He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beatinghis brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sitson the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut.And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof,and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear."It is very queer," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure.How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?"The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitterslike ice.
IIFive o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array.The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peterto pay his morning's work with a holiday."Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?"Peter jumps through the window."Dear, are you alone?""Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold threadis so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would haveseen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?"The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls,at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched withso much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-budsnew-opened on their stems.
Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky."No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red.My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my littlepecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong.The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyesare tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't doany more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit downand amuse me while I rest."The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climbthe opposite wall.
Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her,where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo.The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.
He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands.His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the roomis filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understandsthe ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colouron another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurshis name."Peter, I don't want it. I am tired."And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.
III"Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone.""How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love,I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear,that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriagestrike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be deniedthe rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me,you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannotfeed my life on being a poet. Let me stay.""As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It willcrush your heart and squeeze the love out."He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about.""Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I musthave sight! Imust!"The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall,the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the womanby a silver thread.
They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for thereare no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are casedin the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basketis heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away.They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounceover the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sittingon the window-sill, eating human eyes.The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shineslike ice.
IVHow hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks,and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood,and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells themburning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette".The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire?Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!"The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge,bounces over and disappears.The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops.
VThe air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallowthe brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight.A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight,and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red.
Annette!
IOver the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip—hiss—drip—hiss—fall the raindrops on the oaken log which burns, and steams,and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip—hiss—the rain never stops.
The wide, state bed shivers beneath its velvet coverlet. Above, dim,in the smoke, a tarnished coronet gleams dully. Overhead hammers and chinksthe rain. Fearfully wails the wind down distant corridors, and there comesthe swish and sigh of rushes lifted off the floors. The arras blows sidewiseout from the wall, and then falls back again.
It is my lady's key, confided with much nice cunning, whisperingly.He enters on a sob of wind, which gutters the candles almost to swaling.The fire flutters and drops. Drip—hiss—the rain never stops.He shuts the door. The rushes fall again to stillness along the floor.Outside, the wind goes wailing.
The velvet coverlet of the wide bed is smooth and cold. Above,in the firelight, winks the coronet of tarnished gold. The knight shiversin his coat of fur, and holds out his hands to the withering flame.She is always the same, a sweet coquette. He will wait for her.How the log hisses and drips! How warm and satisfying will be her lips!
It is wide and cold, the state bed; but when her head lies under the coronet,and her eyes are full and wet with love, and when she holds out her arms,and the velvet counterpane half slips from her, and alarmsher trembling modesty, how eagerly he will leap to cover her, and blot himselfbeneath the quilt, making her laugh and tremble.Is it guilt to free a lady from her palsied lord, absent and fighting,terribly abhorred?
He stirs a booted heel and kicks a rolling coal. His spur clinkson the hearth. Overhead, the rain hammers and chinks. She is so pureand whole. Only because he has her soul will she resign herself to him,for where the soul has gone, the body must be given as a sign. He takes herby the divine right of the only lover. He has sworn to fight her lord,and wed her after. Should he be overborne, she will die adoring him, forlorn,shriven by her great love.Above, the coronet winks in the darkness. Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops.The arras blows out from the wall, and a door bangs in a far-off hall.
The candles swale. In the gale the moat below plunges and spatters.Will the lady lose courage and not come?The rain claps on a loosened rafter.Is that laughter?
The room is filled with lisps and whispers. Something mutters.One candle drowns and the other gutters. Is that the rainwhich pads and patters, is it the wind through the winding entrieswhich chatters?The state bed is very cold and he is alone. How far from the wallthe arras is blown!
Christ's Death! It is no storm which makes these little chuckling sounds.By the Great Wounds of Holy Jesus, it is his dear lady, kissing andclasping someone! Through the sobbing storm he hears her love take formand flutter out in words. They prick into his ears and stun his desire,which lies within him, hard and dead, like frozen fire. And the little noisenever stops.Drip—hiss—the rain drops.
