a cage
And garb yourself in black.
A cage of gold he keeps for you! . . .
There he will watch you dance,
And fill his cup, immortally,
And laugh at circumstance.
Ninth Voice
There is a fountain in a wood
Where wavering lies a moon:
It plays to the slowly falling leaves
A sleepy tune.
. . . The peach-trees lean upon a wall
Of gold and ivory:
The peacock spreads his tail, the leaves
Fall silently. . .
There, amid silken sounds and wine
And music idly broken,
The drowsy god observes his world
With no word spoken.
Arcturus, rise! Orion, fall! . . .
The white-winged stars obey . . .
Or else he greets his Fellow-God;
And there, in the dusk, they play
A game of chess with stars for pawns
And a silver moon for queen:
Immeasurable as clouds above
A chess-board world they lean,
And thrust their hands amid their beards,
And utter words profound
That shake the star-swung firmament
With a fateful sound! . . .
. . . The peach-trees lean upon a wall
Of gold and ivory;
The peacock spreads his tail; the leaves
Fall silently. . .
Mountebank Carves His Puppet of Wood
HE CONCEIVES HIS PUPPET TO BE STRUGGLING WITH A NET
1
As evening fell, and Punch crept out of the wood
And saw the valley before him (like my life,
Stretched out before me, waiting there? he thought)
And saw the sun go melting redly down
Behind bare oaks, and the long shadows, fanlike,
Whirling across the quiet fields, he pondered
On the simplicity, the tranquil beauty, even,
Of morning, twilight, afternoon, or noon,—
So clear by contrast to the nagging jangle
Of his own days! . . . Dry branches caught his feet,
The snapping of them teased his brain to folly,
He clawed at cobwebs that wiped across his cheek,
Inwardly snarled, was maddened, and once more thought,—
Letting his restless eyes rove, seeing nothing,—
His life was a buzzing fly, vainly struggling
To loose weak wings from the glutinous web of fate.
How was it other men could live so simply?
How was it they could love, yet go unscathed,
Walk freely, laugh, and make it all a story?
Or did they lie?—The red sun swelled and sank,
A huge red bubble poised upon the hilltop:
Vermilion clouds flew over it and faded:
The sky, from orange, turned pale green, faint blue;
And the bare boughs of trees, flung up against it,
Frozen and still and black, seemed like great claws.
2
Well, then, if others lied, he too would lie . . .
These faces of the smiling men he knew,
Baker and constable and mayor and hangman,
What did they mean? Were they, as they pretended,
Such gloating misers of illegal riches? . . .
As their imagined faces swam before him,
Ruddy or pale, they seemed to avert their eyes,—
Like those who close their windows to a burglar.
Ah! that was it—they lied. And they, like him,
Walked always warily, for fear of nets,
Ran hard in darkness when they thought none saw them,
And, in their secret chambers, wept for terror.
He laughed at this; because he saw so clearly
On a dark moonless night, along the street,
Half frantic, panting, with his mouth wide open,
The white-faced baker speeding from his shadow.
Yes, they were liars, all,—and he would lie . . .
Although, of course, some things might be accomplished—
Even by him . . . even by him, indeed!—
He picked a stick up, cracked it with his hands,
Smiled at his conscious strength, pressed hard his feet
Into the withered grass, and heard life singing;
Lights came out of the darkened earth like flowers
And swam on the lustrous air . . . they were the lights
Of windows in the village, candles behind them . . .
And as for women . . . but at the thought of women
He thought of Judy only, pale-haired Judy . . .
Judy with wide blue eyes, eternal Judy! . . .
There was a grave for Judy, and he would dig it;
Or had he dug it,—was he digging now,
With every thought?—He paused, with step suspended,
In a cool sort of horror; he seemed to feel
Himself a shovel, used by relentless fate,
To dig that grave . . . was lifted up and thrust,
Lifted again . . . He shivered and then stepped forward,
Seeing the face of Judy eddying down
On a black coiling current into darkness.
This was a kind of madness, and he forbade it.
3
Judy!—Lying beside her in the moonlight
He feigned a sleep, and turned, and through the window
Watched how the crooked moon went slowly up
Among black elm-boughs, driving out the stars.
And here was Judy sleeping so beside him
While fate in him, as in a cup, mixed poison.
