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 pairWho said “I do, I do” among the dustyLaw books.And there were three witnesses.Darius in a white shirt stood betweenTwo others, old and little like himself:The father of the groom—roundheaded, fumblingMiserably at his tie—and full of tearsThe 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 comparedTheir griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss,Held on to one another, and held onAnd on, as if the world would die this way,She was content again.But no one sawNine more in the brown room, or heard the voiceOf Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned,What further end she strained for. All but AresStood there, in no space the mortals knew,The little mortals, mingling their low wordsWith these unheard, these high ones. Sullen AresSulked 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 mindAmong us, there is insolence. The end?She has not worked it yet. Beware of herWho hates this thing we witness; it defeatsHer farmer, and she never will forgive.”The laughing goddess listened with her eyesTurned elsewhere—on Hephaestus, whom she taunted,Teasing him with glances at his brokenFoot, and at the thickness of his wrists.“Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker!You are not one of us. Then why do you creepEach 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 undoThe cunningest contriver. No more hauntThe 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 artIs ultimate. Remember, and refrain.”Hephaestus shifted crabwise on his ankles,Refusing every glance until the riteWas finished, and the people in the roomDeparted. Then he ducked and disappeared,Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-greyEyes of sage Athene. He was boundFor Daniel, whom he haunted every dayIn the same likeness he had first assumedWhen 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 inaudibleDeities 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 barnBy the new anvil he had bought, consideringHot and cold; and how a hammer’s blowCan 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 takeThis strip of ten-gauge, and I heat it thus—Pretend the forge is going—then I twist it,So, until I have a perfect handleFor 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,Considering.And neither of them saw—Or Daniel did not—bright eyes at the door,Brimming with alien purpose.“Your good wife,”The woman said—and Daniel, starting round,Saw how the gold one narrowed her long lidsToward him who held the hammer—“sends for you.She tells you this is wasting time, is wearingThe day out; is pure nothing. And she says—Dismiss the tinker. Let him go his way.He is not wanted here.”The hammer dropped.But Daniel shook his head at her.“She wouldn’tKnow. It isn’t woman’s work. Besides,It keeps me safe from thinking certain thoughts.She wouldn’t know that either. Or would you.”He flushed, remembering how much she knewIf dreams had body, and if at the danceIt was her own live lips that so rebuked him.But no, that couldn’t be. He said it again,And turned to the lame tinker.“We’ll not stop,For her or anybody. Tell me now—”Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite,Stamping her white foot, that all but showedImmortal through the slipper, let them be.Yet not for long. The lame one in his room,That night and every night, was pinched awakeBy fingers he well knew; and knew as wellHow in the darkness, sweating, to endure.For he was steadfast—like his tossing pupil,Daniel, in the bed where Berrien lay.Hour after hour, that night and every night,Berrien strove to riddle his strange words,His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept onRefusing what was whispered. What was that?Or was it anything? Was someone by them,Whispering to him? She lay and wondered,Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble,Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.But it was never nothing. Aphrodite,Going between Hephaestus’ bed and his,Was a changed goddess, bearing every charmOf beauty she possessed, that he once moreMight madden. Dora came there too, he thought,And wept in her first figure, the demure one,The thin and still one, that was his again—“It is, it is!” the whisper at his sideSaid tirelessly, “whenever you will reachAnd take it. Be the lover you were then,And take it, take it, take it. Go and beHer lover; speak the truth as winter once,As warmness, spoke it for you. Is it late?Is there a foolish thing that now deforms her?And for that thing a father? Is it publishedThat he is the thing’s foolish, foolish father?Have none of it. Forget these moments since,And take her. She is yours—see how she weepsAnd wishes she had Daniel’s hands forever—Forever it could be, if you were boldAnd shouted without shame the burning truth—Forever, Daniel, ever down her smallSmooth sides; or where her breasts, that breathed for you,Might breathe again.”He moaned and turned away,Tormented. And sometimes the whisper died,So that he looked again. It was an artfulDeath, increasing torment, for the twoShone there as always. They were never gone,Those two, while August lasted; and while summerSaddened on the stalk.For rust had bentThe hayheads while he dreamed, and far to northThe feet of fall were coming. Daniel roseEach day a wearier man, yet not apostateEver to his black anvil, where with the smithHe lost himself in lessons hot and cold.And still the woman came to call him in.And still he could refuse her.So September,With speckles on its back, slid like a serpentOver the cool slopes; and lucky houses,Filled with a winter’s wood, sat where they were,Complacent; while upon the homeless highwaysWanderers appeared.So Dora’s timeCame slowly, slowly on, with few to knowOr care when it should come; except Darius,Who prowled each afternoon to Bruce’s house,Consoling himself there for being lonely;Except the little roundhead and his anxiousWife; except those strangers up the mountain;And Bruce himself, awaiting it with Dora.

