Part 5

Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night, When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight. She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the earth But e’en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth That I cannot name or measure. Yet for me and all these she died, E’en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide. Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day’s work shall fail. Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn, And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born: But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day. Of the great world’s hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think: Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I shrink. I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge, And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge, And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I gaze, And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze; And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see, What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?

O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a sorrow to nurse, And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse, No sting it has and no meaning—it is empty sound on the air. Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean. And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon; Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.

IX A NEW FRIEND

I HAVE promised to tell you the story of how I was left alone Sick and wounded and sore, and why the woman is gone That I deemed a part of my life. Tell me when all is told, If you deem it fit that the earth, that the world of men should hold My work and my weariness still; yet think of that other life, The child of me and of her, and the years and the coming strife.

After I came out of prison our living was hard to earn By the work of my hands, and of hers; to shifts we had to turn, Such as the poor know well, and the rich cannot understand, And just out of the gutter we stood, still loving and hand in hand.

Do you ask me if still amidst all I held the hunt in view, And the hope of the morning of life, all the things I should do and undo? Be easy, I am not a coward: nay little prudence I learned, I spoke and I suffered for speaking, and my meat by my manhood was burned. When the poor man thinks—and rebels, the whip lies ready anear; But he who is rebel and rich may live safe for many a year, While he warms his heart with pictures of all the glory to come. There’s the storm of the press and the critics maybe, but sweet is his home, There is meat in the morn and the even, and rest when the day is done, All is fair and orderly there as the rising and setting sun— And I know both the rich and the poor. Well, I grew bitter they said; ’Tis not unlike that I did, for bitter indeed was my bread, And surely the nursling plant shall smack of its nourishing soil. And here was our life in short, pinching and worry and toil, One petty fear thrust out by another come in its place, Each scrap of life but a fear, and the sum of it wretched and base. E’en so fare millions of men, where men for money are made, Where the poor are dumb and deedless, where the rich are not afraid. Ah, am I bitter again? Well, these are our breeding-stock, The very base of order, and the state’s foundation rock; Is it so good and so safe that their manhood should be outworn By the struggle for anxious life, the dull pain dismally borne, Till all that was man within them is dead and vanished away? Were it not even better that all these should think on a day As they look on each other’s sad faces, and see how many they are: “What are these tales of old time of men who were mighty in war? They fought for some city’s dominion, for the name of a forest or field; They fell that no alien’s token should be blazoned on their shield; And for this is their valour praised and dear is their renown, And their names are beloved for ever and they wear the patriot’s crown; And shall we then wait in the streets and this heap of misery, Till their stones rise up to help us or the far heavens set us free? For we, we shall fight for no name, no blazon on banner or shield; But that man to man may hearken and the earth her increase yield; That never again in the world may be sights like we have seen; That never again in the world may be men like we have been, That never again like ours may be manhood spoilt and blurred.”

Yea even so was I bitter, and this was my evilest word: “Spend and be spent for our hope, and you at least shall be free, Though you be rugged and coarse, as wasted and worn as you be.” Well, “bitter” I was, and denounced, and scarcely at last might we stand From out of the very gutter, as we wended hand in hand. I had written before for the papers, but so “bitter” was I grown, That none of them now would have me that could pay me half-a-crown, And the worst seemed closing around us; when as it needs must chance, I spoke at some Radical Club of the Great Revolution in France. Indeed I said nothing new to those who had learned it all, And yet as something strange on some of the folk did it fall. It was late in the terrible war, and France to the end drew nigh, And some of us stood agape to see how the war would die, And what would spring from its ashes. So when the talk was o’er And after the stir and excitement I felt the burden I bore Heavier yet for it all, there came to speak to me A serious well-dressed man, a “gentleman,” young I could see; And we fell to talk together, and he shyly gave me praise, And asked, though scarcely in words, of my past and my “better days.” Well, there,—I let it all out, and I flushed as I strode along, (For we were walking by now) and bitterly spoke of the wrong. Maybe I taught him something, but ready he was to learn, And had come to our workmen meetings some knowledge of men to learn. He kindled afresh at my words, although to try him I spake More roughly than I was wont; but every word did he take For what it was really worth, nor even laughter he spared, As though he would look on life of its rags of habit bared.

