The House of Dust; a symphony Part 7

They brush me, fade away: like drops of water.

They signify no crime.

Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat.

Dreams--they are madness. Staring eyes--illusion.

Let us return, hear music, and forget . . .

IV. ILLICIT

Of what she said to me that night--no matter.

The strange thing came next day.

My brain was full of music--something she played me--; I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, Urging to restlessness: verging on grief.

I tried to play the tune, from memory,-- But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed And found no resolution--only hung there, And left me morbid . . . Where, then, had I heard it? . . .

What secret dusty chamber was it hinting?

'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . .

A cold clear April evening . . . snow, bedraggled, Rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous gra.s.s . . .

And someone walking alone; and someone saying That all must end, for the time had come to go . . . '

These were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them A greater shadow moved: and in this shadow I stood and guessed . . . Was it the blue-eyed lady?

The one who always danced in golden slippers-- And had I danced with her,--upon this music?

Or was it further back--the unplumbed twilight Of childhood?--No--much recenter than that.

You know, without my telling you, how sometimes A word or name eludes you, and you seek it Through running ghosts of shadow,--leaping at it, Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: Until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, You hear it, see it flash among the branches, And scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it-- Well, it was so I followed down this music, Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars--; Until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, The thing resolved itself: and I remembered An April afternoon, eight years ago-- Or was it nine?--no matter--call it nine-- A room in which the last of sunlight faded; A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; And, she who played the same thing later, playing.

She played this tune. And in the middle of it Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.

'You know--we've got to end this--Miriam loves you . . .

If she should ever know, or even guess it,-- What would she do?--Listen!--I'm not absurd . . .

I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women-- To understand them--which you've never had-- You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . .

Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness That she could neither break it--nor conclude?

It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,-- Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . .

Well, April pa.s.sed with many other evenings, Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . .

And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . .

And after that, when eight deep years had pa.s.sed-- Or nine--we met once more,--by accident . . .

But was it just by accident, I wonder, She played this tune?--Or what, then, was intended? . . .

V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT

The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, Dipping and swirling as the waiter pa.s.ses; You strike a match and stare upon the flame.

The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, And dwindles away as silently as it came.

This melody, you say, has certain voices-- They rise like nereids from a river, singing, Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again.

Wherever you go you bear this river with you: A leaf falls,--and it flows, and you have pain.

So says the tune to you--but what to me?

What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, The violinist who suavely draws his bow?

That man, who folds his paper, overhears it.

A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow.

Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes.

Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows.

A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies.

And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, And the great sea shakes its walls.

And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls This melody once more: 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.'

So says the tune to him--but what to me?

What are the worlds I see?

What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . .

I go my secret way, down secret alleys; My errand is not so simple as it seems.

VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD

This is the house. On one side there is darkness, On one side there is light.

Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns-- O, any number--it will still be night.

And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward To long sonorous halls.

And here is spring forever at these windows, With roses on the walls.

This is her room. On one side there is music-- On one side not a sound.

At one step she could move from love to silence, Feel myriad darkness coiling round.

And here are balconies from which she heard you, Your steady footsteps on the stair.

And here the gla.s.s in which she saw your shadow As she unbound her hair.

Here is the room--with ghostly walls dissolving-- The twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.'

So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!-- Through windy corridors of darkening end.

Here she could stand with one dim light above her And hear far music, like a sea in caverns, Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone.

And here, in a roofless room where it was raining, She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone.

Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her.

Your words were windows,--large enough for moonlight, Too small to let her through.

Your letters--fragrant cloisters faint with music.

The music that a.s.suaged her there was you.

How many times she heard your step ascending Yet never saw your face!

She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, Till silence swept the place.

Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . .

You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken.

A certain rose-leaf--sent without intention-- Became, with time, a woven web of fire-- She wore it, and was warm.

A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, Became, with time, the flas.h.i.+ngs of a storm.

Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you Of secret idols carved in secret chambers From all you did and said.

Nothing was done, until at last she knew you.

Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead.

How did she die?--You say, she died of poison.

Simple and swift. And much to be regretted.