Part 8
“For those who dare to follow them With earnest eyes and honest feet. But Sainte-Nitouche has made the way For me, and I shall find it sweet.
“Sweet with a bitter sting left?--Yes, Bitter enough, God knows, at first; But there are more steep ways than one To make the best look like the worst;
“And here is mine--the dark and hard, For me to follow, trust, and hold: And worship, so that I may leave No broken story to be told.
“Therefore I welcome what may come, Glad for the days, the nights, the years.”-- An upward flash of ember-flame Revealed the gladness in his tears.
“You see them, but you know,” said he, “Too much to be incredulous: You know the day that makes us wise, The moment that makes fools of us.
“So I shall follow from now on The road that she has found for me: The dark and starry way that leads Right upward, and eternally.
“Stumble at first? I may do that; And I may grope, and hate the night; But there’s a guidance for the man Who stumbles upward for the light,
“And I shall have it all from her, The foam-born child of innocence. I feel you smiling while I speak, But that’s of little consequence;
“For when we learn that we may find The truth where others miss the mark, What is it worth for us to know That friends are smiling in the dark?
“Could we but share the lonely pride Of knowing, all would then be well; But knowledge often writes itself In flaming words we cannot spell.
“And I, who have my work to do, Look forward; and I dare to see, Far stretching and all mountainous, God’s pathway through the gloom for me.”
I found so little to say then That I said nothing.--“Say good-night,” Said Vanderberg; “and when we meet To-morrow, tell me I was right.
“Forget the dozen other things That you have not the faith to say; For now I know as well as you That you are glad to go away.”
I could have blessed the man for that, And he could read me with a smile: “You doubt,” said he, “but if we live You’ll know me in a little while.”
He lived; and all as he foretold, I knew him--better than he thought: My fancy did not wholly dig The pit where I believed him caught.
But yet he lived and laughed, and preached, And worked--as only players can: He scoured the shrine that once was home And kept himself a clergyman.
The clockwork of his cold routine Put friends far off that once were near; The five staccatos in his laugh Were too defensive and too clear;
The glacial sermons that he preached Were longer than they should have been; And, like the man who fashioned them, The best were too divinely thin.
But still he lived, and moved, and had The sort of being that was his, Till on a day the shrine of home For him was in the Mysteries:--
“My friend, there’s one thing yet,” said he, “And one that I have never shared With any man that I have met; But you--you know me.” And he stared
For a slow moment at me then With conscious eyes that had the gleam, The shine, before the stroke:--“You know The ways of us, the way we dream:
“You know the glory we have won, You know the glamour we have lost; You see me now, you look at me,-- And yes, you pity me, almost;
“But never mind the pity--no, Confess the faith you can’t conceal; And if you frown, be not like one Of those who frown before they feel.
“For there is truth, and half truth,--yes, And there’s a quarter truth, no doubt; But mine was more than half.... You smile? You understand? You bear me out?
“You always knew that I was right-- You are my friend--and I have tried Your faith--your love.”--The gleam grew small, The stroke was easy, and he died.
I saw the dim look change itself To one that never will be dim; I saw the dead flesh to the grave, But that was not the last of him.
For what was his to live lives yet: Truth, quarter truth, death cannot reach; Nor is it always what we know That we are fittest here to teach.
The fight goes on when fields are still, The triumph clings when arms are down; The jewels of all coronets Are pebbles of the unseen crown;
The specious weight of loud reproof Sinks where a still conviction floats; And on God’s ocean after storm Time’s wreckage is half pilot-boats;
And what wet faces wash to sight Thereafter feed the common moan;-- But Vanderberg no pilot had, Nor could have: he was all alone.
Unchallenged by the larger light The starry quest was his to make; And of all ways that are for men, The starry way was his to take.
We grant him idle names enough To-day, but even while we frown The fight goes on, the triumph clings, And there is yet the unseen crown.
But was it his? Did Vanderberg Find half truth to be passion’s thrall, Or as we met him day by day, Was love triumphant, after all?
I do not know so much as that; I only know that he died right: Saint Anthony nor Sainte-Nitouche Had ever smiled as he did--quite.
AS A WORLD WOULD HAVE IT
ALCESTIS
Shall I never make him look at me again? I look at him, I look my life at him, I tell him all I know the way to tell, But there he stays the same.
Shall I never make him speak one word to me? Shall I never make him say enough to show My heart if he be glad? Be glad? ... ah! God, Why did they bring me back?
I wonder, if I go to him again, If I take him by those two cold hands again, Shall I get one look of him at last, or feel One sign--or anything?
Or will he still sit there in the same way, Without an answer for me from his lips, Or from his eyes,--or even with a touch Of his hand on my hand?...
“Will you look down this once--look down at me? Speak once--and if you never speak again, Tell me enough--tell me enough to make Me know that you are glad!
“You are my King, and once my King would speak: You were Admetus once, you loved me once: Life was a dream of heaven for us once-- And has the dream gone by?
“Do I cling to shadows when I call you Life? Do you love me still, or are the shadows all? Or is it I that love you in the grave, And you that mourn for me?
“If it be that, then do not mourn for me; Be glad that I have loved you, and be King. But if it be not that--if it be true.... Tell me if it be true!”
