MORTAL SUMMER

MORTAL
SUMMER

by
Mark Van Doren

The Prairie Press
IOWA CITY

Copyright 1953 by Mark Van Doren
Printed in the United States of America

MORTAL SUMMER

I

The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus

On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels

Even then were coming—even then

Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced

Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,

Flying toward the ship all ten would take—

The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids

Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed

And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods

Gazed at each other, wonderful again.

The sweet sleep of centuries was over,

If only as in dream; if only a mortal

Summer woke them out of endless death.

The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly,

Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

“It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered,

Tightening his sandals. “All at once,

And equally, we woke. Apollo there—”

The musical man-slayer listened and frowned—

“And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite

Yawned at the very instant Artemis did,

With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith,

Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others,

Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares,

Scowling, and more quietly in her

The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew,

He found it; and of course in Aphrodite,

Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless

Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs.

“It was not I,” said Hermes.

Thunder sounded,

Weakly and far away. And yet no distance

Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern:

Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven

Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room.

There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners

Of a still greater person, one who changed

The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida.

Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder

Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled

As ever the proud seven, until Hermes

Listened and leaned, then spoke.

“It was the king

Our father. He has willed that we should wander,

Even as in a dream, and be the gods

Of strangers. Somewhere west of the ocean stream

He sends us, to a circle of small hills—

Come, for I see the place!”

That suffered thunder

Sounded again, agreeing; and they went.

Out of the cave they poured, into spring sun

Whose warmth they yet increased, for the falling light

Was less than theirs was, moving as they moved.

No soldier and no shepherd, climbing here,

Would have discovered deity. The brambles

Hid as they ever had this stony hole

Whence seven had been wakened, and where still,

Enormous in dark chains, their parents wept.

Invisible to suns, the seven gathered

Round a white rock and gazed. The sea was there,

The Aegean, and a ship without a sail

Plied southward, trailing smoke; at which Hephaestus

Squinted. Then he slapped his thigh and smiled,

And waved for six to follow as down world

He leapt.

They landed, all of them, as lightly

As a fair flock of gulls upon the prow

Of the tramp Jonathan B. Travis, bound

Tomorrow for Gibraltar, then northwest,

Northwest, both night and day, till the ocean stream

Was conquered. Not a god had ever gone there,

Not one of these high seven, in the old

Dark sail time. Now, invisible to waves,

To men and birds, they watched twelve grimy sailors

Washing their clothes on deck; and wondered still

At the two wakes behind them, foam and funnel.

But who were these arriving, these gaunt three

On giant wings that folded as they fell

And staggered, then stood upright? Even now

Michael had dropped among them, with his archangel

Brethren, bony Gabriel and lank Raphael.

From nearer Asia, lonely a long while,

They had come flying, sick of the desert silence,

Sick of the centuries through which no lord,

No king of the host, had blessed them with command.

As orphaned eagles, missing their ancient’s cry,

They had come hither, hopeful of these seven,

Hopeful of noble company, of new act.

Now on the prow they gathered, and no sailor

Saw them; but Apollo did, and Artemis—

Fingering their bows—as Hermes reared

On tiptoe, smiling welcome. Aphrodite,

Slipping to lee of Ares, feigned a fear

More beautiful than truth was; while Hephaestus,

Curious, near-sighted, fingered those wing-joints

Athene only studied where she stood.

“Whoever you are,” said Hermes, “and whatever—

Pardon this—you were, sail now as we do,

And be the gods of strangers far to west.

If only as in dream the vessel draws us,

Zeus our sire consenting. Your own sire—”

But the three stared so sadly over the waves

That Hermes paused, and beckoning to Gabriel

Whispered with him alone while dolphins played

As lambs do on dry land, and fishes scattered.

Alone to Hermes, while the dolphins heaved

Grey backs above green water, Gabriel murmured:

“Your sire. We had one too. And have Him still,

Though silent. It is listening for his thunder

That leans us. He is busy with new folk,

New, humble folk he speaks to in a low voice.

We have not learned that language—humble words,

With never death or danger in the message.

A star stood still above a stable once,

And a weak infant wept. And there He left us.”

“Our sire,” said Hermes, “—he too sleeps away

Our centuries. We have the selfsame fortune.

Sail westward with us then.” And Gabriel nodded.

The steel that sliced the water swung at length,

And in three days they nosed between the Pillars;

Past which—and the ten all shuddered—monsters once

Made chaos of the world’s end. But no fangs

Closed over the black prow, and mile on mile

Slid under them, familiar as a meadow

To the small men they watched amid the smoke.