Black thoughts, like webs, he softly put around her,
Quietly back and forth. On her white skin,—
The moonlight touched one shoulder, made it dazzle—
He seemed to see these thoughts, like black webs, falling,
Knitting her fast for death . . . And who, above her,
Hung like the bearded spider . . . he, or fate?
And why was she so marked for death at all?
Of course, if he had nerve, as heroes should have,
He'd kill her now,—smother her with a pillow,
Strangle her with his hands, or cut her throat . . .
But thinking this, his lips grew dry, his hands
Weakened, his breath was hurried, he closed his eyes
To shut the hideous room out, known too well,
And all that went with it . . . himself and Judy . . .
How would the baker do it, or the hangman?
Poison? He licked his lips and poured it slowly,
Saw the green bubbles sliding . . . No, not poison . . .
Judy would know, accuse him before she died,
Or what was worse, stare at him, in her writhings,
With new-found horror . . . Darkness closed him in,
No door of light there was, he seemed imprisoned:
Chained and encircled . . . He, himself, was helpless.
All that could help him now was what most bound him—
Fate . . . and fate, as always, seemed just grinning.
The village clock struck suddenly into his musings . . .
Twelve molten golden plummets of slow sound
Plunged heavily downward in a void of silence,
Leaving a surge of air . . . He saw the tombstones
Glistening in the moonlight, ghostly rows,
And felt, as it were, the earth creep up about him . . .
Was he a shovel in the hands of fate,
Digging a grave? Digging a grave for Judy?
Well, it was strange to think that he had loved her—
Perhaps still loved her—yet desired her buried!
When she caressed him next, or stood on tiptoe
To prim her lips for his, he'd think of this;
It would be hard, he thought, to meet her eyes . . .
The moon, by now, had climbed above the elm-tree,—
Swam freely; though black claws reached after it.
The stars hummed round it still, though at a distance.
Would he be ever as free as the moon was, even?
After a while he slept, and in his sleep
Dreamed of a grave that opened,—without shovels.
4
Judy in sunlight combed her hair out slowly,
Tossing her small head backwards. Now her elbows
Flashed in the sun; her blue eyes, in the mirror,
Sought for his eyes, and smiled; the streaming hair
Dazzled him. Yet, desiring so to kill her,
And being afraid, his hatred only hardened,
His hands, that dared not hurt her, could not touch.
Did she perceive this? Did some whisper reach her,
Chilling her blood? She smiled, and went on combing,
The smile died slowly, meeting no smile for answer,
The silence deepened, prolonged, seemed fraught with meanings.
If she could know the dream he had dreamed last night,
Of an earthy grave that dug itself beneath her,
And swallowed her without sound—what would she say?
Laugh for a moment, perplexed, and hide her trouble,—
Or think the thing a trifle?—pat his cheek,
Abuse him, mockingly, for sleeping treason?
He watched her elbows moving, watched the comb
Gliding the golden length of hair, and thought
(First with a start, but after with composure)
If she could only know one instant, clearly,
How much he hated her and wished her dead—
Would she not die, or—even—kill herself?
Just here, half laughing, Judy turned towards him
With something on her lips to say: but seeing
A cold glare in his eyes grew suddenly grave
And cried ‘Why, what's the matter?—’ He, surprised,
Guilty, caught with a red knife in his hands,
Lowered his eyes, and laughed and said ‘Oh, nothing!’;
And left her staring, large-eyed, after him.
Even as he left, his guilt had changed to anger.
Yes, there it was—that everlasting net
Falling upon his brain! He could not move
But it was there before him, softly tangling,
Meshing his hands and eyes. He hated Judy,—
The more because she now intruded on him,
Blundered among his poisons . . . His, or fate's?
He raged a while. The sunlight was detested.
Freedom! Who had the thing? This net came softly
On all he thought and did; desires and hatreds,
These were the fevers of too-mortal flesh,
Insuppressible flesh . . . Why love? Why hate? . . .
Or could one play, with skill, a music on them? . . .
No, not if one was (as he was) a coward . . .
He walked on grass, stared at the intricate blades,
Saw all was interwoven. ‘So my frailties!’
He thought, ‘are interwoven. I am helpless.’
Yet, with a teasing half-smile, he remembered
That though one might not conquer, one might lie.
5
Polly had waited for him by the brook—
Pretending not to. When she saw him coming
She turned her back and sang . . . Confound the girl!
Was she avoiding him, or only teasing?
