Part 1

FLASHLIGHTS

BY MARY ALDIS

AUTHOR OF “THE PRINCESS JACK” AND “PLAYS FOR SMALL STAGES”

[Illustration]

NEW YORK DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1916

Copyright, 1916, by MARY ALDIS

The author desires to make acknowledgement for permission to reprint to _Poetry_, _The Little Review_, _The Masses_, _Others_, _The Trimmed Lamp_, _The Survey_, _The Los Angeles Graphic_, _The Chicago Herald_ and _The Chicago Evening Post_.

CONTENTS

I. CITY SKETCHES PAGE

The Barber Shop 3 Love in the Loop 8 Converse 12 Window-wishing 16 A Little Old Woman 20

II.

Design 27 The World Cry 28 Brown Sands 29 Seeking 30 May 11, 1915 31 Watchers 32 To Maurice Browne 35 Prayers 37 My Boat and I 39 Pictures 42 Forward, Singing! 44 Barberries 46 Two Paths 48 When You Come 50 Rest 52 Moriturus Te Saluto 54 Flashlights 56 Floodgates 63 Chloroform 69 The Beginning of the Journey 75

III. STORIES IN METRE

The Prisoner 81 Ellie 86 The Park Bench 92 The Sisters 105 Reason 110 Her Secret 115 A Little Girl 117

I

CITY SKETCHES

_Go forth now, moods and metres, Sing your song and tell your story; You have companioned me Through hours grave and gay, What will you say To him whose curious hand Shall turn these pages?_

_Soon all my joy in setting forth My vagrant thoughts Shall pass Into the silence; Soon I shall be One with the mystery._

_My book upon some quiet shelf Beneath your touch Shall wake, perhaps, And speak again My wonder, my delight, My questioning before the night--_

_And as you read Somewhere afar I shall be singing, singing._

_THE BARBER SHOP_

I spend my life in a warren of worried men. In and out and to and fro And up and down in electric elevators They rush about and speak each other, Hurrying on to finish the deal, Hurrying home to wash and eat and sleep, Hurrying to love a little maybe Between the dark and dawn Or cuddle a tired child Who blinks to see his father.

I hurry too but with a sense That Life is hurrying faster And will catch up with me.

Right in the middle of our furious activity Two soft-voiced barbers in a little room, White-tiled and fresh and smelling deliciously, Flourish their glittering tools And smile and barb And talk about the war and stocks and the Honolulu earthquake With equal impartiality.

I like to go there. Time seems slow and patient While they tuck me up in white And hover over me. The room gives north and west and the sunset sky Lights the grey river to a ribbon of glory Where silhouetted tugs Like tooting beetles fuss about their smoky businesses;

Besides, in that high place No curious passer-by Can see my ignominious bald spot treated with a tonic, Nor can a lady stop and bow to me, my chin in lather, As happened once; So I go there often And even take a book.

There’s another person all in white Who comes and goes and manicures your nails On application. One can read with one hand while she does the other. Because I feel that Life is hurrying me along With horrid haste Soon to desert me utterly, I used to take my Inferno in my pocket And reflect on what might happen Were I among the usurers.

One day a low-pitched voice broke in. I listened vaguely, What was the woman saying? “Please listen for a moment, Mister Brown, I’ve done your nails for almost half a year You’ve never looked at me.” I looked at that, And sure enough the girl was young and round and sweet. She coloured as I turned to her And looked away. I waited silently, enjoying her confusion. The words had been shot out at me And now apparently she wished them back. “What do you want?” I said. Again a silence while she rubbed away. I opened my Inferno with an ironic glance Towards Paradiso waiting just beyond. “Well, rub away, my girl,” I thought, “You opened up, go on.”