Mile on mile, by hundreds and by thousands,

The Atlantic sloped away. Then lands and harbors,

And a deep whistle groaning.

“Now!” said Hermes,

“Now!” So nine to one they lifted wing,

Or no-wing like their leader, and went on,

High over chimneys and chill rivers, north

By west till it was there—the rounded valley,

Green with new spring, where cattle bawled in barns

And people, patient, waited for hot June.

II

Daniel was mending fence, for it was May,

And early rains had painted the drear pastures.

He walked, testing the wire, and wished again

For his old pipe. He missed it, and grew moody.

Berrien would never notice it on the shelf;

Berrien would never bring it. A good wife,

But scornful of the comforts. A good woman,

Who never guessed the outrage he had done her.

New Year’s Eve, and Dora. He remembered—

And set his jaw, missing the pipe stem there.

He pulled at a slack strand of the barbed wire,

And snagged himself—here, in the palm of his hand.

A little blood came which he wiped away.

He did miss that tobacco. And he did,

He did loathe simple Dora—warm and simple,

Who with her dark head nodding close to his,

On New Year’s Eve, had done with him this outrage.

He would forget her if he could; and old

Darius, her profane, her grizzled father.

So proud of her he was, and kept so neat

The mountain shack they lived in, he and his one

Sweet chick he swore was safe as in State’s prison.

Daniel counted the months. Was the child showing?

Darius—did he guess? And Doctor Smith—

Would she have gone to him? Daniel looked off,

Unmindful of the beautiful May morning.

Bruce Hanna, that poor boy. Was he suspicious?

He had been born for Dora, she for him;

And then last New Year’s Eve, when the sleigh bells rang

So slyly, writing ruin in cold air!

Daniel, wiping his hand again, looked back

At the wild barb that bit him.

Who was that?

For a quizzical, small stranger stood by the fence,

Feeling its rust, its toughness. He was swarthy

And lame, and had bright eyes. And in his hand

A pipe—for all the township Daniel’s own!

“Here, have you need of this? I’m on my way

Northeast awhile, repairing peoples’ ranges.

It gave itself to me, but you can have it.”

Then he was gone, unless he walked and waved—

For someone did—Daniel could not distinguish—

From the far border of the field. The small

Stranger was gone, and all that Daniel held

Was a filled pipe bowl, comforting his palm.

He must ask Berrien, he said at noon,

If a lame dwarf had come to mend the cook stove.

He must ask Berrien, who wouldn’t listen,

How a man’s pipe could vanish from its shelf.

For so it had, into his very pocket.

“Berrien!” he called. But she was busy

With her own bother.

“Daniel, a woman’s here—

Wants to stay and board all summer—wants

To rest. A theater woman. I’ve said no,

But maybe—”

Who was the gold one, listening there

And smiling? Looking over Berrien’s shoulder

And lighting the front room with little smiles?

A faded gold one, well beyond her prime,

But the true substance, glistening. Berrien frowned

And her head shook. But Daniel, fascinated,

Said he would think, would figure.

In the end

She stayed, the theater woman; and that night

Daniel had dreams of her. She came to his bed

In beauty; stood beside him and said “Dora.”

How could she know of Dora? It was a dream,

Yet how could she know so much? And how had she fathomed,

All in one day, the longing he denied?

There was no loathing. Anywhere in his heart—

That sweetened as he said it—there was no hate

For Dora, whom he thought he saw there too,

Standing beside the theater woman and weeping,

And holding her simple hands out so he could say:

“Tomorrow, little sweetheart half my years,

Tomorrow I will tell the world about us.

You must be mine to keep. I have been cruel;

I have been absent, darling, from your pain.

Tomorrow I will put my two arms round you,

And bear if I can the—pleasure.”

Then he woke,

And none but Berrien watched him in the room—

Berrien, who ever after watched him,

Night and day detesting this pale witch

Who came and went and charmed him.

So she thought,

Said Daniel, never answering her eyes.

For him there were no hours now save those dark ones

When the pair came. At midnight they would be there,

Faithful as moths; and every sunny morning,

Starting from his pillow, he would mutter:

“Tomorrow is today. Then I must go

To Dora, I must tell her.” Yet he waited

Always upon another secret midnight;

And witnessed every noon how the gold woman,

Smiling her light smile, seemed not to know

Of Dora; was no witch at all; was no one.