He stood, half hesitating, looking downward;
Wondered if she had seen him. His flesh quickened,
The blood sang brawling melodies in his brain,
He thought, with lips apart, his chance had come
To do as other men did (if they did)—
Fling prudence to the wind and take his pleasure.
The blood sang ribald melodies in his brain.
His coward heart was hammering at his ribs.
The sky was blue and birds were singing in it,
Polly was singing, sunlight flashed on the water,
And he alone seemed sinister under the sky . . .
Would she resent his hump, make fun of him? . . .
Desire was strong in him, and he stepped downward.
Polly (the witch) played devil's music on him;
Teased at the darker currents of his blood
While seeming not to tease. She chattered, simpered,
Narrowed her black eyes on him in dark questions,
Plucked at her dress with lazy fingers, sighed,
And when she saw the half-cowed tiger rising
Behind his eyes, leered sidelong at his hump
(She knew he watchd) and froze him to the marrow.
Basking in sunlight, somehow she contrived
To strip her body bare,—to lie before him
In naked loveliness: her clothes were vapour,
Her beauty burned them off, her flesh sang through them,
The white skin flashed before him . . . When, half frantic,
With hearing, seeing, feeling such clear music,
And blind with a sudden violence not his own
He flushed, and caught her hand, and tried to kiss her,
She suddenly laughed. ‘Now, hunchback, don't be silly!’
She smoothed her hair, looked at him coldly, frowned,—
Then rose and walked away . . . He felt like crawling.
6
The throbbing music she so played upon him
Grew, in his dream, to a beauty past all bearing!
A bright and baleful light in shafts from heaven
Slanted upon a green hill; trees were shaken,
The leaves flew down upon it and whirled upon it
As if it were a wind; it swept and thrilled him.
There, as he built a wall to keep the sea out,
A mist-white sea that flashed without wave or sound,
She came before him and lifted her hands and laughed,
Naked and fair . . . But just as he leaned to take her
Black webs like rain came ravelling out of the sky,
Fastened upon her, meshed her, bound her helpless,
And whirled her away on air. He woke in horror:
Half doubting if it were Polly after all—;
Half hoping, half believing, it might be Judy.
7
Waking from this his life seemed somehow changed! . . .
His body was light; the air seemed singing about him,
Moonlight roared through the elm-trees like a river,
The trees seemed ready to walk; even the houses
Seemed only to pause on earth for a moment, ready
To tilt on the stellar air and soar away.
Bewitched again! this time by Polly Prim.
He desired to dance, and sat up straight in bed
With gnomes and elves cavorting in his brain;
And then he remembered how absurd he was,
And felt his hump, and the stiffness of his legs.
Well,—whatever the outcome,—this was music,—
Spring with a million green leaves glistened in him:
His hate of Judy rose in a smoke of laughter . . .
Whether she lived or died he could avoid her—
Why waste his thoughts upon her? Love was better.
And was it sure the girl was laughing at him?
Had he, in fact, seemed so ridiculous?
One instant, he was hot with a throbbed confusion,
His hands were tight. He heard her laughing coldly,
Saw the clear devilish eyes, and felt like crawling . . .
With a slight turn and shrug, though, these reflections
Vanished . . . He felt instead her cool skin touch him,
And saw himself, the next time at the inn,
Winking, slapping his knee, and confiding slyly
To the baker or the hangman how he, Punch,
(Despite his ugliness—so all too obvious!)
Had half seduced that Polly Prim already,—
Boldly touched her knee with his hand, and kissed her,—
In fact, could have the rest of her for the asking! . . .
Warm preludes started murmurings in his brain.
8
‘No doubt’ (he thought) ‘this web is still around me;
But Polly weaves it now, and so it glistens,
It sings about me, I can dance within it . . .’
He put his hands out, thinking he might feel it
Shimmering on the air. If net this was
It was a pleasant net, and well worth having.
Wherever it touched it burned . . . He walked within it,
Remembering, with a bland astonishment,
How he had railed so, railed at hell and heaven,
For spreading snares for him. . . And here was Polly!
Polly, with sombre hair,—and pale hands lifted
To play such music on him!—Feeling this,
(As, swimming, one might feel the cool of water
In streaks and whorls translucent flowing round him,
With a slight seethe of bubbles,) he walked gaily,
Forgetting much. Blue days like flowers gigantic
Opened above his head, flashed far above him,
Were slowly closed. Birds hung suspended in them,
Burned in the blue, revolved, or lazily sailed,
Glided away, were lost. Faint voices thrilled him
Seeming to echo voices once familiar
Now half-forgotten, vague, and strange in meaning . . .