The book provoked her. “I’m straight,” she said. “I never talked like this before. The fellows that come round-- Good Lord! Showin’ me two pink ticket corners Stickin’ out the pocket of their vest, ‘Say, kid,--tonight,--you know,’ Thinkin’ I’ll tumble For a ticket to a show! They make me sick, they do, Boobs like that; You’re different. I want to know What’s in that book you read. I want to hear you talk. Oh, Mister, I’m so lonesome! But I’m straight, I tell you. I read, too, every evening in my room, But I can’t ever find The books you have. I expect you think I’m horrid To talk like this--but-- I got some things by an Englishman From the Public Library. Say, they were queer! He thinks a woman has a right To say out if she likes a man; He thinks they do the looking Because they want-- Oh, Mister, I’m so terribly ashamed I’ll die when I get home, An’ yet I had to speak-- I’d be awful, awful good to you, if only, Please, please, don’t think I’m like-- Don’t think I’m one o’ them! Whatever you say, don’t, don’t think that!”

She stopped, and turned to hide her crying. I looked at her again, Looked at her young wet eyes, At her abashed bent head, Looked at her sweet, deft hands Busy with mine....

But-- Not for nothing Were my grandfather and four of my uncles Elders in the Sixth Presbyterian Church Situated on the Avenue. Oh not for nothing Was I led To squirm on those green rep seats One day in seven.

And now, The white-tiled, sweetly-smelling barber shop Is lost to me. What a pity!

_LOVE IN THE LOOP_

They sat by the fountain at a table for two, The traditional couple-- An awkward, ill-dressed girl, With a lovely skin and a country smile, And the man who was paying for her dinner. There they were-- Exploiter and Exploited.

I could see only his back, clad in grey tweed. His neck rolled over his collar In a thick red fold, And his hands, which he waved about, Were fat and white with shiny nails And diamond rings.

I wondered if he was offering her better clothes For the girl looked troubled. Her shirt-waist wasn’t fresh, Her skirt was draggled, And her feet, curled up under the chair, Shifted themselves uneasily, seeking cover For most lamentable shoes; But oh, her skin!

Soft rose and the delicate white of summer mist. Her hair was the brown of hazelnuts after a frost, Glinting to saffron as she turned her head Quickly from side to side Like an enquiring dove.

Soon oysters came; She eyed them with distrust, Then ate one thoughtfully and made a face. He seemed concerned And beckoned the waiter to remove the dish, Asking if she’d rather have a “country sausage.” She showed her baby teeth in a happy smile And sausages were brought. She ate them all while he watched her enviously, Putting a little white pellet in some water For his second course.

Champagne was set before them and he filled her glass While he turned his bottom side up. She sipped, and made another face, and choked, Then tried again and laughed. “I do believe it’s good,” she said, And finished the glass, Holding it out for more. “You’d best look out,” I heard him say As he slid his hand along the table-cloth. She cringed away. “Oh, please, please don’t!” she said; But he hitched his chair softly around the table.

I watched it all, Wondering miserably if it was my duty To warn the girl, And whether she would prove clinging if I did.

Finally to secure her hands he turned himself. My God, what a mug! His beady eyes over his glistening cheeks Blinked like a hurrying pig’s: His protuberent lips wiggled themselves In amourous expectancy While little beads of ecstasy bedewed his brow. I turned my chair around and raised my paper.

Suddenly I heard her cry, “Oh, Mister! That fuzzy stuff you made me drink--my head!” And she grabbed her coat and slithered along the floor To the front door, calling over her shoulder. “Don’t come. I want some air, I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

After a startled forward step He settled back and called the waiter, Who hurried to busy himself expectantly With the inevitable reckoning. By the time it was ready, Mr. Amourous-One Was deep in the stock reports and dead to the world. The waiter stood on one foot and then on the other, Finally wandering off.

After some twenty minutes of troubled scrutiny The paper was laid down, And Mr. Amourous Looked at his watch and jumped, Then turned the bill and burrowed in his pocket, Pulling out change. Next came a leather wallet-- And then what a bellowing rent the astonished air!

“Eight hundred dollars gone!” he yelled. “Hi! get that girl, I tell you, GET THAT GIRL!” But nobody stirred. Exploiter and Exploited--

_CONVERSE_

They were two disembodied heads on bath cabinets, Just like “Une tête de femme” by Rodin, in a show, Save that each head was topped By a ruffled rubber cap, One rose-lined grey, one brown. They were two female heads, And yet they were not pretty, At least not then.