III

Meanwhile a little mountain house was murmurous

With his own name—evil, could he but hear it.

Darius had discovered his sweet daughter’s

Swelling, and had pressed her for the cause;

And yesterday, in terror, Dora yielded.

Now Bruce was there, with the old badger watching

How sick one word could make him. So it was spoken—

“Daniel.” And the kill was on.

A soldier,

Footing it home from Canada, stood by

With a gourd dipper, dripping as he drank.

He listened, lounging, and his bushy eyes

Burned at the accusation. When Bruce faltered—

And he did falter, for his hate of Daniel,

Less than the sore so sudden in his breast,

So hopeless, so beyond all thought of cure,

Was a weak thing at first—this brawny witness

Shone like a savior in the old one’s eyes,

The little old one, dancing in his fury

As he repeated “Daniel”; and made doubly

Sure that Dora’s corner room was bolted.

Afterwards, remembering how the knuckled

Soldier had spat curses on that name,

“Daniel,” and had spun a scheme for them—

Perfection, he declared it, of revenge—

Darius called him blessed. “You’d have failed me,

Bruce, you would have wobbled like a calf

And licked this devil’s hand, but for that sergeant.

Who sent him here, I wonder?”

“I don’t know,”

Said Bruce, his mind on Dora’s room. “Is she—”

“Yes, she’s in there. And stays there till we’ve finished.

When do we go and do it? Think of that—

Think only of that thing, my boy, that needful

Thing.” Darius nudged him, and they dropped

Their voices.

Dora, listening, heard little,

Crouched by her door. Bruce—he mustn’t do it.

Bruce—he was the only thing she wanted

In the poor world. A poor one too for Daniel;

But she shut out the thought. Bruce mustn’t do it,

Whatever it was. She beat on the thick wood

And cried to him; but only heard Darius

Coaxing him outdoors; then only silence.

“When shall it be, my boy? What dark of the moon

Does best for our good purpose—damn his bones!

Two shotguns—that’s enough—then home, then here—

That’s it, and neither knows of it next day.

We’ll even shed a hot tear, being told!

When do we do it, boy?”

But Bruce was slow:

Angry and sick, but slow. And once when Dora

Found him, deep in the woods between their cabins,

He almost lost his purpose as she held him,

Wetting his face with tears.

“Listen!” she whispered.

“I have been down to Doctor, and his new nurse

Knows—I can’t guess how—knows everything.

A beautiful, tall woman, and her friend

The teacher—she is like her. Colder, though,

With different, with grey eyes. The new nurse says—”

“What, Dora, what does she say?”

“Oh, no, I can’t—

I’ll never, never tell you.”

As she ran

He followed, farther into the still woods;

Then stopped as she did, startled. For those two—

It must be those two new ones, those tall women—

Pondered the carcass of a fawn, a spotted

Three-months fawn that dogs had torn at the throat.

It was the nurse that knelt, lifting brown eyes

In sorrow, scarcely knowing Dora there.

The other one bent down to her.

“Stand up.

They both are here. The boy, too.”

Level voiced,

The teacher touched her friend’s hair.

“Stand up, stand up.

The fawn is dead. These others—”

“Yes, I know.

I heard, I saw them. But consider death.

Consider this young death awhile, and say—

But softly—of what it is the paradigm.

Do not disdain one death, one single death;

And when we can, prevent.”

The grey eyes cooled,

Consenting. So the sorrowful one arose.

“Come here,” she said to Dora, and to Bruce

Behind her. “We were walking in the woods,

My visitor and I; we saw this sight.”

But Bruce and Dora stared at only her,

So beautiful, so tall, and at the other

Strange one by her side.

“We had been talking,

Children, of you two. No matter if Daniel

Loves you, little girl of the dark eyes—”

“He doesn’t!” Dora shuddered. “If he could,

He’d have it that I never lived on earth.

He hates it, having to remember me.

And that’s all right. I want it so. But Bruce—”

“Will be, my dear, the father of your—listen,

Listen! You start away.”

For both had broken

Breath, as if with running, and only the hands

Of the grey-eyed, the firm one, held them there.

“I mean,” and the tall beautiful one blinked,

Twitching the green selvage of her skirt,

“The foster father. He is young for that;

Yet he is to be, my child, the chosen one

Who saves you, and saves it—the life you carry.

Your husband. Nothing less. And not in dream.”

Bruce turned his head in fear that old Darius

Listened—was it he among the hemlocks,

Stepping so lightly?