The moon itself,—(blown like a silver bubble
In the blue air)—seemed but an idle symbol
Of time and fate, as idle. It passed slowly,
Merged in a foam of cloud, was softly lost . . .
Bound as a victim in such web of music,
Spun to his end in skeins of sound like fire—
This fate was sweet! It hardly seemed like fate . . .
Thinking these things, and always seeing Polly
Dancing before him in a clear depth of sunlight
(Uncaptured yet—he shivered—) he kissed Judy
And touched her arm, and smiled, and never winced . . .
He had forgotten, now, his dream of shovels.
9
One morning, meeting Judy on the stairway,
He noticed,—for the first time,—something strange:
She eyed him palely, raised one hand, seemed shrinking
Faintly upon herself to let him pass . . .
Some threat there was in this—he went more slowly,
Probing that look . . . What was the woman thinking? . . .
It was as if, in some way, death were in her
And looked out through her eyes. It was as if
He had glanced in through the open door of a tomb
And seen cold shadow there . . . Was Judy planning
The death which he himself, in thought, had hoped for?
Terror came down upon him, his feet were heavy,
The sunlight darkened, he suddenly saw his fate
(That fate which he himself had set in motion!)
Moving with sinister speed, looming above him,
Roaring among his trees!—His hands fell weak,
His cowardly eyes found nothing they could look at,
He sat among withered leaves . . . Judy was dying!
Judy was killing herself! Judy was dead!
The leaves flew round his feet, dust whirled among them,
The sun went over the sky, and swelled and sank,
The hours were struck, all things went on, resistless,
And he was whirled along with them . . . Well, truly,
Had he desired her dead, or hinted at it? . . .
Had he been murderous, even in words? . . .
Had he looked at her with a look of hatred? . . .
When he found heart at length, and slowly limped
Across grey fields, and saw the house, it seemed
Quietly changed. It seemed to keep a secret.
Its secret lay on the kitchen floor, in darkness.
He held a light above her, stared, was speechless.
Judy had taken poison and was dead.
10
Polly, upon his anguished summons, came
To dress his Judy, lay her out in satin,
And spend the night. He sat, and heard her moving,
Moving to and fro in the room above him,
Pulling the curtains down, opening drawers:
Moving, when she remembered to, on tiptoe . . .
What was she doing, all this time, up there? . . .
He wished the floor were glass, that he might see her . . .
And Judy lying there! He thought of Polly,
Living—and Judy, dead. This living body,
Turning there in the presence of the dead,
Bending above it, touching it with warm hands,
Rising to move away, with clear dark eyes—
Its beauty dazzled him; his flesh was quickened,
The blood sang teasing melodies in his brain,
Provoked a silent cry. Where was he drifting?
Where was he—rather—being swept, and helpless?
A gesture of struggle passed like a ghost before him,
He sank back weakly, knowing his efforts useless;
And hearing the soft steps ring once more above him
Surrendered to their music. Flares of pain
Rose in his heart, but through the pain that music
Steadily sang . . . He knew himself most ugly,
And closed his eyes for a moment not to see it.
Red-faced, lascivious, hump-backed, and a coward!
Where the strings pulled, he moved. He was a puppet.
When all was still—(still pond and no more moving!—
The phrase flew into his mind and laughed at him)
He went upstairs to bed; and the dread thing happened.
Faint fragrance stirred on the quiet air. At first
He heard no sound. He found his door and opened,
And stood there, silent. And as he stood there, trembling,
(Or was he shivering? for the air was cool)
Thinking how gross he was, how red and ugly,
And wondering if he dared to do this thing,—
With Judy lying dead, there, in her room;
Or if he had the courage; well, just then,
Polly came into the hall, and smiled at him,
Combing her hair . . . She combed her hair and smiled,
Lazily smiled, tilting her dark head backward,
Bending her smooth white arms. He stood transfixed . . .
Slow savage chords throbbed in his brain: his mouth
Too dry for speech, his feet too weak for moving . . .
‘What is it?’ Polly asked. His smile was foolish.