Well, why should I be ashamed that he helped me at my need? My wife and my child, must I kill them? And the man was a friend indeed, And the work that he got me I did (it was writing, you understand) As well as another might do it. To be short, he joined our band Before many days were over, and we saw him everywhere That we workmen met together, though I brought him not to my lair. Eager he grew for the Cause, and we twain grew friend and friend: He was dainty of mind and of body; most brave, as he showed in the end; Merry despite of his sadness, quick-witted and speedy to see: Like a perfect knight of old time as the poets would have them to be. That was the friend that I won by my bitter speech at last. He loved me; he grieved my soul: now the love and the grief are past; He is gone with his eager learning, his sadness and his mirth, His hope and his fond desire. There is no such thing on the earth. He died not unbefriended—nor unbeloved maybe. Betwixt my life and his longing there rolls a boundless sea. And what are those memories now to all that I have to do, The deeds to be done so many, the days of my life so few?

X READY TO DEPART

I SAID of my friend new-found that at first he saw not my lair; Yet he and I and my wife were together here and there; And at last as my work increased and my den to a dwelling grew, He came there often enough, and yet more together we drew. Then came a change in the man; for a month he kept away, Then came again and was with us for a fortnight every day, But often he sat there silent, which was little his wont with us. And at first I had no inkling of what constrained him thus; I might have thought that he faltered, but now and again there came, When we spoke of the Cause and its doings, a flash of his eager flame, And he seemed himself for a while; then the brightness would fade away, And he gloomed and shrank from my eyes. Thus passed day after day, And grieved I grew, and I pondered: till at last one eve we sat In the fire-lit room together, and talked of this and that, But chiefly indeed of the war and what would come of it; For Paris drew near to its fall, and wild hopes ’gan to flit Amidst us Communist folk; and we talked of what might be done When the Germans had gone their ways and the two were left alone, Betrayers and betrayed in war-worn wasted France.

As I spoke the word “betrayed,” my eyes met his in a glance, And swiftly he turned away; then back with a steady gaze He turned on me; and it seemed as when a sword-point plays Round the sword in a battle’s beginning and the coming on of strife. For I knew though he looked on me, he saw not me, but my wife: And he reddened up to the brow, and the tumult of the blood Nigh blinded my eyes for a while, that I scarce saw bad or good, Till I knew that he was arisen and had gone without a word. Then I turned about unto her, and a quivering voice I heard Like music without a meaning, and twice I heard my name. “O Richard, Richard!” she said, and her arms about me came, And her tears and the lips that I loved were on my face once more. A while I clung to her body, and longing sweet and sore Beguiled my heart of its sorrow; then we sundered and sore she wept, While fair pictures of days departed about my sad heart crept, And mazed I felt and weary. But we sat apart again, Not speaking, while between us was the sharp and bitter pain As the sword ’twixt the lovers bewildered in the fruitless marriage bed. Yet a while, and we spoke together, and I scarce knew what I said, But it was not wrath or reproaching, or the chill of love-born hate; For belike around and about us, we felt the brooding fate. We were gentle and kind together, and if any had seen us so, They had said, “These two are one in the face of all trouble and woe.” But indeed as a wedded couple we shrank from the eyes of men, As we dwelt together and pondered on the days that come not again.

Days passed and we dwelt together; nor Arthur came for awhile; Gravely it was and sadly, and with no greeting smile, That we twain met at our meetings: but no growth of hate was yet, Though my heart at first would be sinking as our thoughts and our eyes they met: And when he spake amidst us and as one we two agreed, And I knew of his faith and his wisdom, then sore was my heart indeed. We shrank from meeting alone: for the words we had to say Our thoughts would nowise fashion—not yet for many a day.

Unhappy days of all days! Yet O might they come again! So sore as my longing returneth to their trouble and sorrow and pain!

But time passed, and once we were sitting, my wife and I in our room, And it was in the London twilight and the February gloom, When there came a knock, and he entered all pale, though bright were his eyes, And I knew that something had happened, and my heart to my mouth did arise. “It is over,” he said “—and beginning; for Paris has fallen at last, And who knows what next shall happen after all that has happened and passed? There now may we all be wanted.” I took up the word: “Well then Let us go, we three together, and there to die like men.”

“Nay,” he said, “to live and be happy like men.” Then he flushed up red, And she no less as she hearkened, as one thought through their bodies had sped. Then I reached out my hand unto him, and I kissed her once on the brow, But no word craving forgiveness, and no word of pardon e’en now, Our minds for our mouths might fashion. In the February gloom And into the dark we sat planning, and there was I in the room, And in speech I gave and I took; but yet alone and apart In the fields where I once was a youngling whiles wandered the thoughts of my heart, And whiles in the unseen Paris, and the streets made ready for war. Night grew and we lit the candles, and we drew together more, And whiles we differed a little as we settled what to do, And my soul was cleared of confusion as nigher the deed-time drew.