But the foliage opened

For a fair, smiling face, and the broad shoulders,

Burdened with straps, of one who tramped these hills

By summer, following signs. A brilliance round him,

Caused by no sun, for none came through the branches,

Struck silence from all four; until the nurse,

Nodding as if she knew him, said: “Due north,

Pilgrim, is there. Your compass—have you lost it?

Well, north is that way”—pointing—“but stand here

In patience for some seconds; then we two

Will guide you back to town for better bearing.

Can you be patient?”

“Thank you, yes.” The giant

Smiled at her once again.

“You see, my small one,

Bruce there by your side would break and run,

Fearing his sweet fate. He even wonders

Whether some partner, deep in another plan,

Listens and chides him.”

Staring, the boy blushed.

Then, fearful, he looked up and met her eyes,

The nurse’s distant eyes, that fixed him gently.

“My friend here—she will tell you more than I can

Of the black folly born of feud. Attend her.”

But the still teacher only parted wide

Her capable cool lids, and let him see

Agreement flash between them.

“Someone’s death”—

She forced the words at last—“is cheap to buy.

A minute of man’s time, and breathing stops.

The cost is in the echo; for to cease

Makes sound. So you will hear it coming home,

The rumor of that death. My friend is right.

Marry the maiden.”

But the words came strangely,

Out of some older earth, and even she

The speaker knew their failure; for she frowned.

Bruce turned his head again, fearing the hemlock

Heard. Yet no one listened there; no fourth one

Followed this lofty fellow who in patience

Folded his arms and smiled—as if he too

Had knowledge, and agreed with the grey eyes.

As Dora did, said Bruce. And yet Darius—

He paled at the grim image, and remembered,

Suddenly, that soldier; whose disgust

If the dear purpose foundered was itself

A death, along with Dora’s yesterday.

Daniel. Who but Daniel was the father

Of a whole world’s confusion?

And his anger,

Running before him, took him from this place,

This glade where three, left thoughtful, were as figures

Molded of shadow. Dora was gone with Bruce,

Gasping and crying “Wait!”

But the three tall ones

Listened to nothing human. Hermes came.

IV

Hermes came, and hailing his three peers,

Spoke Aphrodite’s name; whose beautiful laughter

Answered as she glistened in their midst—

No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus

Hove into their view, and all of the others,

Manifest together. This was where,

In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet,

To sit sometimes and say how the world went,

Mortal and immortal.

“You of the golden

Shoulders,” Hermes said, “bring dreams to one

Who lived in peace without them.”

“Lived in hate,

In loathing of those very limbs he fondled—

Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!” And her insolent

Laughter shook the listening green leaves.

“Yet he would have forgotten, and his only

Danger been from Ares”—who was there,

Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke—

“From the two minions, old and young, of Ares.

Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind

And fury; but the damage that you do,

Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins,

Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments

The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy,

Goddess.” And he waited. But her lips,

Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented

Artemis.

“The man was free of longing,

And the dark maid of him,” the huntress said,

“Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams.

Then Ares—common soldier—fanned the fire

In those you call his minions.” Hermes nodded.

“And so our plan’s perplexed before it ripens.

Athene, Michael—tell them how we stood,

Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function.”

But it was known among them even then,

And so no witness needed. Aphrodite,

Secure in beauty’s pride, tilted her head

To hear, intending mockery of the tale.

But the wise one withheld it, and majestic

Michael only folded his broad wings

As Gabriel did, as Raphael.

Yet that last one,

Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis,

Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused:

“The young one when he comes—in what men call

The fall of their brief year—the roofless infant—

It was for him we planned. And still we do—”

She dared the glittering goddess—“still we seek

Safe birth for the small mother, and for him

The wailing, the unwanted.”

Crooked Hephaestus,

Clearing his mild throat, remarked in modesty:

“The man works well and silently. He loves,

In solitude, the comfort of my fire.

And so in a bowl I brought it. As for her—

He will not have her near him. I was by;

I read his thoughts of this.”

“Absurd contriver!

Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt!

As ever, you know nothing.” Aphrodite

Sparkled with rage, reviling him. “You saw

By daylight, and at labor in the field

One whom that very night I made my slave.

Off to your anvil, ass!”

But Hermes calmed

Their quarrel, lifting his either hand in grace.

“Without our father’s thunder we are fools

And children. Who decides when lesser gods,

When angels disagree? Authority absent,

Silence—a silver silence—that is best.”

And like a song they heard it, and they wondered,

Measuring its notes. Until Apollo,

Lord of the muses, laughed.

