Sword Blades and Poppy Seed Part 20

My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins, In half an hour I'll bag the coins.

'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring.

The chase is the thing!

How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moon Dripping down so quietly on it. A tune Is beating out of the curses and screams, And the cracking all through the painted seams.

Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight.

'Tis a rare fine night!

There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down, And the sky s.h.i.+mmers where it hangs over the town.

It seems a shame to break the air In two with this pistol, but I've my share Of drudgery like other men.

His hat? Amen!

Hold up, you beast, now what the devil!

Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil, Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped.

'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped.

A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse!

They'll get me, of course.

The cursed coach will reach the town And they'll all come out, every loafer grown A lion to handcuff a man that's down.

What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat!

I'll give it a head to fit it pat.

Thank you! No cravat.

_They handcuffed the body just for style, And they hung him in chains for the volatile Wind to scour him flesh from bones.

Way out on the moor you can hear the groans His gibbet makes when it blows a gale.

'Tis a common tale._

The Shadow

Paul Jannes was working very late, For this watch must be done by eight To-morrow or the Cardinal Would certainly be vexed. Of all His customers the old prelate Was the most important, for his state Descended to his watches and rings, And he gave his mistresses many things To make them forget his age and smile When he paid visits, and they could while The time away with a diamond locket Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket, And he paid in jewels for his s...o...b..ring kisses.

This watch was made to buy him blisses From an Austrian countess on her way Home, and she meant to start next day.

Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame Of a tallow candle, and became So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince Striking the hour a moment since.

Its echo, only half apprehended, Lingered about the room. He ended s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the little rubies in, Setting the wheels to lock and spin, Curling the infinitesimal springs, Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings Of precious stones lay strewn about.

The table before him was a rout Of splashes and sparks of coloured light.

There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite A heap of emeralds, and steel.

Here was a gem, there was a wheel.

And gla.s.ses lay like limpid lakes s.h.i.+ning and still, and there were flakes Of silver, and shavings of pearl, And little wires all awhirl With the light of the candle. He took the watch And wound its hands about to match The time, then glanced up to take the hour From the hanging clock.

Good, Merciful Power!

How came that shadow on the wall, No woman was in the room! His tall Chiffonier stood gaunt behind His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined, Hung from a peg. The door was closed.

Just for a moment he must have dozed.

He looked again, and saw it plain.

The silhouette made a blue-black stain On the opposite wall, and it never wavered Even when the candle quavered Under his panting breath. What made That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade Of something so lovely, so exquisite, Cast from a substance which the sight Had not been tutored to perceive?

Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.

Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall Gleamed black, and never moved at all.

Paul's watches were like amulets, Wrought into patterns and rosettes; The cases were all set with stones, And wreathing lines, and s.h.i.+ning zones.

He knew the beauty in a curve, And the Shadow tortured every nerve With its perfect rhythm of outline Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine Was the neck he knew he could have spanned It about with the fingers of one hand.

The chin rose to a mouth he guessed, But could not see, the lips were pressed Loosely together, the edges close, And the proud and delicate line of the nose Melted into a brow, and there Broke into undulant waves of hair.

The lady was edged with the stamp of race.

A singular vision in such a place.

He moved the candle to the tall Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall.

He threw his cloak upon a chair, And still the lady's face was there.

From every corner of the room He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom That was the lady. Her violet bloom Was almost brighter than that which came From his candle's tulip-flame.

He set the filigree hands; he laid The watch in the case which he had made; He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed His candle out. The room seemed stuffed With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor, And let himself out through the door.

The sun was flas.h.i.+ng from every pin And wheel, when Paul let himself in.

The whitewashed walls were hot with light.

The room was the core of a chrysolite, Burning and s.h.i.+mmering with fiery might.

The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall From the furniture upon the wall.

Paul sighed as he looked at the empty s.p.a.ce Where a glare usurped the lady's place.

He settled himself to his work, but his mind Wandered, and he would wake to find His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim, And nothing advanced beyond the rim Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day.

But Paul could hardly touch the gold, It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold.

With the first twilight he struck a match And watched the little blue stars hatch Into an egg of perfect flame.

He lit his candle, and almost in shame At his eagerness, lifted his eyes.

The Shadow was there, and its precise Outline etched the cold, white wall.

The young man swore, "By G.o.d! You, Paul, There's something the matter with your brain.

Go home now and sleep off the strain."

The next day was a storm, the rain Whispered and scratched at the window-pane.

A grey and shadowless morning filled The little shop. The watches, chilled, Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals.

The gems lay on the table like shoals Of stranded sh.e.l.ls, their colours faded, Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded.

Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed No orders, for his fancy strayed.

His work became a simple round Of watches repaired and watches wound.

The slanting ribbons of the rain Broke themselves on the window-pane, But Paul saw the silver lines in vain.

Only when the candle was lit And on the wall just opposite He watched again the coming of _it_, Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul And over his hands regain control.

Paul lingered late in his shop that night And the designs which his delight Sketched on paper seemed to be A tribute offered wistfully To the beautiful shadow of her who came And hovered over his candle flame.

In the morning he selected all His perfect jacinths. One large opal Hung like a milky, rainbow moon In the centre, and blown in loose festoon The red stones quivered on silver threads To the outer edge, where a single, fine Band of mother-of-pearl the line Completed. On the other side, The creamy porcelain of the face Bore diamond hours, and no lace Of cotton or silk could ever be Tossed into being more airily Than the filmy golden hands; the time Seemed to tick away in rhyme.

When, at dusk, the Shadow grew Upon the wall, Paul's work was through.

Holding the watch, he spoke to her: "Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir Into one brief sign of being.

Turn your eyes this way, and seeing This watch, made from those sweet curves Where your hair from your forehead swerves, Accept the gift which I have wrought With your fairness in my thought.

Grant me this, and I shall be Honoured overwhelmingly."

The Shadow rested black and still, And the wind sighed over the window-sill.