He tears down the arras from before an inner chamber's bolted door.
IIThe state bed shivers in the watery dawn. Drip—hiss—fall the raindrops.For the storm never stops.On the velvet coverlet lie two bodies, stripped and fair in the cold,grey air. Drip—hiss—fall the blood-drops, for the bleeding never stops.The bodies lie quietly. At each side of the bed, on the floor, is a head.A man's on this side, a woman's on that, and the red blood oozes alongthe rush mat.A wisp of paper is twisted carefully into the strands of the dead man's hair.It says, "My Lord: Your wife's paramour has paid with his lifefor the high favour."Through the lady's silver fillet is wound another paper. It reads,"Most noble Lord: Your wife's misdeeds are as a double-strandednecklace of beads. But I have engaged that, on your return,she shall welcome you here. She will not spurn your love as before,you have still the best part of her. Her blood was red, her body white,they will both be here for your delight. The soul inside was a lump of dirt,I have rid you of that with a spurt of my sword point. Good luckto your pleasure. She will be quite complaisant, my friend, I wager."The end was a splashed flourish of ink.Hark! In the passage is heard the clink of armour, the tread of a heavy man.The door bursts open and standing there, his thin hair waveringin the glare of steely daylight, is my Lord of Clair.
Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog. Drip—hiss—drip—hiss—fall the raindrops. Overhead hammers and chinks the rain which never stops.The velvet coverlet is sodden and wet, yet the roof beams are tight.Overhead, the coronet gleams with its blackened gold, winking and blinking.Among the rushes three corpses are growing cold.
IIIIn the castle church you may see them stand,Two sumptuous tombs on either handOf the choir, my Lord's and my Lady's, grandIn sculptured filigrees. And where the transepts of the church expand,A crusader, come from the Holy Land,Lies with crossed legs and embroidered band.The page's name became a brandFor shame. He was buried in crawling sand,After having been burnt by royal command.
The Bell in the convent tower swung.High overhead the great sun hung,A navel for the curving sky.The air was a blue clarity.Swallows flew,And a cock crew.The iron clanging sank through the light air,Rustled over with blowing branches. A flareOf spotted green, and a snake had goneInto the bed where the snowdrops shoneIn green new-started,Their white bells parted.Two by two, in a long brown line,The nuns were walking to breathe the fineBright April air. They must go in soonAnd work at their tasks all the afternoon.But this time is theirs!They walk in pairs.First comes the Abbess, preoccupiedAnd slow, as a woman often tried,With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun.Then younger and younger, until the last oneHas a laugh on her lips,And fairly skips.They wind about the gravel walksAnd all the long line buzzes and talks.They step in time to the ringing bell,With scarcely a shadow. The sun is wellIn the core of a skyDomed silverly.Sister Marguerite said: "The pears will soon bud."Sister Angelique said she must get her spudAnd free the earth round the jasmine roots.Sister Veronique said: "Oh, look at those shoots!There's a crocus up,With a purple cup."But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all,She looked up and down the old grey wallTo see if a lizard were basking there.She looked across the garden to whereA sycamoreFlanked the garden door.She was restless, although her little feet danced,And quite unsatisfied, for it chancedHer morning's work had hung in her mindAnd would not take form. She could not findThe beautifulnessFor the Virgin's dress.Should it be of pink, or damasked blue?Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through?Should it be banded with yellow and whiteRoses, or sparked like a frosty night?Or a crimson sheenOver some sort of green?But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing newIn all the garden, no single hueSo lovely or so marvellousThat its use would not seem impious.So on she walked,And the others talked.Sister Elisabeth edged awayFrom what her companion had to say,For Sister Marthe saw the world in little,She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle.She did plain stitchingAnd worked in the kitchen."Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last,I told her so this Friday past.I must speak to her before Compline."Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine.The other nun sighed,With her pleasure quite dried.Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out:"The snowdrops are blooming!" They turned about.The little white cups bent over the ground,And in among the light stems woundA crested snake,With his eyes awake.His body was green with a metal brightnessLike an emerald set in a kind of whiteness,And all down his curling length were disks,Evil vermilion asterisks,They paled and floodedAs wounds fresh-blooded.His crest was amber glittered with blue,And opaque so the sun came shining through.It seemed a crown with fiery points.When he quivered all down his scaly joints,From every slotThe sparkles shot.The nuns huddled tightly together, fearCatching their senses. But Clotilde must peerMore closely at the beautiful snake,She seemed entranced and eased. Could she makeColours so rare,The dress were there.The Abbess shook off her lethargy."Sisters, we will walk on," said she.Sidling away from the snowdrop bed,The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead.Only ClotildeWas the last to yield.When the recreation hour was doneEach went in to her task. AloneIn the library, with its great north light,Clotilde wrought at an exquisiteWreath of flowersFor her Book of Hours.She twined the little crocus bloomsWith snowdrops and daffodils, the gloomsOf laurel leaves were interwovenWith Stars-of-Bethlehem, and clovenFritillaries,Whose colour varies.They framed the picture she had made,Half-delighted and half-afraid.In a courtyard with a lozenged floorThe Virgin watched, and through the arched doorThe angel cameLike a springing flame.His wings were dipped in violet fire,His limbs were strung to holy desire.He lowered his head and passed under the arch,And the air seemed beating a solemn march.The Virgin waitedWith eyes dilated.Her face was quiet and innocent,And beautiful with her strange assent.A silver thread about her headHer halo was poised. But in the steadOf her gown, there remainedThe vellum, unstained.Clotilde painted the flowers patiently,Lingering over each tint and dye.She could spend great pains, now she had seenThat curious, unimagined green.A colour so strangeIt had seemed to change.She thought it had altered while she gazed.At first it had been simple green; then glazedAll over with twisting flames, each spotA molten colour, trembling and hot,And every eyeSeemed to liquefy.She had made a plan, and her spirits danced.After all, she had only glancedAt that wonderful snake, and she must knowJust what hues made the creature throwThose splashes and spraysOf prismed rays.When evening prayers were sung and said,The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed.And soon in the convent there was no light,For the moon did not rise until late that night,Only the shineOf the lamp at the shrine.Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets.Her heart shook her body with its beats.She could not see till the moon should rise,So she whispered prayers and kept her eyesOn the window-squareTill light should be there.The faintest shadow of a branchFell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunchWith solemn purpose, softly roseAnd fluttered down between the rowsOf sleeping nuns.She almost runs.She must go out through the little side doorLest the nuns who were always praying beforeThe Virgin's altar should hear her pass.She pushed the bolts, and over the grassThe red moon's brimMounted its rim.Her shadow crept up the convent wallAs she swiftly left it, over allThe garden lay the level glowOf a moon coming up, very big and slow.The gravel glistened.She stopped and listened.It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer.She laughed a little, but she felt queererThan ever before. The snowdrop bedWas reached and she bent down her head.On the striped groundThe snake was wound.For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm,Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm.She thought she heard steps, she must be quick.She darted her hand out, and seized the thickWriggling slime,Only just in time.The old gardener came muttering down the path,And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath,And covered Clotilde and the angry snake.He bit her, but what difference did that make!The Virgin should dressIn his loveliness.The gardener was covering his new-set plantsFor the night was chilly, and nothing dauntsYour lover of growing things. He spiedSomething to do and turned aside,And the moonlight streamedOn Clotilde, and gleamed.His business finished the gardener