They fixed their level-fronting eyes on a sanitary wall In front of them And waited. The Bath Attendant turned a crank, Consulted a thermometer, and vanished.

Time draggled warmly by.

Finally one head heaved a heavy sigh and turned itself And looked at the other head, Which bit its lip and frowned.

Since names seem meaningless When souls converse, Let us call these souls quite simply Grey and Brown. The one that heaved and turned itself was Brown; The one that bit its lip was Grey.

“Are you pretending that you didn’t see me?” Queried Brown. “Oh no!” said Grey.

“I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you,” said Brown. “And why not now?” “And why not now?” said Grey.

“You may as well understand,” continued Brown, “You’ve got to give him up.” “Him up?” said Grey.

“That’s what I said,” said Brown. “You very well know His duty is to me. I bear his name, I’ve given him seven children and a step, All likely boys. He’s very fond of them, you know.” “I know,” said Grey.

“Well, what have you got to say?” Brown trembled on. “Why don’t you speak?” Grey murmured softly, “Isn’t it hot in these?”

Brown looked at her and laughed. “You’re pretty cool,” she said, “But I’d like to tell you here and straight and now, I’m tired of nonsense, Tired of worrying, And very, very tired of him and you.” “Of him and me,” said Grey.

“I’ve cried and then I’ve laughed And said I didn’t care,” Said whimpering Brown. “I’ve dressed myself up beautifully And then again I’d slump,” Said sniffling Brown. “But nothing mattered. If he came home bright and gay, of course I’d know He’d been with you, And if he came home different, then I’d know He wished he were, So gradually it didn’t matter much Which way he was. And then I thought I’d try and keep The boys from knowing, So I’d make up lies and plan; With seven and the step It took considerable planning, But luckily the little ones don’t notice. And now I’ve got you here, I’m going to have my say!” “Your say,” said Grey.

“I’m going to get your promise here and now To give him up for good, Do you understand?” “For good,” said Grey. “Oh yes, I understand.”

“Or else,” and beetling Brown Grew dark and terrible, “You’ll be the co-respondent in a suit!” “A suit,” said Grey.

“I said a suit,” said Brown, “I mean a suit. Moreover, as you haven’t said a word I’ll bring it soon.” “It soon,” said Grey.

And then the Attendant came, Looked at the clock and then the thermometer, Got sheets and led them out.

“Unless--” said Brown. “Oh yes, unless--” said Grey.

_WINDOW-WISHING_

Oh yes, we get off regular By half past six, And six on Saturdays. Sister an’ I go marketing on Saturday nights, Everything’s down. Besides there’s Sunday comin’; You can sleep, Oh my, how you can sleep! No mother shakin’ you To “get up now,” No coffee smell Hurryin’ you while you dress, No Beauty Shop to get to on the tick of the minute Or pony up a fine. Sister an’ I go window-wishin’ Sunday afternoon, all over the Loop. It’s lots of fun. First she’ll choose what she thinks is the prettiest Then my turn comes. You mustn’t ever choose a thing The other’s lookin’ at, And when a window’s done The one that beats Can choose the first time when we start the next. The hats are hardest ’Specially when they’re turnin’ round and round. But window-wishin’s great!

Then there’s the pictures, Bully ones sometimes, Sometimes they’re queer. Sister an’ I go in ’most every Sunday. We took Mother ’long last week, But she didn’t like ’em any too well. Mother’s old, you know, We have to kinda humour her. Next day she couldn’t remember a single thing But the lions on the steps.

