Part 13 (1/2)

Some folk can only thrive in gaol--no nerve To face the risks outside; and never happy Till lagged for life: meals punctual and no cares: And the king for landlord. While I've eaten my head off, You've been a galled jade, fretting for the stable.

Tastes differ: but it's just that you're not my sort Puzzles me why you gave yourself to Jim.

JUDITH: There are no whys and wherefores, when you love.

BELL: I gave myself to Peter, with a difference.

You'd have wed Jim: I just let Peter travel With me, to keep the others from pestering; And scooted him when Michael could manage the sheep.

JUDITH: You never loved him. I loved Jim ...

BELL: A deal Of difference that's made!

JUDITH: More than you can guess.

BELL: Peter stuck longer, tangled in the brambles.

JUDITH: I loved Jim; so, I trusted him.

BELL: But when You found him out?

JUDITH: If you had loved, you'd ken That finding out makes little difference.

There are things in this life you don't understand, For all your ready tongue.

BELL: Ay: men and women I've given up--just senseless marionettes, Jigging and bobbing to the twitching strings: Though I like to fancy I pick my steps, and choose The tunes I dance to; happen, that's my pride; But, choose or not, we've got to pay the piper.

JUDITH: Ay: in your pride, you think you've the best of life.

You're missing more than you reckon, the best of all.

BELL: Well, I've no turn for penal servitude.

But, have you never gabbed to keep your heart up?

What are hats for, if not for talking through?

Pride--we've both pride; yours, hot and fierce, and mine Careless and cold: yet, both came the same cropper-- Not quite ... for you were hurt to death almost: While I picked myself up, scatheless; not a scratch; Only my skirt torn; and it always draggled.

JUDITH: You never cared: I couldn't have borne myself, If I'd not cared: I'd hate myself as much As I've hated Jim, whiles, when I thought of all.

They're mixter-maxter, hate and love: and, often, I've wondered if I loathed, or loved, Jim most.

I understand as little as you, it seems: Yet, it's only caring counts for anything In this life; though it's caring's broken me.

BELL: It stiffens some. But, why take accidents So bitterly? It's all a rough-and-tumble Of accidents, from the accident of birth To the last accident that lays us out-- A go-as-you-please, and the devil take the hindmost.

It's pluck that counts, and an easy seat in the saddle: Better to break your neck at the first ditch, Than waste the day in seeking gates to slip through: Cold-blooded crawlers I've no sort of use for.

You took the leap, and landed in the quickset: But, at least, you leapt sky-high, before you tumbled: And it's silly to lie moaning in the p.r.i.c.kles: Best pick yourself up sharp, and shake the thorns out, Else the following hoofs will bash you. Give life leave To break your heart, 'twill trample you ...

JUDITH: Leave, say you?

Life takes French-leave: your heart's beneath the hoofs Before ...

BELL: But grin, and keep yourself heartwhole; And you'll find the fun of the fair's in taking chances: It's the uncertainty makes the race--no sport In putting money on dead-certainties.

I back the dark horse; stake my soul against The odds: and I'll not grouse if life should prove A welsher in the end: I'll have had my fling, At least: and yet talk's cheap ...

JUDITH: Ay, cheap.

BELL: Dirt-cheap: Three-shots-a-penny; and it's not every time You hit Aunt Sally and get a good cigar, Or even pot a milky coconut: And, all this while, life's had the upper hand: I slipt, the day I came; and lost my grip: Life got me by the scruff of the neck, and held My proud nose to the grindstone. My turn, now-- I'll be upsides with life, and teach it manners, Before death gets the stranglehold: I'll have The last laugh, though it choke me. And what's death, To set us twittering? I'll be no frightened squirrel: Scarting and scolding never yet scared death: When he's a mind to crack me like a nut, I'd be no husk: still ripe and milky, I'd have him Swallow the kernel, and spit out the sh.e.l.l, Before all's shrivelled to black dust. But, tombstones, What's turned my thoughts to death? It's these white walls, After a day in the open. When I came, At first, these four walls seemed to close in on me, As though they'd crush the life out: and I felt I'd die between them: but, after all ... And yet, Who kens what green sod's to be broken for him?

Queer, that I'll lie, like any innocent Beneath the daisies; but the gowans must wait.