“You heard me humming.

All to myself I sang it—with sealed lips.”

“What did you sing?” said Hermes.

“Nothing, nothing.

My sisters round the world—a sweet wind brought me,

Sleepily, this air.”

He hummed again,

And this time closed his eyes. “Perhaps I see,”

He said, “some silver moment coming soon—

Necessity for music. But not now.”

Nor could those other nine foresee the summer.

Already, in mid June, high long days

Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit,

Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man,

No god distinguished more in this green time

Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter.

In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting—

Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word—

Still did not spare the beautiful dream body

She sent to him by dark, when Dora too

Lived by his side and loved him: standing there

In the shed radiance of one who smiled

And smiled, and burned his reticence away.

For he would go to Dora—come July,

Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening

As night died between him and the windows,

He would go there, he would, and say it all;

He would have Dora, small in his long arms,

Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought

Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes,

So that he never went.

And had he gone,

What Dora would have seen him come and shivered?

One whom as strong a dream—if it was a dream—

Estranged. It was of having, yet not having,

Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t—

He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away

The vision—Bruce must never let it be.

The nurse—he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did—

And then she wept.

Darius in the morning,

Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose.

He should conceal it better. She was afraid,

Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell.

That boy—he was so hard to keep in anger.

He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool.

That boy, the center of confusion’s cross,

For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius

Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day,

All night the dream of lying in clear peace

Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora;

That boy was whom the strangers in this valley

Watched while the moments went; while June decayed;

While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell.

V

A hundred people coming to the barn dance,

The barn dance at MacPherson’s, saw the full moon.

It hung there like a lantern in the low east,

Enormous and blood red, and stationary.

Daniel came, and Berrien, with that woman—

So fair, she seemed unnatural—between them.

She must have made them bring her, someone said;

And laughed.

But no one laughed when Dora came.

She was so pitiful in her loose coat,

Concealing, healing nothing. Would she dance?

If only with Bruce Hanna, would she dance?

Too late for it, some whispered; and some blamed

The silly boy. To let her show like that!

The nurse, the doctor’s nurse, and her tall friend

The teacher—no one dreamed those two, those two—

They stood by their grand selves, and no one saw

How Bruce, how Dora lived but in their glances.

Then all the strangers. When the music started,

Who but a giant—handsome, with tow hair—

Bowed to the grand ones? And to more

Beyond them? For a pair of unknown farmers,

Lanky and cave-eyed, leaned bony shoulders

Where a great upright shaded the rude floor.

From the next valley, maybe, like this lame

Pedlar; like the soldier; like that lightfoot

Traveller, the one with pointed ears,

The one with cropped hair and a twisted staff,

Who wandered in the crowd, watching and watched.

The shepherd of the strangers? Yet no word

Between them, and no look, Darius said—

Darius, who had eyes for everything;

And ears, when music started.

“One more couple!

One more couple!” Glendy the clear-caller

Shouted while harmonicas, like locusts,

Shrilled, and while Young Gus tuned his guitar.

“One more couple!”

Here they came.

“Join hands

And circle left!”

Darius heard the words

Above him, in the corner where by Glendy

And the harmonicas he tapped the floor.

His was the curious, the musicians’ corner,

Whence he could see how Dora sat and trembled,

Wondering what next—why she was here.

“The dog!” he growled, catching on Daniel’s face,

In a far corner, hunger and indifference

Fighting. Hunger—damn him—for my child,

My child, Darius said, whom he has changed;

And smothering this, the smoke of a pretence

That nothing here was wrong, nothing at all.

The soldier had come back. Darius saw him.

Red-eyed, drinking water by a droplight,

And his own conscience hurt him. Daniel lived.

If Bruce could only raise his eyes a little—

But they were hangdog, or were fixed in fear

On those two stranger women. Why in fear?

The music, though.

“Swing your corner lady!”

Darius, rocking gently on his heels,

Was lost again in that, and in the wild

Mouth organs, going mournful overhead.

“First two gents cross over!” In his thought

He crossed; he took that partner by the hand;

He swung her, swung her, swung her, you know where.

He promenaded, proudly, and he clapped

His palms, that sweated bravely. Then the swinging

Ceased. The set was over. And he sang:

“Good boy, Gus! That was calling, old man Glendy!”

They winked at him, wiping their foreheads off;

Then soon another set. And still he listened

And watched, and still he saw how Dora sat,

Trembling, and never danced.