He did not know what answer was intended,—
Whether she knew what music clashed within him,
Pretending not to hear it (hearing perhaps
The same great cymbals in her own dark veins)
Or whether, if she knew, she only teased him,—
And hearing him confess, would feign a horror! . . .
He was afraid . . . ‘Judy is dead’ (he thought)
‘I am alone . . .’ he raised his hands to his eyes,
Pretending a wave of grief. Polly, at this,
Came to him quickly, stood before him, touched him . . .
‘Now don't be foolish!’—He looked up, saw her smile,
(That slow soft smile again! What did it mean?)
And as he looked she took a slight step backward . . .
Silence came down upon them. He felt a net
Falling between them. He desired to move, to break it,
To touch her warm white body that sang before him,
But could not stir. If he could lift his hand—
What could prevent his touching her arms, her hair,
Her round white throat? . . . Then, as the silence deepened,
Smiling a little again, she walked back slowly,
Paused at her doorway—or seemed to pause—one instant,
To gleam through narrowed eyelids darkly at him,—
And softly closed her door . . . What did she mean? . . .
Should he go after her—knock at the door? . . .
The loud blood hammered and swelled against his temples,
Desire and fear confused him. He stood helpless.
He entered his room, sank wearily on his bed,
Stared through the window at a night of starlight
And cursed his fate; and all about was silence . . .
Judy herself was not more dead than he.
11
‘Is this the house where Judy lived?’
‘Yes,—long ago.’
‘The house where Judy lived and died?’
‘Ah! . . . long ago.’ . . .
He lay in the dark. Why did this idiot jingle
Keep running in his head? What did it mean?
Had he grown old already?—He clutched the pillow
And looked out through the pale blue square of window
Between black twisted branches at the stars.
Yes. There they were, just as they were before,
Silver and blue and green and twinkling crimson,
Yellow and white . . . they danced and laughed and trembled
Pirouetted and sang, yet never moved.
And there was Judy, dead, in a darkened room,
Never to comb her hair again, or, laughing
Run down the stairs, or snap the stems of violets. . .
And here was he, hump-backed and red and bestial,
Driving her through his thoughts; and there was Polly
Sleeping,—or lying awake, perhaps, to smile!
He watched a thin bough, thrust against his window,
Dipping upon the air against the stars
As if it caught them and let them go again . . .
It was a claw. Fate itself was a claw.
His life was full of claws. He was a shovel
Held in such claws . . . and made to dig a grave,
A grave for Judy. And there was Judy waiting . . .
Or was it himself had died and would be buried? . . .
The earth piled up above him, he could not breathe.
‘Is this the house where Judy lived?’
‘Yes—long ago.’
‘The house where Judy lived and died?’
‘Ah!—long ago.’
12
Polly, he thought,was lying in her room
Stretched out upon the white bed, straight and slender;
Her long dark hair spread out upon the pillow.
Perhaps she lay awake still, gazing vaguely
Down that white length, and through the tall blue window
At these same stars . . . perhaps she turned her head
And lazily closed her eyes, to shut them out . . .
These thoughts played through his mind like a melody,—
Glissandos, shimmering downward from the treble
Sharply to crash among deep chords of passion . . .
And through these tones the thought of Judy came
Like freezing silence . . . Judy! . . . Judy! . . . Judy! . . .
What did the word mean? What had it ever stood for? . . .
Judy lying alone in a darkened room,
Her eyelids closed, her hands upon her breast!
If she could rise, and live again,—he'd hate her . . .
But dead? . . . He closed his eyes, and in the darkness
That roiled his mind ran fast through a wind of voices . . .
If he had killed her it had been unwitting.
13
Unravelling in his dream from vague beginnings,
Like a melody evolved from muttered tunings,
These things grew strange in size. Against a wall
Quivering in a light's unsteady yellow,
A shadow fell; and Polly stood before him
Naked and fair. He moved and caught and kissed her,
She half averted her face, she strained away,
Delirium fused his veins. Then down the stairs,
Bringing a sort of darkness as they came,
He heard the steps of Judy ring,—each step
Spreading a darkness and reverberating.
Polly was gone. He trembled, he desired to hide,
He stood by the wall. . . When Judy came at last,
Standing before him suddenly,—warm and young,—
He saw that she was pregnant; and remorse
Stifled his heart. Ashamed and shy and awkward
He hesitated towards her, touched her, kissed her,
Said (what he had not said so long) ‘I love you!’—;
Then leaned against the wall and cried like a child.