Well, I took my child into the country, as we had settled there, And gave him o’er to be cherished by a kindly woman’s care, A friend of my mother’s, but younger: and for Arthur, I let him give His money, as mine was but little, that the boy might flourish and live, Lest we three, or I and Arthur, should perish in tumult and war, And at least the face of his father he should look on never more. You cry out shame on my honour? But yet remember again That a man in my boy was growing; must my passing pride and pain Undo the manhood within him and his days and their doings blight? So I thrust my pride away, and I did what I deemed was right, And left him down in our country. And well may you think indeed How my sad heart swelled at departing from the peace of river and mead, But I held all sternly aback and again to the town did I pass. And as alone I journeyed, this was ever in my heart: “They may die; they may live and be happy; but for me I know my part, In Paris to do my utmost, and there in Paris to die!” And I said, “The day of the deeds and the day of deliverance is nigh.”

XI A GLIMPSE OF THE COMING DAY

IT was strange indeed, that journey! Never yet had I crossed the sea Or looked on another people than the folk that had fostered me, And my heart rose up and fluttered as in the misty night We came on the fleet of the fishers slow rolling in the light Of the hidden moon, as the sea dim under the false dawn lay; And so like shadows of ships through the night they faded away, And Calais pier was upon us. Dreamlike it was indeed As we sat in the train together, and toward the end made speed. But a dull sleep came upon me, and through the sleep a dream Of the Frenchman who once was my master by the side of the willowy stream; And he talked and told me tales of the war unwaged as yet, And the victory never won, and bade me never forget, While I walked on, still unhappy, by the home of the dark-striped perch. Till at last, with a flash of light and a rattle and side-long lurch, I woke up dazed and witless, till my sorrow awoke again, And the grey of the morn was upon us as we sped through the poplar plain, By the brimming streams and the houses with their grey roofs warped and bent, And the horseless plough in the furrow, and things fair and innocent. And there sat my wife before me, and she, too, dreamed as she slept; For the slow tears fell from her eyelids as in her sleep she wept. But Arthur sat by my side and waked; and flushed was his face, And his eyes were quick to behold the picture of each fair place That we flashed by as on we hurried; and I knew that the joy of life Was strongly stirred within him by the thought of the coming strife. Then I too thought for a little, It is good in grief’s despite, It is good to see earth’s pictures, and so live in the day and the light. Yea, we deemed that to death we were hastening, and it made our vision clear, And we knew the delight of our life-days, and held their sorrow dear.

But now when we came unto Paris and were out in the sun and the street, It was strange to see the faces that our wondering eyes did meet; Such joy and peace and pleasure! That folk were glad we knew, But knew not the why and the wherefore; and we who had just come through The vanquished land and down-cast, and there at St. Denis e’en now Had seen the German soldiers, and heard their bugles blow, And the drum and fife go rattling through the freshness of the morn— Yet here we beheld all joyous the folk they had made forlorn! So at last from a grey stone building we saw a great flag fly, One colour, red and solemn ’gainst the blue of the spring-tide sky, And we stopped and turned to each other, and as each at each did we gaze, The city’s hope enwrapped us with joy and great amaze.

As folk in a dream we washed and we ate, and in all detail, Oft told and in many a fashion, did we have all yesterday’s tale: How while we were threading our tangle of trouble in London there, And I for my part, let me say it, within but a step of despair, In Paris the day of days had betid; for the vile dwarf’s stroke, To madden Paris and crush her, had been struck and the dull sword broke; There was now no foe and no fool in the city, and Paris was free; And e’en as she is this morning, to-morrow all France will be. We heard, and our hearts were saying, “In a little while all the earth—” And that day at last of all days I knew what life was worth; For I saw what few have beheld, a folk with all hearts gay. Then at last I knew indeed that our word of the coming day, That so oft in grief and in sorrow I had preached, and scarcely knew If it was but despair of the present or the hope of the day that was due— I say that I saw it now, real, solid and at hand.

And strange how my heart went back to our little nook of the land, And how plain and clear I saw it, as though I longed indeed To give it a share of the joy and the satisfaction of need That here in the folk I beheld. For this in our country spring Did the starlings bechatter the gables, and the thrush in the thorn-bush sing, And the green cloud spread o’er the willows, and the little children rejoice And shout midst a nameless longing to the morning’s mingled voice; For this was the promise of spring-tide, and the new leaves longing to burst, And the white roads threading the acres, and the sun-warmed meadows athirst. Once all was the work of sorrow and the life without reward, And the toil that fear hath bidden, and the folly of master and lord; But now are all things changing, and hope without a fear Shall speed us on through the story of the changes of the year. Now spring shall pluck the garland that summer weaves for all, And autumn spread the banquet and winter fill the hall. O earth, thou kind bestower, thou ancient fruitful place, How lovely and beloved now gleams thy happy face!