rose.He shook and swore, for the moonlight showsA girl with a fire-tongued serpent, sheGrasping him, laughing, while quietlyHer eyes are weeping.Is he sleeping?He thinks it is some holy vision,Brushes that aside and with decisionJumps—and hits the snake with his stick,Crushes his spine, and then with quick,Urgent commandTakes her hand.The gardener sucks the poison and spits,Cursing and praying as befitsA poor old man half out of his wits."Whatever possessed you, Sister, it'sHatched of a devilAnd very evil.It's one of them horrid basilisksYou read about. They say a man risksHis life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked itOut by now. Lucky I chucked itAway from you.I guess you'll do.""Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beastWas sent to me, to me the leastWorthy in all our convent, so ICould finish my picture of the Most HighAnd Holy Queen,In her dress of green.He is dead now, but his colours won't fadeAt once, and by noon I shall have madeThe Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, seeHow kindly the moon shines down on me!I can't die yet,For the task was set.""You won't die now, for I've sucked it away,"Grumbled old Francois, "so have your play.If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong,—""Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong."So Clotilde ventedHer creed. He repented."He can't do no more harm, Sister," said he."Paint as much as you like." And gingerlyHe picked up the snake with his stick. ClotildeThanked him, and begged that he would shieldHer secret, though itchingTo talk in the kitchen.The gardener promised, not very pleased,And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased,Walked quickly home, while the half-high moonMade her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soonIn her bed she layAnd waited for day.At dawn's first saffron-spired warningClotilde was up. And all that morning,Except when she went to the chapel to pray,She painted, and when the April dayWas hot with sun,Clotilde had done.Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loudAt the beauty before her, and her spirit bowedTo the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made.A lady, in excellence arrayed,And wonder-souled.Christ's Blessed Mould!From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint,But her eyes were starred like those of a saintEnmeshed in Heaven's beatitude.A sudden clamour hurled its rudeForce to breakHer vision awake.The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushedBy the multitude of nuns. They hushedWhen they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet,Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot.And all the hiveBuzzed "She's alive!"Old Francois had told. He had found the strainOf silence too great, and preferred the painOf a conscience outraged. The news had spread,And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead.For Francois, to spite them,Had not seen fit to right them.The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild,Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, "My child,Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace,To spare you while you imaged her face?How could we have guessedOur convent so blessed!A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb!To have you die! And I, who amA hollow, living shell, the graveIs empty of me. Holy Mary, I craveTo be taken, Dear Mother,Instead of this other."She dropped on her knees and silently prayed,With anguished hands and tears delayedTo a painful slowness. The minutes drewTo fractions. Then the west wind blewThe sound of a bell,On a gusty swell.It came skipping over the slates of the roof,And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproofTo grief, in the eye of so fair a day.The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray.And the sun lit the flowersIn Clotilde's Book of Hours.It glistened the green of the Virgin's dressAnd made the red spots, in a flushed excess,Pulse and start; and the violet wingsOf the angel were colour which shines and sings.The book seemed a choirOf rainbow fire.The Abbess crossed herself, and each nunDid the same, then one by one,They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayersMight plead for the life of this sister of theirs.Clotilde, the Inspired!She only felt tired.
The old chronicles say she did not dieUntil heavy with years. And that is whyThere hangs in the convent church a basketOf osiered silver, a holy casket,And treasured thereinA dried snake-skin.