But once the soldier,

Slouching to her side, made mockery signs

Suggesting that she stand. Darius started

In anger; then he stopped, for Bruce was up,

Explaining—yet avoiding the brute stare;

And Daniel, in his corner, clenched both fists.

Even the strangers knew, for one came over—

The one with such a neat head on his body,

And the curled stick—as if to beat away

Wild boars escaped here. That was good, was good,

Darius said; then listened as the music

Whispered again.

Whispered.

For the tune

Had altered. Where was Glendy? Who was this

Where Glendy had been standing? And what ailed,

What softened so the clamor of the mouth harps?

“One more couple!”

Who was the intruder,

Calling in so sweet, so low a voice,

Strange orders? Yet not strange; for the hot crowd,

Heedless of any difference, swirled on,

Loving its evolutions, and no head

Turned hither.

“Take your Dora by the hand—”

Darius, looking up, saw how the silver

Light of the full moon, mature at zenith,

Fell on the singer. Through one gable window

It fell, and on no head but his, the silvery

Singer. He was slender, he was strange;

And the high moon—it burned for none but him.

“Where’s Glendy, Gus?”

“Took sick.”

The loud guitar,

Hesitating, rallied and persevered;

But modified its note to a new sweetness,

A low, a far-off sweetness, as Gus looked,

Listened, and looked again at the mysterious

Caller on whose mouth the full moon smiled.

Take your Dora by the hand,

Your little Dora, grown so large.

By another she was manned,

But she is now your loving charge.

Mercy marries you, my boy,

And mercy—oh, it is unjust.

But it was born of truth and joy,

And lives with misery if it must.

Darius, and then Daniel, comprehending,

Stared at a hundred dancers who did not.

Heedless of any change, they stamped and swung,

Those hundred, as if Glendy still were here—

Old Glendy, whose thin throat still mastered them.

Yet Daniel saw how Dora, dropping her eyes,

Sat silent, deathly silent; and how Bruce,

Guardian to her, looked only down—

Looked everywhere save at the singer, singing:

Take your Dora by the hand.

There is life within her waist.

And there is woe, unless you stand

And love with bravery is graced.

So all the world will know her wed,

And all the people call it yours—

The life within her, small and red;

And wrathful, were it none but hers.

With you beside her all is well.

She will be tended in her time.

There is more that I could tell,

But Glendy now resumes the rhyme.

“Circle four!”

Darius, and then Daniel,

Dazed, regarded Glendy once again.

The moonlit one was gone, and only these

Had seen him—these and Dora, and dumb Bruce.

And all of the nine strangers. For they too

Had listened; bending their bodies, they had weighed,

Had witnessed every word as it arrived;

Had watched the boy’s confusion; then the girl’s;

Then both together, as if woe had wed

Already the poor lovers.

“Nelly Gray!”

The hundred dancers, heedless, went right on;

And only Berrien’s boarder, the gold woman

Who stood so close by Daniel—only that one

Kindled. Then she blazed, and Daniel, blushing,

Knew she had found his thought.

So I have lost her—

This was his thought—have lost her. Then my love

Must die, and no man know it. He was true,

That singer. It is not my life she carries—

Dora, who was mine for that cold minute;

Dora, whom I never can forget.

The eyes of the theater woman burned so fiercely,

Punishing his own, that Daniel shook.

How could she guess his trouble? Only in dreams

She knew it, only in dreams, when Dora came.

Only in darkness. “Now she disapproves,

She probes me.”

But the woman looked away,

Suddenly, and signalled to the soldier;

Who, nodding, went to stand before Darius.

Daniel saw him there, gesticulating,

With his feet spread, as if he meant to spring,

To throttle someone. And Darius blinked.

But music and the distance drowned their words.

And now the tall nurse, bending over Dora,

Whispered to her and Bruce; and the boy, rising,

Reached for a small hand. The singer had said

To take it, and he took it, and pulled up

The girl who still was trying to be free,

To save him.

And the music never stopped.

“Kiss her if you dare!” cried old man Glendy.

And many a dancer did. But neither Bruce

Nor Dora, arm in arm, had present ears.

They listened still to what the other singer,

Gone now as the moon was from the window,

Sang and sang again, as if his silvery

Face never had faded. Arm in arm

They walked among the dancers to the big door;

Arm in arm, sleepwalking, they went forth,

Under the slant moon, and disappeared.

VI

Some whispers, like the wake of blowing leaves

When a swift body passes west, pursued them.

But Daniel never stirred.