“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 comparedTheir griefs; and when the couple, bent to kiss,Held on to one another, and held onAnd on, as if the world would die this way,She was content again.But no one sawNine more in the brown room, or heard the voiceOf Hermes asking Artemis, who frowned,What further end she strained for. All but AresStood there, in no space the mortals knew,The little mortals, mingling their low wordsWith these unheard, these high ones. Sullen AresSulked on a far hill. But Aphrodite,Resting her fair side against the law books,Laughed; and the green goddess answered Hermes:

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 mindAmong us, there is insolence. The end?She has not worked it yet. Beware of herWho hates this thing we witness; it defeatsHer farmer, and she never will forgive.”

“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 eyesTurned elsewhere—on Hephaestus, whom she taunted,Teasing him with glances at his brokenFoot, and at the thickness of his wrists.“Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker!You are not one of us. Then why do you creepEach 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?”

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 undoThe cunningest contriver. No more hauntThe 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 artIs ultimate. Remember, and refrain.”

“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 riteWas finished, and the people in the roomDeparted. Then he ducked and disappeared,Eluding even Hermes, even the sea-greyEyes of sage Athene. He was boundFor Daniel, whom he haunted every dayIn the same likeness he had first assumedWhen 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 inaudibleDeities 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.

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 barnBy the new anvil he had bought, consideringHot and cold; and how a hammer’s blowCan 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 takeThis strip of ten-gauge, and I heat it thus—Pretend the forge is going—then I twist it,So, until I have a perfect handleFor 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,Considering.And neither of them saw—Or Daniel did not—bright eyes at the door,Brimming with alien purpose.“Your good wife,”The woman said—and Daniel, starting round,Saw how the gold one narrowed her long lidsToward him who held the hammer—“sends for you.She tells you this is wasting time, is wearingThe day out; is pure nothing. And she says—Dismiss the tinker. Let him go his way.He is not wanted here.”The hammer dropped.But Daniel shook his head at her.“She wouldn’tKnow. It isn’t woman’s work. Besides,It keeps me safe from thinking certain thoughts.She wouldn’t know that either. Or would you.”

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,

Considering.

And neither of them saw—

Or Daniel did not—bright eyes at the door,

Brimming with alien purpose.

“Your good wife,”

The woman said—and Daniel, starting round,

Saw how the gold one narrowed her long lids

Toward him who held the hammer—“sends for you.

She tells you this is wasting time, is wearing

The day out; is pure nothing. And she says—

Dismiss the tinker. Let him go his way.

He is not wanted here.”

The hammer dropped.

But Daniel shook his head at her.

“She wouldn’t

Know. It isn’t woman’s work. Besides,

It keeps me safe from thinking certain thoughts.

She wouldn’t know that either. Or would you.”

He flushed, remembering how much she knewIf dreams had body, and if at the danceIt was her own live lips that so rebuked him.But no, that couldn’t be. He said it again,And turned to the lame tinker.“We’ll not stop,For her or anybody. Tell me now—”Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite,Stamping her white foot, that all but showedImmortal through the slipper, let them be.

He flushed, remembering how much she knew

If dreams had body, and if at the dance

It was her own live lips that so rebuked him.

But no, that couldn’t be. He said it again,

And turned to the lame tinker.

“We’ll not stop,

For her or anybody. Tell me now—”

Whereat Hephaestus grinned, and Aphrodite,

Stamping her white foot, that all but showed

Immortal through the slipper, let them be.

Yet not for long. The lame one in his room,That night and every night, was pinched awakeBy fingers he well knew; and knew as wellHow in the darkness, sweating, to endure.For he was steadfast—like his tossing pupil,Daniel, in the bed where Berrien lay.

Yet not for long. The lame one in his room,

That night and every night, was pinched awake

By fingers he well knew; and knew as well

How in the darkness, sweating, to endure.

For he was steadfast—like his tossing pupil,

Daniel, in the bed where Berrien lay.

