The House of Dust; a symphony Part 4

And then she closed her eyes and walked again Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box.

But it was late. No customers were there,-- Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her!

And then--what poison would she dare to ask for?

And if they asked her why, what would she say?

VII. TWO LOVERS: OVERTONES

Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, Two lovers blow together like music blowing: And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.

Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.

'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh, They look at the great clock's golden hands, They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: Only, their words like music seem to play; And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands.

'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars Down the smooth heaven of her memory.

She stands again by a garden wall, The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, Water sings from an opened tap, the bees Glisten and murmur among the trees.

Someone calls from the house. She does not answer.

Backward she leans her head, And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough She sees an infinite May sky spread A vault profoundly blue.

The voice from the house fades far away, The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . .

The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . .

Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . '

She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know She smiles from long ago . . .

She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him Roars like a vast invisible sea, Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; He is released of weight, his body is free, He lifts his arms to swim, Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . .

The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach With a whirring sound like wind in bells, He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands Reaching his lazy hands Among the golden grains and sea-white sh.e.l.ls . . .

'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?'

They pause and smile, not caring what they say, If only they may talk.

The crowd flows past them like dividing waters.

Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk.

'Pink,--to-day!'--Face turns to dream-bright face, Green leaves rise round them, suns.h.i.+ne settles upon them, Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose.

She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror.

She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . .

Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: Time, like a flurry of rain, Patters and pa.s.ses, starring the window-pane.

Once, long ago, one night, She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . .

'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows.

'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight!

Look how the tower is changed and glows!'

Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pa.s.s; A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; We tremble like wind-blown gra.s.s.

What was this dream we had, a dream of music, Music that rose from the opening earth like magic And shook its beauty upon us and died away?

The long cold streets extend once more before us.

The red sun drops, the walls grow grey.

VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES

Well,--it was two days after my husband died-- Two days! And the earth still raw above him.

And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall.

In number four--the room with the red wall-paper-- Some chorus girls and men were singing that song 'They'll soon be lighting candles Round a box with silver handles'--and hearing them sing it I started to cry. Just then he came along And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down Where I was leaning against the wall, And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . .

And I was so sad, thinking about it,-- Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,-- That I was happy to have him sympathize, To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried.

And before I knew it, he got me into a room Where a table was set, and no one there, And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, And talked to me, telling me not to cry, That it was all right, he'd look after me,-- But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, That when he turned my face between his hands, And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me-- Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started.

For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief Had pa.s.sed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it-- And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain!

And so we sat and talked, not talking much, But meaning as much in silence as in words, There in that empty room with palms about us, That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there I felt my future changing, day by day, With unknown streets opening left and right, New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,-- And thinking of this, and through it half remembering A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,-- It seemed as if my brain would break in two.

My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, And told him I must go, and said good-night-- I couldn't see the end. How would it end?

Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not?

And did I want him to--or would I rather Look for another job?--He took my shoulders Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, That would have--well, I don't know; but he didn't . .

And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, Hoping to close the door before that party In number four should sing that song again-- 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'-- And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness.

And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy.

IX. INTERLUDE

The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, The hours go silently over our lifted faces, We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea.

Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together.

We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee.

We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, We read the papers for tales of l.u.s.t or crime.

The door swings shut behind the latest comer.

We set our watches, regard the time.

What have we done? I close my eyes, remember The great machine whose sinister brain before me Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat.

My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster.

I dropped great beams to the dusty street.

My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale.

I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace.

Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail.

Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, These walls whose windows gap against the sky, Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble Will build a glittering tower before we die . . .

The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, The young girl hums beneath her breath.

One goes out to beauty, and does not know it.

And one goes out to death.

X. SUDDEN DEATH

'Number four--the girl who died on the table-- The girl with golden hair--'

The purpling body lies on the polished marble.

We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . .

One, who held the ether-cone, remembers Her dark blue frightened eyes.

He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast More hurriedly fall and rise.

Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,-- And, suddenly, she lay dead.

And all the dreams that hurried along her veins Came to the darkness of a sudden wall.