Nor old Darius—

Neither did he listen as the sergeant

Swore, swelling the wrath in his red eyes

Till most of him was fire. “Follow him home,

The fool. He is forgetting it—the purpose.

Tear him free. He softens in her arms

To the sick sound of ‘Father.’”

But Darius,

Lost in the same sound, was thinking softly:

“I had not dreamed of this. She will be friended,

She will not go alone. He is a good boy,

Bruce. I never coupled her with him.

It may be in the cards.” Whereat the soldier

Left him, spitting disgust.

And Daniel saw

How all of the fair strangers followed soon—

All of them, as if they were a company.

They wouldn’t be, of course. And yet they smiled

In the same grave degree, as if some secret

Bound them.

And he thought the dapper one,

Who tapped the sanded floor and twirled his stick,

His curlicue of a cane—whatever it was—

Communicated thus to the gold woman

That she too must away. But she was Daniel’s,

Berrien’s; she was not of any company,

Wandering, like this one. She had come

Alone to them, in May, and she would go—

Would go, said Daniel, taking her dream body,

Her beautiful dream body, that was his,

Was his alone.

And suddenly his sadness

Doubled. For the singer had left living

None of his sweet hope. Dora was gone,

A ghost in outer moonlight, a surrendered

Sweetness, and he stood there like a dead man,

A noble dead man, numbering his loss.

Now, multiplied, it smote him. This one too—

In fall—he would be losing this one too,

In fall. Or even here, while he stood looking,

Here, with that lithe one calling from the door.

For there he was, the last one to go through,

And Daniel thought the signal came again:

An elbow’s twitch, a twirl of his live staff,

His vine that had the strength to stand alone.

But she had arms and eyes for only Daniel,

Worshiping her now. She seemed as near,

He whispered to himself, as lamplight must,

At midnight, to poor moths. And yet no brush

Of fingers, such as Berrien might have frowned on.

Simply her brilliance chained him, simply her arms,

Her eyes, took hold of everything in him

And hurt it.

“So you let her go,” she said.

“You shadow of a man, you let her go.

Those limbs of hers, so beautiful in light,

In darkness, and the breast you could have bruised,

Crushing it with yours—and yet you would not,

For it is white, is small, and precious to you—

Derelict! Oh, shameful! What a shadow

Falls on you for lover—disobedient

Lover of that girl whom still you crave!”

Did her lips part? Was any of it spoken?

Berrien still watched the weary dancers

Like one whom nothing moved. Then whence the words?

And why? For the gold woman’s only knowledge

Was a dream knowledge, drawn to him by night

When her own body slept in her own bed.

How could she understand? And what untruth

Was working in her, making these sweet sounds?

Their honey was more false for being heard

By him, by only him. That other singer—

He had been true. And troubling. But his song

Was never to be lost now. Dora was,

Forever. And he said it must be so.

The woman, though. Her arms. And now her eyes,

Beating upon him, beautiful, imperious,

Not to be contradicted. And her lips.

Lest the unparted lips again deliver

What was so loud, so terrible—though heard

By him, by only him—he spoke of home.

Berrien—wasn’t she tired? And Berrien was.

So with no words they went.

Some dancers saw them,

Picking their way, and winked at one another;

Daniel, with that artificial woman;

Berrien, with her boarder. What a household!

None of them looked happy. Three old-fashioned

People going home. The actress, too—

An old, old timer, powdered up to kill,

And painted. You could see it—Indian summer

Everywhere. Yet once a pretty world.

They could not see how beautiful she was.

Only for Daniel was she beautiful,

And for those others, strangers here with her,

Who from the border of MacPherson’s grove,

In their own forms, were watching.

Hermes leaned

Like none but Hermes, graceful as the grass,

On a slim sapling, serpent-shaped, and said:

“She flaunts us. Aphrodite is not Ares,

She is not schooled in victory and defeat,

She is not skilful at surrender—save

The lover’s kind. See? She is bent on that.

She will not let him go, the farmer there,

While any of her poison works in him.

Ares, what if some of your new wisdom—

You could persuade her, Ares.”

But the sullen

Soldier still was sullen, though a god;

He would not lift his face as Aphrodite,

Smiling at them, catlike, kept her way

With Daniel down the road.

“Apollo’s song,”

Said Hermes, “—it was all we needed then.”

He nodded, and the bright musician bowed.