You know what happened the other night? Sister and I didn’t know just what to do,-- A gentleman came to see us. He said Jim asked him to Sometime when he was near. Jim’s my brother, you know. He lives down state. We have to send him part of our wages regular, Sister an’ I; He doesn’t seem to get a steady place, And Mother likes us to. She’s dotty on Jim. Sometimes I get real nasty-- A great big man like that! Anyway his friend came walkin’ in And said Jim sent his love. Sister an’ I didn’t exactly know what to do, And Mother looked so queer! Her dress was awful dirty. He said he was livin’ in Chicago, And Sister said she hoped He had a place he liked. He only stayed a little while, Till half past eight, And then he took his hat From under the chair he was sittin’ on And went away. I said just now it happened the other night, But it was seven weeks ago last Friday evening. He said he’d come again. I dunno as he will, Sister an’ I keep wonderin’. We dressed up-every night for quite a while And stayed in Sundays. Yesterday we thought We’d go down window-wishin’ And what do you think? Just as she’d picked a lovely silver dress Sister jerked my arm, Then all of a sudden there she was Cryin’ and snifflin’ in her handkerchief Standin’ there on the sidewalk, And what do you think she said? “I’d like to kill the woman that wears that gown!” I tell you I was scared, She looked so queer, But she’s all right today. Oh thank you, two o’clock next Saturday the tenth? I’ll put it down, A shampoo and a wave, you said? I’ll keep the time, Good-morning.

_A LITTLE OLD WOMAN_

There’s a twinkling little old woman Brings me sandwiches after my Turkish bath. Her cheeks are brown and pink, And her eyes, behind her gold-bowed spectacles, Smile in a curious fashion as if to say “I know you’re worried about that letter in the pocket of your dress, Hanging out there, but I’ll take care of it.”

She sets the tray down on a chair beside my couch And trots away to another languid lady in a sheet, And as I fall asleep she says to me “Don’t worry honey, I’ll take care of it.” Perhaps it’s only in my dreams she says it, But anyway she’s there.

Once after she had hooked me up She raised her sober dress To show me that she too could wear a lace-trimmed petticoat; And a dainty thing it was, with tiny rosebuds Festooned all around. She dropped her skirt and laughed. “I’ve got one ... too,” she said. This was uncanny, so I said Good-day.

Next time I went I met him at the door With a market basket! It seems he brought the dainties every day She made up into sandwiches for us who lolled about. I took a look at him,-- A delicate, chiselled face with soft blue eyes, Under his chin from ear to ear a fringe of yellow down, Around a bald spot, curls of whity-gold; He blinked a little as she gave him charges Then wandered thoughtfully away Clutching his basket. He wore a black frock coat too big for him, And on his head, a round black hat like a French Curé’s.

So that was why she wore the petticoat And smiled so knowingly-- But how she worked! I wouldn’t work like that. Perhaps she kept that little thing for pleasuring. Well, this is a woman’s world, why not, If so be that he pleased her?

The steamy, scented atmosphere that day Seemed teeming with intrigue; I looked at the strapping, bare-legged wench Who brought my sheet Enquiring mutely, “Have you got a lover?” And when a person next me roused herself To ask the time, I thought, “Ah-ha! He’s waiting!”

It chanced when sandwiches were brought I found myself alone With her of the spectacles and petticoat. I wanted to go to sleep, But I wanted more to find out how She got a lover, And how she kept him.

After some skirmishing I asked straight out, “Was that your husband with the market basket?” “My husband’s dead,” she said, and grinned And took a chair beside my couch. “Who is he, then?” I said. “He’s mine,” she answered. “Mine! I paid for him five hundred dollars cool, And now he likes me!”

I sat up at that. “You paid for him?” I gulped. “Why yes, he lived up-stairs, you know. His heart is bad; he hadn’t any cash; He got hauled up on a breach-of-promise suit; I paid it for him. Now he lives with me!”

She emphasized her “me” triumphantly. I looked her over. Certainly there was something there of vividness, Of quick vitality. He and his funny hat and goldy curls--

Well, anything may be. “Are you happy now?” I asked. She smiled and bridled. “The business pays,” she said. “You ladies pay good prices for your food And then the tips besides. He gets the things for me and brings ’em fresh, Then what do you suppose he does the rest of the time? (His heart is bad, you know) Writes verses all day long for the Sunday papers; Mostly they don’t get in, But every now and then he gets two dollars. I bought him an Underwood last week. He was so pleased, Only the punctuation isn’t right. It isn’t a second-hand; cost me a hundred and twenty-five; I saved it up--”

The bell rang and she rose. “Say! please don’t tell them anything about-- About--my husband.” And she vanished.