Hour after hour, that night and every night,Berrien strove to riddle his strange words,His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept onRefusing what was whispered. What was that?Or was it anything? Was someone by them,Whispering to him? She lay and wondered,Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble,Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.

Hour after hour, that night and every night,

Berrien strove to riddle his strange words,

His mumbled words, that stubbornly kept on

Refusing what was whispered. What was that?

Or was it anything? Was someone by them,

Whispering to him? She lay and wondered,

Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble,

Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.

But it was never nothing. Aphrodite,Going between Hephaestus’ bed and his,Was a changed goddess, bearing every charmOf beauty she possessed, that he once moreMight madden. Dora came there too, he thought,And wept in her first figure, the demure one,The thin and still one, that was his again—“It is, it is!” the whisper at his sideSaid tirelessly, “whenever you will reachAnd take it. Be the lover you were then,And take it, take it, take it. Go and beHer lover; speak the truth as winter once,As warmness, spoke it for you. Is it late?Is there a foolish thing that now deforms her?And for that thing a father? Is it publishedThat he is the thing’s foolish, foolish father?Have none of it. Forget these moments since,And take her. She is yours—see how she weepsAnd wishes she had Daniel’s hands forever—Forever it could be, if you were boldAnd shouted without shame the burning truth—Forever, Daniel, ever down her smallSmooth sides; or where her breasts, that breathed for you,Might breathe again.”He moaned and turned away,Tormented. And sometimes the whisper died,So that he looked again. It was an artfulDeath, increasing torment, for the twoShone there as always. They were never gone,Those two, while August lasted; and while summerSaddened on the stalk.For rust had bentThe hayheads while he dreamed, and far to northThe feet of fall were coming. Daniel roseEach day a wearier man, yet not apostateEver to his black anvil, where with the smithHe lost himself in lessons hot and cold.And still the woman came to call him in.And still he could refuse her.So September,With speckles on its back, slid like a serpentOver the cool slopes; and lucky houses,Filled with a winter’s wood, sat where they were,Complacent; while upon the homeless highwaysWanderers appeared.So Dora’s timeCame slowly, slowly on, with few to knowOr care when it should come; except Darius,Who prowled each afternoon to Bruce’s house,Consoling himself there for being lonely;Except the little roundhead and his anxiousWife; except those strangers up the mountain;And Bruce himself, awaiting it with Dora.

But it was never nothing. Aphrodite,

Going between Hephaestus’ bed and his,

Was a changed goddess, bearing every charm

Of beauty she possessed, that he once more

Might madden. Dora came there too, he thought,

And wept in her first figure, the demure one,

The thin and still one, that was his again—

“It is, it is!” the whisper at his side

Said tirelessly, “whenever you will reach

And take it. Be the lover you were then,

And take it, take it, take it. Go and be

Her lover; speak the truth as winter once,

As warmness, spoke it for you. Is it late?

Is there a foolish thing that now deforms her?

And for that thing a father? Is it published

That he is the thing’s foolish, foolish father?

Have none of it. Forget these moments since,

And take her. She is yours—see how she weeps

And wishes she had Daniel’s hands forever—

Forever it could be, if you were bold

And shouted without shame the burning truth—

Forever, Daniel, ever down her small

Smooth sides; or where her breasts, that breathed for you,

Might breathe again.”

He moaned and turned away,

Tormented. And sometimes the whisper died,

So that he looked again. It was an artful

Death, increasing torment, for the two

Shone there as always. They were never gone,

Those two, while August lasted; and while summer

Saddened on the stalk.

For rust had bent

The hayheads while he dreamed, and far to north

The feet of fall were coming. Daniel rose

Each day a wearier man, yet not apostate

Ever to his black anvil, where with the smith

He lost himself in lessons hot and cold.

And still the woman came to call him in.

And still he could refuse her.

So September,

With speckles on its back, slid like a serpent

Over the cool slopes; and lucky houses,

Filled with a winter’s wood, sat where they were,

Complacent; while upon the homeless highways

Wanderers appeared.

So Dora’s time

Came slowly, slowly on, with few to know

Or care when it should come; except Darius,

Who prowled each afternoon to Bruce’s house,

Consoling himself there for being lonely;

Except the little roundhead and his anxious

Wife; except those strangers up the mountain;

And Bruce himself, awaiting it with Dora.

Back to Index Next