And O mother, mother, I said, hadst thou known as I lay in thy lap, And for me thou hopedst and fearedst, on what days my life should hap, Hadst thou known of the death that I look for, and the deeds wherein I should deal, How calm had been thy gladness! How sweet hadst thou smiled on my weal! As some woman of old hadst thou wondered, who hath brought forth a god of the earth, And in joy that knoweth no speech she dreams of the happy birth.

Yea, fair were those hours indeed, whatever hereafter might come, And they swept over all my sorrow, and all thought of my wildered home. But not for dreams of rejoicing had we come across the sea: That day we delivered the letters that our friends had given to me, And we craved for some work for the cause. And what work was there indeed, But to learn the business of battle and the manner of dying at need? We three could think of none other, and we wrought our best therein; And both of us made a shift the sergeant’s stripes to win, For diligent were we indeed: and he, as in all he did, Showed a cheerful ready talent that nowise might be hid, And yet hurt the pride of no man that he needs must step before. But as for my wife, the brancard of the ambulance-women she wore, And gently and bravely would serve us; and to all as a sister to be— A sister amidst of the strangers—and, alas! a sister to me.

XII MEETING THE WAR-MACHINE

SO we dwelt in the war-girdled city as a very part of its life. Looking back at it all from England, I an atom of the strife, I can see that I might have seen what the end would be from the first, The hope of man devoured in the day when the Gods are athirst. But those days we lived, as I tell you, a life that was not our own; And we saw but the hope of the world, and the seed that the ages had sown, Spring up now a fair-blossomed tree from the earth lying over the dead; Earth quickened, earth kindled to spring-tide with the blood that her lovers have shed, With the happy days cast off for the sake of her happy day, With the love of women foregone, and the bright youth worn away, With the gentleness stripped from the lives thrust into the jostle of war, With the hope of the hardy heart forever dwindling afar.

O Earth, Earth, look on thy lovers, who knew all thy gifts and thy gain, But cast them aside for thy sake, and caught up barren pain! Indeed of some art thou mindful, and ne’er shalt forget their tale, Till shrunk are the floods of thine ocean and thy sun is waxen pale. But rather I bid thee remember e’en these of the latter days, Who were fed by no fair promise and made drunken by no praise. For them no opening heaven reached out the martyr’s crown; No folk delivered wept them, and no harvest of renown They reaped with the scythe of battle; nor round their dying bed Did kindly friendly farewell the dew of blessing shed; In the sordid streets of the city mid a folk that knew them not, In the living death of the prison didst thou deal them out their lot, Yet foundest them deeds to be doing; and no feeble folk were they To scowl on their own undoing and wail their lives away; But oft were they blithe and merry and deft from the strife to wring Some joy that others gained not midst their peaceful wayfaring. So fared they, giftless ever, and no help of fortune sought. Their life was thy deliverance, O Earth, and for thee they fought; Mid the jeers of the happy and deedless, mid failing friends they went To their foredoomed fruitful ending on the love of thee intent.

Yea and we were a part of it all, the beginning of the end, That first fight of the uttermost battle whither all the nations wend; And yet could I tell you its story, you might think it little and mean. For few of you now will be thinking of the day that might have been, And fewer still meseemeth of the day that yet shall be, That shall light up that first beginning and its tangled misery. For indeed a very machine is the war that now men wage; Nor have we hold of its handle, we gulled of our heritage, We workmen slaves of machines. Well, it ground us small enough This machine of the beaten Bourgeois; though oft the work was rough That it turned out for its money. Like other young soldiers at first I scarcely knew the wherefore why our side had had the worst; For man to man and in knots we faced the matter well; And I thought, well to-morrow or next day a new tale will be to tell. I was fierce and not afraid; yet O were the wood-sides fair, And the crofts and the sunny gardens, though death they harboured there! And few but fools are fain of leaving the world outright, And the story over and done, and an end of the life and the light. No hatred of life, thou knowest, O Earth, mid the bullets I bore, Though pain and grief oppressed me that I never may suffer more. But in those days past over did life and death seem one; Yea the life had we attained to which could never be undone.

You would have me tell of the fighting? Well, you know it was new to me, Yet it soon seemed as if it had been for ever, and ever would be. The morn when we made that sally, some thought (and yet not I) That a few days and all would be over: just a few had got to die, And the rest would be happy thenceforward. But my stubborn country blood Was bidding me hold my halloo till we were out of the wood. And that was the reason perhaps why little disheartened I was, As we stood all huddled together that night in a helpless mass, As beaten men are wont: and I knew enough of war To know midst its unskilled labour what slips full often are.