“It was a potent song. The tough old man,

The tender young, the farmer in his heart—

All four of them were changed. But now you see—”

He pointed, and they looked where Aphrodite,

Dimming with her companions down the highway,

Walked as a mortal would; though still they knew

The goddess by a smile that lingered somewhere,

Mingling as the moon did with the tops

Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.

Artemis, more angry than the rest,

More like the moon, declining now so clear,

So cold, beyond the body of this grove,

Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”

She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,

Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”

She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilled

And planted. Never then will the boy serve,

With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,

Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.

The farmer would have let the maiden go—

Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.

Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,

That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,

And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,

What burden that may topple his intention?

Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal

His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;

Even tonight you could.”

Hephaestus, pacing

Oddly the smooth floor, rested his leg,

The shortened leg Zeus long ago had crippled.

“The farmer—he works well, and loves the fire

I gave him. Let him be.”

But none of them saw

His meaning, if he had one. He was lame

And foolish, and he muttered as he walked,

And turned and walked again, counting the steps

Between two oaks that limited his way.

The great angels watched him with their wings

Folded. Standing deeper in the shade,

They waited with the others while the moon

Sloped to its rest, the music having wearied

And stopped, and all the dancers wandered home.

VII

“Dora, do you take Bruce for your husband,

To cherish him, for better or for worse?”

The justice of the peace, Tobias Hapgood,

Peered over his dim glasses at the pair

Who said “I do, I do” among the dusty

Law books.

And there were three witnesses.

Darius in a white shirt stood between

Two others, old and little like himself:

The father of the groom—roundheaded, fumbling

Miserably at his tie—and full of tears

The mother, full of shame and happy tears.

Her boy was being married. But to think—

To think—and then the rest of it was weeping;

Was waiting till the four of them were home;

Was wondering how soon she could forget.

Dora would have his baby in her house.

And then she could forget. She wiped her eyes.

Darius here—now he would be alone,

And that perhaps was harder. So “I do”

Came distantly across the room as she compared

Their griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss,

Held on to one another, and held on

And on, as if the world would die this way,

She was content again.

But no one saw

Nine more in the brown room, or heard the voice

Of Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned,

What further end she strained for. All but Ares

Stood there, in no space the mortals knew,

The little mortals, mingling their low words

With these unheard, these high ones. Sullen Ares

Sulked on a far hill. But Aphrodite,

Resting her fair side against the law books,

Laughed; and the green goddess answered Hermes:

“See? There still is mischief in one mind

Among us, there is insolence. The end?

She has not worked it yet. Beware of her

Who hates this thing we witness; it defeats

Her farmer, and she never will forgive.”

The laughing goddess listened with her eyes

Turned elsewhere—on Hephaestus, whom she taunted,

Teasing him with glances at his broken

Foot, and at the thickness of his wrists.

“Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker!

You are not one of us. Then why do you creep

Each morning, crooked fool, and haunt the man?

You do, in the poor likeness of a mender—

What is it that you mend? What is the word?”

“Stoves.”

“I’ll not pronounce it. Such a word!

I scorn it. And scorn you. And yet I say—

Remember my own strength, that can undo

The cunningest contriver. No more haunt

The man. By night, by morning, no more crawl—

You hear?—and charm his sadness till it sleeps.

You think to cure his longing with some lessons,

Monger, in your art. But my own art

Is ultimate. Remember, and refrain.”

Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles,

Refusing every glance until the rite

Was finished, and the people in the room

Departed. Then he ducked and disappeared,

Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-grey

Eyes of sage Athene. He was bound

For Daniel, whom he haunted every day

In the same likeness he had first assumed

When Daniel, missing the comfort of his pipe bowl,

Got it again, and wondered.

Bruce and Dora,

Heeled by their elders, one of whom still wept,

Went home another way; and the inaudible

Deities went home—to the green hilltop,

The high glade where Ares, though he heard,

Sent down no shout of welcome. Aphrodite,

Following to where the mountains forked,

Deserted there; dipping away and flying,

Like one of her own doves, to Daniel’s house.

But Daniel stood with someone in the barn

By the new anvil he had bought, considering

Hot and cold; and how a hammer’s blow

Can bend the iron, not break it.

“When you came,

That day, and brought my pipe—I still am puzzled—

How did you do it, man?”

“Look here! I take

This strip of ten-gauge, and I heat it thus—

Pretend the forge is going—then I twist it,

So, until I have a perfect handle

For the fire tongs you need.”

No other answer.

“See? Now when you have the bellows going—

Watch me—this is what the draft can do.”

No other answer. So the pupil bent,