Then with a choking answer the King spoke; But never touched his hand on hers, or fixed His eyes on hers, or on the face of her: “Yes, it is true,” he said.
“You are alive, and you are with me now; And you are reaching up to me that I-- That I may take you--I that am a King-- I that was once a man.”
So then she knew. She might have known before; Truly, she thought, she must have known it long Before: she must have known it when she came From that great sleep of hers.
She knew the truth, but not yet all of it: He loved her, but he would not let his eyes Prove that he loved her; and he would not hold His wife there in his arms.
So, like a slave, she waited at his knees, And waited. She was not unhappy now. She quivered, but she knew that he would speak Again--and he did speak.
And while she felt the tremor of his words, He told her all there was for him to tell; And then he turned his face to meet her face, That she might look at him.
She looked; and all her trust was in that look, And all her faith was in it, and her love; And when his answer to that look came back, It flashed back through his tears.
So then she put her arms around his neck, And kissed him on his forehead and his lips; And there she clung, fast in his arms again, Triumphant, with closed eyes.
At last, half whispering, she spoke once more: “Why was it that you suffered for so long? Why could you not believe me--trust in me? Was I so strange as that?
“We suffer when we do not understand; And you have suffered--you that love me now-- Because you are a man.... There is one thing No man can understand.
“I would have given everything?--gone down To Tartarus--to silence? Was it that? I would have died? I would have let you live?-- And was it very strange?”
THE CORRIDOR
It may have been the pride in me for aught I know, or just a patronizing whim; But call it freak or fancy, or what not, I cannot hide that hungry face of him.
I keep a scant half-dozen words he said, And every now and then I lose his name; He may be living or he may be dead, But I must have him with me all the same.
I knew it, and I knew it all along,-- And felt it once or twice, or thought I did; But only as a glad man feels a song That sounds around a stranger’s coffin lid.
I knew it, and he knew it, I believe, But silence held us alien to the end; And I have now no magic to retrieve That year, to stop that hunger for a friend.
CORTÈGE
Four o’clock this afternoon, Fifteen hundred miles away: So it goes, the crazy tune, So it pounds and hums all day.
Four o’clock this afternoon, Earth will hide them far away: Best they go to go so soon, Best for them the grave to-day.
Had she gone but half so soon, Half the world had passed away. Four o’clock this afternoon, Best for them they go to-day.
Four o’clock this afternoon Love will hide them deep, they say; Love that made the grave so soon, Fifteen hundred miles away.
Four o’clock this afternoon-- Ah, but they go slow to-day: Slow to suit my crazy tune, Past the need of all we say.
Best it came to come so soon, Best for them they go to-day: Four o’clock this afternoon, Fifteen hundred miles away.
THE WIFE OF PALISSY
Yes, you have it; I can see. Beautiful?... Dear, look at me! Look and let my shame confess Triumph after weariness. Beautiful? Ah, yes.
Lift it where the beams are bright; Hold it where the western light, Shining in above my bed, Throws a glory on your head, Now it is all said.
All there was for me to say From the first until to-day. Long denied and long deferred, Now I say it in one word-- Now; and you have heard.
Life would have its way with us, And I’ve called it glorious: For I know the glory now And I read it on your brow. You have shown me how.
I can feel your cheeks all wet, But your eyes will not forget: In the frown you cannot hide I can read where faith and pride Are not satisfied.
But the word was, two should live: Two should suffer--and forgive: By the steep and weary way, For the glory of the clay, Two should have their day.
We have toiled and we have wept For the gift the gods have kept: Clashing and unreconciled When we might as well have smiled, We have played the child.
But the clashing is all past, And the gift is yours at last. Lift it--hold it high again!... Did I doubt you now and then? Well, we are not men.
Never mind; we know the way,-- And I do not need to stay. Let us have it well confessed: You to triumph, I to rest. That will be the best.
TWILIGHT SONG
Through the shine, through the rain We have shared the day’s load; To the old march again We have tramped the long road; We have laughed, we have cried, And we’ve tossed the King’s crown; We have fought, we have died, And we’ve trod the day down. So it’s lift the old song Ere the night flies again, Where the road leads along Through the shine, through the rain.
Long ago, far away, Came a sign from the skies; And we feared then to pray For the new sun to rise: With the King there at hand, Not a child stepped or stirred-- Where the light filled the land And the light brought the word; For we knew then the gleam Though we feared then the day, And the dawn smote the dream Long ago, far away.
But the road leads us all, For the King now is dead; And we know, stand or fall, We have shared the day’s bread. We can laugh down the dream, For the dream breaks and flies; And we trust now the gleam, For the gleam never dies;-- So it’s off now the load, For we know the night’s call, And we know now the road And the road leads us all.
Through the shine, through the rain, We have wrought the day’s quest; To the old march again We have earned the day’s rest; We have laughed, we have cried, And we’ve heard the King’s groans; We have fought, we have died, And we’ve burned the King’s bones, And we lift the old song Ere the night flies again, Where the road leads along Through the shine, through the rain.
The Riverside Press
_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Transcriber’s Notes
• Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_.
• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.
• Obvious typographic errors and omissions silently corrected.
• Variations in hyphenation kept as in the original.
• New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.