She looked at him surprised,—and tenderly,—
And slowly walked away.
Later, his dream
(But after he had waked and stared in anguish
At the dark ceiling above him, vaguely white)
Brought him a hidden sound of Polly's laughter,
The clear notes blown from nowhere. There he seemed
To run from some one, some one with a knife—
The constable?—he did not turn to see,
But ran; till suddenly, thinking he was safe,
He saw the man before him in a chair
With his back turned; and stabbed him, then, and killed him
As the man moved his head to look, he woke.
14
He walked in a rain to see his Judy buried.
The sky was filled with the slanting spears of rain,
Grey spears of rain. Over the tops of trees
Whistled the wind-torn clouds. The ruts were gleaming,
Puddles were ringed and rippled. At the churchyard
They found the grave already dug, raw earth
Heaped up beside it, pitted and dark with rain.
This was the last injustice! This was monstrous.
They lowered the coffin awkwardly into the grave,
On the bare resonant boards that hid his Judy
The rain drummed monotones, wet earth was shovelled;
And suddenly, able to bear the thing no longer,
He turned his back, stared at the rain-lashed grass,
And saw how cruel was life. The church-bell tolled,
The tones were whirled away as soon as struck,
Tumbled upon the wind, and lost in rain,
Or beaten down to the ground. Among worn grass-blades
Rain-bubbles winked and ran with delicate seething,
Bare trees whipped in the wind . . . the day was madness.
Dusk fell. He crossed the fields alone. His house
Looked old and cold and small and time-forgotten.
‘Is this the house where Judy lived?’
‘Yes,—long ago. . .’
‘The house where Judy lived and died?’
‘Ah!—long ago.’
He thrust the door, stood in the silent hallway,
And heard no sound save whir and splash of rain
And tick of clocks; alone and loud and foolish
In the slow mouldering and decay of time.
15
Through the tall window, on the brown curve of the hill,
He watched pale silvery arrows of rain descending;
Slow long arpeggios thrilled and chimed in his heart.
The soft drops brushed on the window and were muted.
The grey-white sky above him whirled with rain.
‘Well, then . . . if Polly refused me . . . Judy tricked me . . .
But did they now,—or did I misinterpret? . . .
No! I should wrong myself if I should think so . . .
Have I not half seduced the girl already?
Did I not . . . kill the other?’—Thinking this
He seemed to feel that horrible net once more,
But thrust it harshly aside. ‘No, I am free:
No man or law or fate can change my purpose,
No god defeat my will! If, on that hillside,
Old Nick himself, and Doctor Faustus with him,
Should spread the world before me, for my soul—
Setting before me Venus with bright hair,
Towers of silver, walls inlaid with sapphires,—
I should refuse. No fate shall take my soul! . . .
And where is she so proud, who, to my cunning,
Shall not surrender her crown, her heart, and all? . . .’
He was tired, he bowed his head; and in a dream
The Queen of Sheba smiled on a throne before him,
A far faint clashing of music reached his ears,
A ghostly pageant of crimson shimmered and smouldered
And swayingly died away. . . And death itself
Went dwindling into the grey rain, only pausing
At the sky's edge to lift one menacing arm . . .
Or was it only a gaunt tree, silhouetted,
Flinging a long black branch out, one great claw? . . .
…
The dark dream spread before him, like a valley
Made strange with music. Birds flew upward from it;
Far down flashed moving lights. He closed his eyes
And smiled, and took one step, and then another;
And groping raised his hands. . . The air was warm.
This was the valley of forgetfulness
Where painful thoughts and frustrate deeds would fade . . .
He saw an orange moon rise, strangely large,
Above soft trees. Among the unbroken vineyards
Maenads came out to dance, he heard them singing,
The leaves swished back behind them, laughter descended
This was the valley of love and lawlessness;
Where thirst was quenched, with no satiety,
And flesh and stream and tree were all immortal.
Cymbals softly clashed in the moonlit forest
Far down before him, the undulant air was fragrant
With flight of ghostly roses; out of the silence, voices
Rose faint and clear. . . He slowly descended the hill.
HE IMAGINES THAT HIS PUPPET HAS A DARK DREAM AND HEARS VOICES
First Voice
Pave the sky with stars for Punch!
