Part 10

The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child. Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth, Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony have you relentlessly measured, Yardstick of my stifling shroud?

I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms. You hear, Father? Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.

Over me too steals sleep. Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods on the ceiling; Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed, Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors, Death.

Father, Father, I must not sleep! It does not hear -- that shadow crouched in the corner... Is it a shadow? One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax, that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.

II.

Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me. It is the white time before dawn. Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world. The grass beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky. The night dew has fallen; An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken, Glint on the sighing branches. All is purity, without color, without stir, without passion.

Suddenly a peacock screams.

My heart shocks and stops; Sweat, cold corpse-sweat Covers my rigid body. My hair stands on end. I cannot stir. I cannot speak. It is terror, terror that is walking the pale sick gardens And the eyeless face no man may see and live! Ah-h-h-h-h! Father, Father, wake! wake and save me! In his corner all is shadow.

Dead things creep from the ground. It is so long ago that she died, so long ago! Dust crushes her, earth holds her, mold grips her. Fiends, do you not know that she is dead?... "Let us dance the pavon!" she said; the waxlights glittered like swords on the polished floor. Twinkling on jewelled snuffboxes, beaming savagely from the crass gold of candelabra, From the white shoulders of girls and the white powdered wigs of men... All life was that dance. The mocking, resistless current, The beauty, the passion, the perilous madness -- As she took my hand, released it and spread her dresses like petals, Turning, swaying in beauty, A lily, bowed by the rain, -- Moonlight she was, and her body of moonlight and foam, And her eyes stars. Oh the dance has a pattern! But the clear grace of her thrilled through the notes of the viols, Tremulous, pleading, escaping, immortal, untamed, And, as we ended, She blew me a kiss from her hand like a drifting white blossom -- And the starshine was gone; and she fled like a bird up the stair.

Underneath the window a peacock screams, And claws click, scrape Like little lacquered boots on the rough stone.

Oh the long fantasy of the kiss; the ceaseless hunger, ceaselessly, divinely appeased! The aching presence of the beloved's beauty! The wisdom, the incense, the brightness!

Once more on the ice-bright floor they danced the pavon But I turned to the garden and her from the lighted candles. Softly I trod the lush grass between the black hedges of box. Softly, for I should take her unawares and catch her arms, And embrace her, dear and startled.

By the arbor all the moonlight flowed in silver And her head was on his breast. She did not scream or shudder When my sword was where her head had lain In the quiet moonlight; But turned to me with one pale hand uplifted, All her satins fiery with the starshine, Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent, Like the quivering plumage of a peacock... Then her head drooped and I gripped her hair, Oh soft, scented cloud across my fingers! -- Bending her white neck back....

Blood writhed on my hands; I trod in blood.... Stupidly agaze At that crumpled heap of silk and moonlight, Where like twitching pinions, an arm twisted, Palely, and was still As the face of chalk.

The buhl clock strikes. Thirty years. Christ, thirty years! Agony. Agony.

Something stirs in the window, Shattering the moonlight. White wings fan. Father, Father!

All its plumage fiery with the starshine, Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent, It drifts across the floor and mounts the bed, To the tap of little satin shoes. Gazing with infernal eyes. Its quick beak thrusting, rending, devil's crimson... Screams, great tortured screams shake the dark canopy. The light flickers, the shadow in the corner stirs; The wax face lifts; the eyes open.

A thin trickle of blood worms darkly against the vast red coverlet and spreads to a pool on the floor.

Colors

(For D. M. C.)

The little man with the vague beard and guise Pulled at the wicket. "Come inside!" he said, "I'll show you all we've got now -- it was size You wanted? -- oh, dry colors! Well" -- he led To a dim alley lined with musty bins, And pulled one fiercely. Violent and bold A sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sins Scarlet screamed out above the battered gold Of tins and picture-frames. I held my breath. He tugged another hard -- and sapphire skies Spread in vast quietude, serene as death, O'er waves like crackled turquoise -- and my eyes Burnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea! "We're selling that lot there out cheap!" said he.

A Minor Poet

I am a shell. From me you shall not hear The splendid tramplings of insistent drums, The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes, Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear. Yet, if you hold me close against the ear, A dim, far whisper rises clamorously, The thunderous beat and passion of the sea, The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.

Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings, Making even Love in music audible, And earth one glory. I am but a shell That moves, not of itself, and moving sings; Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed, A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.

The Lover in Hell

Eternally the choking steam goes up From the black pools of seething oil.... How merry Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork From Bel, there, as he slept... Look! -- oh look, look! They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair! Lord, how he squeals! Stop it... it's, well -- indecent! But funny!... See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

... Eternally that stifling reek arises, Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers, Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things Amongst their branches, clutching with maimed hands, Or oozing slowly, like blind tentacles Up to the gates; higher than that heaped brick Man piled to smite the sun. And all around Are devils. One can laugh... but that hunched shape The face one stone, like those Assyrian kings! One sees in carvings, watching men flayed red Horribly laughable in leaps and writhes; That face -- utterly evil, clouded round With evil like a smoke -- it turns smiles sour! ... And Nero there, the flabby cheeks astrain And sweating agony... long agony... Imperishable, unappeasable For ever... well... it droops the mouth. Till I Look up. There's one blue patch no smoke dares touch. Sky, clear, ineffable, alive with light, Always the same... Before, I never knew Rest and green peace. She stands there in the sun. ... It seems so quaint she should have long gold wings. I never have got used -- folded across Her breast, or fluttering with fierce, pure light, Like shaken steel. Her crown too. Well, it's queer! And then she never cared much for the harp On earth. Here, though... She is all peace, all quiet, All passionate desires, the eloquent thunder Of new, glad suns, shouting aloud for joy, Over fresh worlds and clean, trampling the air Like stooping hawks, to the long wind of horns, Flung from the bastions of Eternity... And she is the low lake, drowsy and gentle, And good words spoken from the tongues of friends, And calmness in the evening, and deep thoughts, Falling like dreams from the stars' solemn mouths. All these. They said she was unfaithful once. Or I remembered it -- and so, for that, I lie here, I suppose. Yes, so they said. You see she is so troubled, looking down, Sorrowing deeply for my torments. I Of course, feel nothing while I see her -- save That sometimes when I think the matter out, And what earth-people said of us, of her, It seems as if I must be, here, in heaven, And she -- ... Then I grow proud; and suddenly There comes a splatter of oil against my skin, Hurting this time. And I forget my pride: And my face writhes. Some day the little ladder Of white words that I build up, up, to her May fetch me out. Meanwhile it isn't bad....

But what a sense of humor God must have!