Part 10 (1/2)

And the words of the letter flash and die like a fuse Dampened by rain--it's a dying mind that writes What Byron did for the Greeks against the Turks.

And a sickness enters our hearts. The jewelled hands Clutch at the arms of the chairs--about the room One hears the parting of lips, and a nervous s.h.i.+fting Of feet and arms.

And I look up and over The reader's shoulder and see the name of the writer.

What is it I see? The name of a man I knew!

You are an ironical trickster, Time, to bring After so many years and into a place like this This face before me: hair slicked down and parted In the middle and cheeks stuck out with fatness, Plump from camembert and clicquot, eyelids Thin as skins of onions, cut like dough 'round the eyes.

Such was your look in a photograph I saw In a silver frame on a woman's dresser--and such Your look in life, you thing of flesh alone!

And then As a soul looks down on the body it leaves-- A body by fever slain--I look on myself As I was a decade ago, while the letter is read:

I enter a box Of a theater with Jim, my friend of fifty, I being twenty-two. Two women are in the box One of an age for Jim and one of an age for me.

And mine is dressed in a dainty gown of dimity, And she fans herself with a fan of silver spangles Till a subtle odor of delicate powder or of herself Enters my blood and I stare at her snowy neck, And the glossy brownness of her hair until She feels my stare, and turns half-view and I see How like a Greek's is her nose, with just a little Aquiline touch; and I catch the flash of an eye, And the glint of a smile on the richness of her lips.

The company now discourses upon the letter But my dream goes on:

I re-live a rapture Which may be madness, and no man understands Until he feels it no more. The youth that was I From the theater under the city's lights follows the girl Desperate lest in the city's curious chances He never sees her again. And boldly he speaks.

And she and the older woman, her sister Smile and speak in turn, and Jim who stands While I break the ice comes up--and so Arm in arm we go to the restaurant, I in heaven walking with Arabel, And Jim with her older sister.

We drive them home under a summer moon, And while I explain to Arabel my boldness, And crave her pardon for it, Jim, the devil, Laughs apart with her sister while I wonder What Jim, the devil, is laughing at. No matter To-morrow I walk in the park with Arabel.

Just now the reader of the letter Tells of the writer's swift descent From wealth to want.

We are in the park next afternoon by the water.

I look at her white throat full as it were of song.

And her rounded virginal bosom, beautiful!

And I study her eyes, I search to the depths her eyes In the light of the sun. They are full of little rays Like the edge of a fleur de lys, and she smiles At first when I fling my soul at her feet.

But when I repeat I love her, love her only, A cloud of wonder pa.s.ses over her face, She veils her eyes. The color comes to her cheeks.

And when she picks some clover blossoms and tears them Her hand is trembling. And when I tell her again I love her, love her only, she blots her eyes With a handkerchief to hide a tear that starts.

And she says to me: ”You do not know me at all, How can you love me? You never saw me before Last night.” ”Well, tell me about yourself.”

And after a time she tells me the story: About her father who ran away from her mother; And how she hated her father, and how she grieved When her mother died; and how a good grandmother Helped her and helps her now. And how her sister Divorced her husband. And then she paused a moment: ”I am not strong, you'd have to guard me gently, And that takes money, dear, as well as love.

Two years ago I was very ill, and since then I am not strong.”

”Well I can work,” I said.

”And what would you think of a little cottage Not too far out with a yard and hosts of roses, And a vine on the porch, and a little garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, When a morning breeze blows over your brow, And you sit across the table and serve me And neither of us can speak for happiness Without our voices breaking, or lips trembling.”

She is looking down with little frowns on her brow.

”But if ever I had to work, I could not do it, I am not really well.”

”But I can work,” I said.

I rise and lift her up, holding her hand.

She slips her arm through mine and presses it.

”What a good man you are,” she said. ”Just like a brother-- I almost love you, I believe I love you.”

The reader of the letter, being a doctor, Is talking learnedly of the writer's case Which has the cla.s.sical marks of paresis.

Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodize About a cottage with roses and a garden, And a dining room where the sun comes in, And Arabel across the table. Jim is smoking And flicking the ashes, but never says a word Till I have finished. Then in a quiet voice: ”Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight, But she isn't, my boy--she's just like Arabel's sister.

She knew you had the madness for Arabel.

That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked.

And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night, I shook you at the corner and went back, And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy, Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop The cottage and the roses.”