Panels of claret and blue which shineUnder the moon like lees of wine.A coronet done in a golden scroll,And wheels which blunder and creak as they rollThrough the muddy ruts of a moorland track.They daren't look back!They are whipping and cursing the horses. Lord!What brutes men are when they think they're scored.Behind, my bay gelding gallops with me,In a steaming sweat, it is fine to seeThat coach, all claret, and gold, and blue,Hop about and slue.They are scared half out of their wits, poor souls.For my lord has a casket full of rollsOf minted sovereigns, and silver bars.I laugh to think how he'll show his scarsIn London to-morrow. He whines with rageIn his varnished cage.My lady has shoved her rings over her toes.'Tis an ancient trick every night-rider knows.But I shall relieve her of them yet,When I see she limps in the minuetI must beg to celebrate this night,And the green moonlight.There's nothing to hurry about, the plainIs hours long, and the mud's a strain.My gelding's uncommonly strong in the loins,In half an hour I'll bag the coins.'Tis a clear, sweet night on the turn of Spring.The chase is the thing!How the coach flashes and wobbles, the moonDripping down so quietly on it. A tuneIs beating out of the curses and screams,And the cracking all through the painted seams.Steady, old horse, we'll keep it in sight.'Tis a rare fine night!There's a clump of trees on the dip of the down,And the sky shimmers where it hangs over the town.It seems a shame to break the airIn two with this pistol, but I've my shareOf drudgery like other men.His hat? Amen!Hold up, you beast, now what the devil!Confound this moor for a pockholed, evil,Rotten marsh. My right leg's snapped.'Tis a mercy he's rolled, but I'm nicely capped.A broken-legged man and a broken-legged horse!They'll get me, of course.The cursed coach will reach the townAnd they'll all come out, every loafer grownA lion to handcuff a man that's down.What's that? Oh, the coachman's bulleted hat!I'll give it a head to fit it pat.Thank you! No cravat.
They handcuffed the body just for style,And they hung him in chains for the volatileWind to scour him flesh from bones.Way out on the moor you can hear the groansHis gibbet makes when it blows a gale.'Tis a common tale.
Paul Jannes was working very late,For this watch must be done by eightTo-morrow or the CardinalWould certainly be vexed. Of allHis customers the old prelateWas the most important, for his stateDescended to his watches and rings,And he gave his mistresses many thingsTo make them forget his age and smileWhen he paid visits, and they could whileThe time away with a diamond locketExceedingly well. So they picked his pocket,And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses.This watch was made to buy him blissesFrom an Austrian countess on her wayHome, and she meant to start next day.
Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flameOf a tallow candle, and becameSo absorbed, that his old clock made him winceStriking the hour a moment since.Its echo, only half apprehended,Lingered about the room. He endedScrewing the little rubies in,Setting the wheels to lock and spin,Curling the infinitesimal springs,Fixing the filigree hands. ChippingsOf precious stones lay strewn about.The table before him was a routOf splashes and sparks of coloured light.There was yellow gold in sheets, and quiteA heap of emeralds, and steel.Here was a gem, there was a wheel.And glasses lay like limpid lakesShining and still, and there were flakesOf silver, and shavings of pearl,And little wires all awhirlWith the light of the candle. He took the watchAnd wound its hands about to matchThe time, then glanced up to take the hourFrom the hanging clock.Good, Merciful Power!How came that shadow on the wall,No woman was in the room! His tallChiffonier stood gaunt behindHis chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined,Hung from a peg. The door was closed.Just for a moment he must have dozed.He looked again, and saw it plain.The silhouette made a blue-black stainOn the opposite wall, and it never waveredEven when the candle quaveredUnder his panting breath. What madeThat beautiful, dreadful thing, that shadeOf something so lovely, so exquisite,Cast from a substance which the sightHad not been tutored to perceive?Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wallGleamed black, and never moved at all.
Paul's watches were like amulets,Wrought into patterns and rosettes;The cases were all set with stones,And wreathing lines, and shining zones.He knew the beauty in a curve,And the Shadow tortured every nerveWith its perfect rhythm of outlineCutting the whitewashed wall. So fineWas the neck he knew he could have spannedIt about with the fingers of one hand.The chin rose to a mouth he guessed,But could not see, the lips were pressedLoosely together, the edges close,And the proud and delicate line of the noseMelted into a brow, and thereBroke into undulant waves of hair.The lady was edged with the stamp of race.A singular vision in such a place.