II

_DESIGN_

If all the world’s a stage, why do we know Naught of the drama we the actors play? Are we but puppets, we who come and go Mumbling our parts through life’s quick-passing day?

What if some master hand design the show Planning a spacious pattern cunningly! Time, color, drifting human shapes all go Into a great discordant harmony:

Let this one’s part be cast in delicate grey, Let this a heavy purple shadow be, Here let there come one clear, cold, bluish ray And here--but hold! one actor suddenly

In desperate rebellion cries his part-- A scarlet tumult from his own hot heart.

_THE WORLD CRY_

Joy, light, and love I crave And shall discover-- Life’s wild adventure opening to my will: High thought and brave, The rapture of a lover, The Vision gleaming from yon western hill.

Beyond my present sight There lies some sweet allure, Some crested glory waiting to be won; Shimmering in light, Beautiful and sure, Beckoning bright hands that call me on.

I know not where it lies, Nor whither I go, nor how The way is paved--with pleasure or with pain; But the search is in my eyes, And the dust upon my brow Shall turn to aureoled gold when I attain.

* * * * *

Oh, old old hope-- Unfulfilled desire! Pitiful the faith, Beautiful the fire!

Know, soul who criest, Thy gleaming from afar, Thy quest of wild adventure, Thy sweet far star

Shall be the bitter path To a high stern goal; So bow thy head To thine own soul.

_BROWN SANDS_

My stallion impatiently Stamps at my side, Into the desert far We two shall ride.

Brown sands around us fly, Winds whistle free, The desert is sharing Gladness with me.

The madness of motion Is mine again. Forgotten forever Sorrow and pain.

Into the desert far Swiftly we flee, Knowing the passionate Joy of the free.

_SEEKING_

Swift like the lark Out of the dark One cometh, singing;

Silent in flight Out of the night Answer is winging.

Forth to the dawn Leaps like a fawn A cry of high greeting,

Into the sun Two that have run Seeking, are meeting.

_MAY 11, 1915_

A prayer is forming on my tightened lips-- Lord grant that I may keep my soul from hate! I have known love, I have been pitiful, Lord, I would keep my grief compassionate!

Pain-maddened cries I hear from out the sea, Upstaring at me, faces of the dead; Those silent bodies seem to call aloud, Those silent souls are still and comforted.

And we are here to bear the weight of pain-- Oh, keep the poison from its awful task! Lord, let me be as they are ere I hate, Let me love on! this, this is what I ask!

However long the way, there is a turning, Somewhere beyond the storm there lies a land Where Peace abides, where love shall live again, And men shall greet with friendly outstretched hand

While little children laugh, and women weep With happiness--Oh, Lord, until that hour Keep Thou my hope, keep Thou my tenderness, Keep Thou my trust in Thy far-seeing power!

_WATCHERS_

I watch the Eastern sky For a sign of dawn Long delayed. Such stillness is around That every separate sense Is twice-attuned, twice-powerful, And loneliness enwraps me like a sea Into whose unplumbed depths I must go down: A sea unsatisfied Where drifting shapes, wan-eyed, Reach forth wan arms Towards them who pause to look at their own souls Mirrored upon the sea.

Somewhere a loon Sends forth its weary cry across the dark. Oh, wailing bird, I know, I know! I think tonight the soul of the world is desolate And you and I its watchers.

Yet cease! oh cease! The night air quivers and resounds To bear your cry across the sleeping lake, And I would have your silence While I make My own complaint.

For I would ask why we who have so little space To live and love and wonder Must go down into eternal mystery Alone: And I would know Why, since that awful loneliness must be, We go about as strangers here on earth And meet and laugh and mock and part again With never a look into each others’ eyes, With never a question of each others’ pain.

So, even as I hear your melancholy plaint Across the sleeping lake, I send my questing cry across the world-- And as I watch and listen, Through the stillness There comes to me an echoing and a far reverberation Of the many who have gone Into the limitless mystery, And thus they speak--