And snare in flowers a moon for him
With white rose-trees and apple trees
And cherubim and seraphim!
Second Voice
Look! he comes! how tall he is!
A crown of fire is on his head;
The sky unrolls before his feet,
Green mountains fear his tread.
The meteors now like dolphins dive
Into the white wave of the sky,
Blue moons and stars around him sing
And suns triumphant cry!
Third Voice
Build a house of gold for Punch,
Of gold without and silk within,
With floors of glass, and let there be
For ever there a silver din
Of music's many instruments
In slow and low amazement heard:
In every window-niche a cage,
In every cage a singing-bird.
Build it in a kingdom far;
In a forest green and deep;
Where no tears nor sorrows are,
But only song and sleep.
There to the noise of wind in trees
And many rivers winding down,
Let him forget the cares of earth
And nod a kingly crown!
Fourth Voice
Like a tower of brass is Punch,
And great and stately is his pace;
There is no other as tall as he,—
None with so fair a face.
Fall down, fall down, you kings of men,
Fall down before him! This is he
For whom the moon pursues her ghost
And demons bend the knee.
Woe unto you, you miscreants
Who dare the lightnings of his eyes!
His hand, how strong! His wrath, how just!
His brow, how white and wise!
Fifth Voice
Solomon, clown, put by your crown,
And Judas, break your tree:
Seal up your tomb and burn your cross,
Jesus of Galilee!
For here walks one who makes you seem
But atoms that creep in grass;
You are the pageant of his dream,
And he will bid you pass.
Let Rome go over the earth in gold
With trumpets harshly blown!
For here comes one whose splendour burns
More gloriously, alone.
Heliogabalus, laugh your last!
Queen Sappho, lie you down!
Punch the immortal shakes the seas
And takes the sun for crown.
Sixth Voice
Sheba, now let down your hair,
And play upon it with your hands,
While girls from Tal and Mozambique
Parade before in sarabands,—
Play him songs inaudible
With white hands braceleted and slim,
Or shake your hair and let it fall
And softly darken him.
Cling to him, while cymbals far
Are sweetly smitten in the dusk,
And maenads, under a haughty star,
Break the white rose for its musk:
Cling to him, and with your lips
Feed his heart on crumbs of fire
That shall, perpetually, delight,
But never slay desire!
Seventh Voice
Open a window on the world
With all its sorrow, and then
When he has heard that sound a space,
Close it fast again. . .
Sweet will it be, lapped round with ease
And music-troubled air,
To hear for a moment on the wind
A sound of far despair:
And then, to turn to lights again,
And fingers soft on strings,
While Sheba slips her bracelets off
And spreads her arms and sings. . .
Sweet will it be, to hear far off
That gusty sound of pain,
And to remember, far away,
A world of death and rain:
And then, to close the window fast,
And laugh, and clap soft hands,
While girls from Tal and Mozambique
Parade in sarabands. . .
Close now the window! Close it well! . . .
That slow lament of pain
Was but the dissonance that makes
Dull music sweet again.
Eighth Voice
Death, you will wear a chain of gold,
And wreaths of roses white and red,
And nightlong will you dance for him
With garlands on your head.
Bring a cup and pour him wine,
And dance for him; for this is he
Who plays a jocund tune for you
But will not set you free.
Or go with thongs to scourge the world
And lay it waste; and then come back
To sorrow before him in a cage
And garb yourself in black.
A cage of gold he keeps for you! . . .
There he will watch you dance,
And fill his cup, immortally,
And laugh at circumstance.
Ninth Voice
There is a fountain in a wood
Where wavering lies a moon:
It plays to the slowly falling leaves
A sleepy tune.
. . . The peach-trees lean upon a wall
Of gold and ivory:
The peacock spreads his tail, the leaves
Fall silently. . .
There, amid silken sounds and wine
And music idly broken,
The drowsy god observes his world
With no word spoken.
Arcturus, rise! Orion, fall! . . .
The white-winged stars obey . . .
Or else he greets his Fellow-God;
And there, in the dusk, they play
A game of chess with stars for pawns
And a silver moon for queen:
Immeasurable as clouds above
A chess-board world they lean,
And thrust their hands amid their beards,
And utter words profound
That shake the star-swung firmament
With a fateful sound! . . .
. . . The peach-trees lean upon a wall
Of gold and ivory;
The peacock spreads his tail; the leaves
Fall silently. . .
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