He moved the candle to the tallChiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall.He threw his cloak upon a chair,And still the lady's face was there.From every corner of the roomHe saw, in the patch of light, the gloomThat was the lady. Her violet bloomWas almost brighter than that which cameFrom his candle's tulip-flame.He set the filigree hands; he laidThe watch in the case which he had made;He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffedHis candle out. The room seemed stuffedWith darkness. Softly he crossed the floor,And let himself out through the door.
The sun was flashing from every pinAnd wheel, when Paul let himself in.The whitewashed walls were hot with light.The room was the core of a chrysolite,Burning and shimmering with fiery might.The sun was so bright that no shadow could fallFrom the furniture upon the wall.Paul sighed as he looked at the empty spaceWhere a glare usurped the lady's place.He settled himself to his work, but his mindWandered, and he would wake to findHis hand suspended, his eyes grown dim,And nothing advanced beyond the rimOf his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to payFor his watch, which had purchased so fine a day.But Paul could hardly touch the gold,It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold.With the first twilight he struck a matchAnd watched the little blue stars hatchInto an egg of perfect flame.He lit his candle, and almost in shameAt his eagerness, lifted his eyes.The Shadow was there, and its preciseOutline etched the cold, white wall.The young man swore, "By God! You, Paul,There's something the matter with your brain.Go home now and sleep off the strain."
The next day was a storm, the rainWhispered and scratched at the window-pane.A grey and shadowless morning filledThe little shop. The watches, chilled,Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals.The gems lay on the table like shoalsOf stranded shells, their colours faded,Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded.Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyedNo orders, for his fancy strayed.His work became a simple roundOf watches repaired and watches wound.The slanting ribbons of the rainBroke themselves on the window-pane,But Paul saw the silver lines in vain.Only when the candle was litAnd on the wall just oppositeHe watched again the coming ofit,Could he trace a line for the joy of his soulAnd over his hands regain control.
Paul lingered late in his shop that nightAnd the designs which his delightSketched on paper seemed to beA tribute offered wistfullyTo the beautiful shadow of her who cameAnd hovered over his candle flame.In the morning he selected allHis perfect jacinths. One large opalHung like a milky, rainbow moonIn the centre, and blown in loose festoonThe red stones quivered on silver threadsTo the outer edge, where a single, fineBand of mother-of-pearl the lineCompleted. On the other side,The creamy porcelain of the faceBore diamond hours, and no laceOf cotton or silk could ever beTossed into being more airilyThan the filmy golden hands; the timeSeemed to tick away in rhyme.When, at dusk, the Shadow grewUpon the wall, Paul's work was through.Holding the watch, he spoke to her:"Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stirInto one brief sign of being.Turn your eyes this way, and seeingThis watch, made from those sweet curvesWhere your hair from your forehead swerves,Accept the gift which I have wroughtWith your fairness in my thought.Grant me this, and I shall beHonoured overwhelmingly."The Shadow rested black and still,And the wind sighed over the window-sill.
Paul put the despised watch awayAnd laid out before him his arrayOf stones and metals, and when the morningStruck the stones to their best adorning,He chose the brightest, and this new watchWas so light and thin it seemed to catchThe sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam.Topazes ran in a foamy streamOver the cover, the hands were studdedWith garnets, and seemed red roses, budded.The face was of crystal, and engravedUpon it the figures flashed and wavedWith zircons, and beryls, and amethysts.It took a week to make, and his trystsAt night with the Shadow were his alone.Paul swore not to speak till his task was done.The night that the jewel was worthy to give.Paul watched the long hours of daylight liveTo the faintest streak; then lit his light,And sharp against the wall's pure whiteThe outline of the Shadow startedInto form. His burning-heartedWords so long imprisoned swelledTo tumbling speech. Like one compelled,He told the lady all his love,And holding out the watch aboveHis head, he knelt, imploring someLittlest sign.The Shadow was dumb.
Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste,And everything he made he placedBefore his lady. The Shadow keptIts perfect passiveness. Paul wept.He wooed her with the work of his hands,He waited for those dear commandsShe never gave. No word, no motion,Eased the ache of his devotion.His days passed in a strain of toil,His nights burnt up in a seething coil.Seasons shot by, uncognisantHe worked. The Shadow came to hauntEven his days. Sometimes quite plainHe saw on the wall the blackberry stainOf his lady's picture. No sun was brightEnough to dazzle that from his sight.
There were moments when he groaned to seeHis life spilled out so uselessly,Begging for boons the Shade refused,His finest workmanship abused,The iridescent bubbles he blewInto lovely existence, poor and fewIn the shadowed eyes. Then he would curseHimself and her! The Universe!And more, the beauty he could not make,And give her, for her comfort's sake!He would beat his weary, empty handsUpon the table, would hold up strandsOf silver and gold, and ask her whyShe scorned the best which he could buy.He would pray as to some high-niched saint,That she would cure him of the taintOf failure. He would clutch the wallWith his bleeding fingers, if she should fallHe could catch, and hold her, and make her live!With sobs he would ask her to forgiveAll he had done. And broken, spent,He would call himself impertinent;Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; drivenTo madness by the sight of Heaven.At other times he would take the thingsHe had made, and winding them on strings,Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes,Chanting strangely, while the fumesWreathed and blotted the shadow face,As with a cloudy, nacreous lace.There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighedIn tenderness, spoke to his bride,Urged her to patience, said his skillShould break the spell. A man's sworn willCould compass life, even that, he knew.By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true!The edge of the Shadow never blurred.The lips of the Shadow never stirred.
He would climb on chairs to reach her lips,And pat her hair with his finger-tips.But instead of young, warm flesh returningHis warmth, the wall was cold and burningLike stinging ice, and his passion, chilled,Lay in his heart like some dead thing killedAt the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick,He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thickPhantasmagoria crowded his brain,And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain.The crisis passed, he would wake and smileWith a vacant joy, half-imbecileAnd quite confused, not being certainWhy he was suffering; a curtainFallen over the tortured mind beguiledHis sorrow. Like a little childHe would play with his watches and gems, with gleeCalling the Shadow to look and seeHow the spots on the ceiling danced prettilyWhen he flashed his stones. "Mother, the greenHas slid so cunningly in betweenThe blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!"Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown,He would get up slowly from his playAnd walk round the room, feeling his wayFrom table to chair, from chair to door,Stepping over the cracks in the floor,Till reaching the table again, her faceWould bring recollection, and no solaceCould balm his hurt till unconsciousnessStifled him and his great distress.
One morning he threw the street door wideOn coming in, and his vigorous strideMade the tools on his table rattle and jump.In his hands he carried a new-burst clumpOf laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalksWere pliant with sap. As a husband talksTo the wife he left an hour ago,Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you knowTo-day the calendar calls it Spring,And I woke this morning gatheringAsphodels, in my dreams, for you.So I rushed out to see what flowers blewTheir pink-and-purple-scented soulsAcross the town-wind's dusty scrolls,And made the approach to the Market SquareA garden with smells and sunny air.I feel so well and happy to-day,I think I shall take a Holiday.And to-night we will have a little treat.I am going to bring you something to eat!"He looked at the Shadow anxiously.It was quite grave and silent. HeShut the outer door and cameAnd leant against the window-frame."Dearest," he said, "we live apartAlthough I bear you in my heart.We look out each from a different world.At any moment we may be hurledAsunder. They follow their orbits, weObey their laws entirely.Now you must come, or I go there,Unless we are willing to live the flareOf a lighted instant and have it gone."A bee in the laurels began to drone.A loosened petal fluttered prone."Man grows by eating, if you eatYou will be filled with our life, sweetWill be our planet in your mouth.If not, I must parch in death's wide drouthUntil I gain to where you are,And give you myself in whatever starMay happen. O You Beloved of Me!Is it not ordered cleverly?"The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear,Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear.